#prowl with caution tape | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yoichichi · 3 years ago

Text

“Here, Here, Little Piggy”

-INSTALLMENT TWO-

MINORS DNI 18+

wc: 5.5k

this fic contains dark content

𓂅synopsis: you should really be more careful walking home alone, big bad wolves are known to prowl the area at night.

𓂅cw warnings -> fem bodied reader but no pronouns used, monster fucking - werewolf, fear play, stuckage, dub con, size kink, breeding, biting, chasing, animal death, description of gore, mentions of blood, one use of the nickname “puppy”

𓂅cast: Kōtarō Bokuto as Werwolf

a/n: wow so yes it is March, and yes I’m finally going to continue posting my kinktober pieces LMFAOOO - the ideas were too golden to abandon now that I’m back from my hiatus on this blog! I put way too much work into the prep to completely abandon it 😭 so anyways, just enjoy some smut for bo and lemme know if you guys are down for me to finish off my kinktober works! Ty all and love ya <3 and of course - this fic contains dark content so read at your own discretion

event masterlist

Staggered goodbyes echoed from the welcoming warmth of your friends home up into the brisk night air and were lost somewhere up in the heights of the towering trees surrounding the whole property. The slam and click of their heavy, wooden front door cut the boisterous sounds off abruptly and left you with an eery remnant of the friendly banter until there was only silence.

You’d hadn’t meant to stay so late studying with your classmate, Maya, and you wouldn’t have either if their mom wasn’t so adamant on making small talk with you.

Originally, the pair of you were supposed to meet up at the dining hall on campus and find a nook to work together there - but an unexpected sewage build up, in addition to a sewage spill in one of the nearby bathrooms in the building - put a pause on those plans. If the caution tape that was dramatically taped across all entrances wasn’t telling you your study date was canceled, the smell sure was. But your peer had a better idea.

“It’s only about a 45 minute walk out from here! And we really need to get this work done. I promise my ma won’t mind, she’s super chill and really likes meeting people I know actually.”

Christ, that’s nearly an hour.

If you weren’t so desperate to finish this project off, you would’ve said no and suggested just meeting early in the morning and seeing if it was open by then. But considering neither of your dorms were an option (thanks to inconsiderate roommates both of you had the displeasure of knowing), and the library was always too packed to properly focus, “ma’s house” it was.

Maya’s mom was actually super sweet like she said, even bringing you some snacks & water halfway through on a literal silver platter. You shouldn’t have been surprised by the theatrics of it all though, their house felt like a hidden away manor. For only being a 45 minute walk, it felt like a world away from your bustling college campus.

The stretch up to the home was cutoff from the rest of the city with a thickly wooded area, the majority of it spent on the dirt driveway up to the home. You weren’t sure how far the woods stretched, but you knew it had to be expansive enough for coyotes to feel welcome considering the stories Maya shared with you on the walk there.

“Oh my god, I actually really like it at night when sometimes you can hear them howling. It sounds super scary but really…” the excitement in Maya’s voice faded out as you slowly shifted your focus to the forest’s edge on your right.

You could only see about maybe 30 ft in until the trees became too dense to register what was beyond them, and that was in the dimming daylight. But the blue-greenish hue coming down from the sky didn’t help either, making the colors of the woods muddle together until it was a mess of fog and figures.

It was … off putting. Beautiful, but certainly not inviting. How many coyotes were waiting in there now, watching you two walk, and you not even being able to see them.

You must be psyching yourself out and making your brain imagine things, because at the exact moment you had that thought you swore you saw a flash of something move far back within the trees. The muscles in your legs tensed as a flash of nervous sweat rang out from your body.

Sudden laughter from ahead of you snapped you out of your nightmare-ish daydreams and back to your conversation with Maya, you didn’t realize how far she had gotten.

“Ah sorry, am I freaking you out? I’ll stop talking about it!” She had her lips pursed and her eyebrows raised, a little more than nervous that she was ruining the first time she got to actually hang out with you outside of class.

You shook your head and jogged to catch back up with her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and giving her a warm smile.

“No, no, you’re all good. I’m just not used to being in such a cool place like this. I mean, it’s definitely a little creepy, but it’s just because I’m used to the city more. Keep talking, I like your stories.”

The rest of the time there you spent it studying, and listening to more of her horror- er, interesting, stories, for a good majority of it. Which was all good and fine, until now.

You were left standing in the dark outside of her home, and the trees all around you felt bigger, taller somehow. Ma offered you a ride home but you stupidly denied, saying you wouldn’t want to give them any troubles. It took a lot of going back n forth before she caved, saying you better send Maya a text once you got home safe.

But now that you were out here on your own, you regretted your decision. However your pride got the best of you and you decided that it’d be more embarrassing to go back inside and say you’ve changed your mind after all the hassle you went through to walk back by yourself.

Why did you feel so obligated to put yourself in bad situations to make sure others wouldn’t be inconvenienced by you?

Shaking the thought and reminding yourself you weren’t in a bad situation, at least yet, you turned and began your trek home.

It wasn’t very late. Taking a peek at your phone before shoving it back into the pocket of your coat you read that it was only half past seven; yet it was dark and cold enough to convince you it could’ve been midnight.

You blew puffs out in front of your face and smiled at how noticeable the cloud of breath was, deciding you’d focus on that rather than peer into the pitch black around you. Thankfully, the moon tonight was bright enough to illuminate your path and even a bit of the forest floor on either side of you.

There was only a single streetlight placed alongside the trail a few feet from their home, and it didn’t do it’s job very well, a dim orange glow emitting from it only lit a small diameter around it. At least tonight the moon was picking up its slack, covering the rest of the trail for you as it peeked through the trees overhead.

It was almost comforting, how big the full moon was as you peered up at it. It felt like a friend escorting you on your walk back, staring down at you from its spot in the sky. The bright light changed the whole mood of the walk from dark & foreboding to serene & soothing.

But maybe you should focus on the uneven trail in front of you instead, because before you knew it you went tumbling forward onto the dirt as your shoe caught onto something in the ground, undoubtedly a tree root.

You yelped as you landed on your side, your backpack knocking some on the wind out of you, and your cheek sore from the scrape of the ground. If only it wasn’t so cold out, your hands would’ve been out of their pockets to catch your fall.

“Fuck.” You groaned and pulled out a warm hand to press to the side of your face, hissing at the sting from the contact.

Groaning, loudly, you sat up and onto the ground, it was so cold you could feel the damp chill through your jeans. Tiny specks of red started to appear on the blue denim against your knees, not at all surprising to you with the way they burned, before you sighed and pushed yourself back up onto your feet; you made sure to leave your hands out of your pockets this time.

Adjusting your bag, you took a few steps forward and did your best to ignore the dull ache from the friction of your jeans against your bloody knees.

So much for a serene walk home.

Reminding yourself to keep your eyes ahead of you, making note of any dips or bumps, you looked at your phone once more to check the time.

7:36

You sighed and did the mental math, determining you should be home no later than 8:30 (if you were taking your bum knees into account).

If you were lucky, your roommate might be already asleep. They tended to head in early most nights. It was nice considering that meant your interactions were kept to a bare minimum thanks to your late night study habits. Maybe you should slow down even a little more, just to be sure they-

Snap!

Your head twisted to turn in the direction of the sound. It came from across the dirt road, surprisingly wide, in the blackness of the trees on the other side. All coherent thoughts vanished from your mind, a mantra of run run run run clouding your head instead.

You swallowed thickly and tried to calm your breathing, and your heart beat, as you reminded yourself that you’re surrounded by woods. That twig snapping could be anything.

A fallen small branch, a deer, small rodents, the wind, other various non threatening forest life. It doesn’t have to be a coyote… did coyotes even approach humans?

No, surely they didn’t. You’re a human, the worlds like, “top predator” or whatever.

Reminding yourself that you’re the thing forest animals are scared of, as silly as it felt considering your were one more noise away from wetting yourself and breaking into a sprint, you continued forward - a little more aware of the sounds around you.

Maybe you should put in your headphones? No, it’d only make you paranoid considering you wouldn’t be able to hear if someone, or something, was coming up behind you.

Snap!

You didn’t look towards the noise right away this time, instead your kept your face forward.

The noise came from your left this time, maybe 20 feet deep into the woods. 20 feet too close.

Snap!

It was definitely closer this time.

Should you run? No. What if it wants a chase? Were bears all the way out here? No, definitely not… right? Cause if they were-

Snap!

Any apprehension you had to running was flung out the window as you sprinted forward, jumping over any bulges in the ground and ignoring the steady thump of pain into your lower back from your bag.

You made the decision to not look back, figuring if something was getting close you’d hear it anyways. But really, you just don’t think your heart could take glancing back to be met with a whole ass wild animal chasing you down.

Why the fuck didn’t you have any bear spray on you? Oh that’s right, cause you go to college in the city and you never thought-

Your self scolding was cut short at the rapid sounds of soft pads of feet approaching and branches snapping coming up from your left side.

Holy shit.

“Help! Please!” You don’t know who you were calling out to, considering you still had a ways to go until you were out of the thick woods, and you were definitely too far from Maya’s house to be heard.

You almost puked at the idea of your friend walking out of her moms home to find your mauled and mutilated body.

The running was getting closer, you were tempted to look to your left to try to catch a glimpse of what could be chasing you; But before you could, a second figure emerged from the tree line to your right and disappeared behind you - a harsh wince and yelp echoing in the darkness.

You turned in time to see two figures barrel into the darkness, the noises coming from them - snarling, snapping, growling, wincing, crunching - they all made your stomach turn and bile sit at the back of your throat.

Your steps faltered a little as you came to a small stop - was that a fucking man?

Was that a person that went tumbling with the other mysterious animal? You didn’t care enough to wonder any longer and turned back around to continue running forward, your chest heaving and nostrils burning from the cold night air.

Thump

You heard the sound before you processed what you saw in front of you. Something was flung and landed in your path just a few feet ahead of you. Steam seemed to be coming from the mound.

Warily, you took a couple steps closer until you came to an abrupt halt, it’s a coyote - or rather was. It’s been ripped open; tattered bits of fur are surrounding the open… wound, the moonlight reflecting off the puddle of blood filling up around the corpse effectively confirming it wouldn’t be jumping to life anytime soon.

A world of mixed feelings washed over you: fear, relief, nausea, confusion - but none of them compelled you to move forward, to run home. You were frozen, terrified at the sudden realization that whatever did this was left for you to meet. Was it the thing chasing you earlier, or was that the coyote? Did it - or maybe he - save you? No, it was probably fighting off it’s competition for it’s next meal - you.

The sound of breathing behind you brought you back to the present. You were left with no choice.

With shaky legs and a queasy stomach, you turned to look up at what could’ve ripped that animal apart in a matter of seconds, to be met with… a man? You can’t fully tell in the dark, but whatever it is sets your nerves on edge and your body rigid with terror.

The figure that was towering over you, easily about 7 ft tall, was almost human. Big, broad shoulders rested on top of a pair of thick biceps, and you followed them all the way down to big, no massive, hands. Seemingly normal, minus his height, but something was off.

There were.. claws? Nails wouldn’t describe the silhouette with justice, they definitely looked like claws. You didn’t fail to notice the suspicious liquid, thick and heavy, dripping from the tips of its claws and onto the ground with an audible drip, either. And there was maybe some.. no definitely some hair, although it looks more like light patches fur, across what you’d assume are his- it’s- forearms.

The torso was one of a regular man, an absolutely ripped one, but a man nonetheless. You stopped bringing your gaze down when you saw the light hit a deep, defined v-line and a patch of happy trail that seemed to keep going, afraid of what you’d see if you kept looking down. But when you brought your eyes up, you weren’t put at any ease.

You locked eyes with a pair of bright golden ones, bright enough you didn’t need the help of the moon to see them peeking through tufts of silver hair. The moon did however illuminate the glistening deep red covering the bottom half of his face.

A hand came up to wipe his mouth with the back of it until his face was mostly clean, before he offered you a… smile? You weren’t sure if it was meant to be a comforting smile, or a threatening display of baring his teeth - because that’s all you could focus on. A prominent pair of sharp, white incisors - as well as an even longer pair of canines - sitting behind his lips.

Nothing was said between either of you, just those bright eyes boring into yours for what felt like an eternity, before you decided it was now or never.

Slipping a strap of your backpack off of you as quickly as you could manage, you swung it off your other arm in the direction of that thing with as much force as you could muster before turning to sprint back down the path.

But you didn’t make it far, barely even half a step, a grip on the back of your coat stopping your feet from carrying you any farther.

“Where are you going?” A voice, slightly soft and sounding genuinely curious, comes from behind you.

….. Did he just talk to me?

You were yanked back against his chest with little to no effort from him, and hit a surprisingly softer surface than you were imagining (not that you were imagining what his chest felt like) and warmth - enough warmth for you to feel the heat emitting from him through your puffy jacket.

Your body shuddered at the feeling of him bending down to your height behind you, his warmth surrounding you know, and his hair tickling your cheeks. He nosed at your jaw and neck, his breath also tickling you slightly as he took shallow breaths in.

Was he smelling you?

You whimpered quietly in surprise, and a bit of fear, when your head was yanked back suddenly, your neck now more exposed for him to explore. His tongue slipped past his lips to leave an experimental lick across your pulse, the breeze catching the wet patch and sending more chills down your body.

“Let me go.” You sounded firmer, more sure than you thought you would. But he must’ve read through your feigned confidence, because his grip didn’t loosen one bit, and instead he asked you,

“Why?”

You blinked, surprised your throat wasn’t ripped out as a response instead. Regardless, what the fuck were you supposed to say to that? It’s not as if you were prepared for a conversation, but what does he mean why?

“Because… I said so. And I… I have class in the morning.” You kept your stare up and jutted your chin out, hoping to god you looked unfazed while your mind ran through all possible options of what the hell could be going on right now.

“If I let you go, do you really think you could run from me?” He almost sounded genuine, like he wondered himself if you’d be able to get away from him, as if the answer wasn’t obvious.

You felt like you stopped breathing at his question, because you knew it was really more of a proposition. And his loosening grip only further proved your assumption.

“Go ahead, see how far you can get. I’ll even give you head start. Besides, I liked how you smelt when you were scared.” He made sure to bring his face closer to your neck as he spoke his last sentence before letting you go completely, smiling to himself as you stumbled forward. You didn’t even realize how close he had been holding you.

You jumped to your feet and turned to look at him one last time, a bright toothy smile on his face, before sprinting forward and around the tattered coyote with all your might.

It was almost embarrassing, how hard you were pushing yourself to run. Did you actually think you’d be able to get away from him, whatever he was? It didn’t matter how hard you tried to shake the negative thoughts out of your head - you felt hopeless and you’d barely even started. But the weight jostling in your coat pocket reminded you not all options were lost - your phone.

Pulling your phone out as you continued to run, you held it above your head in hopes of having some bars and - yes, you do! Just one, but one should be-

A tree root, another tree root.

You, and your phone, go flying forward for the second time tonight - but unfortunately not together.

It plays out like a scene out of a movie, you’re laying there on your chest with your hand reaching out as you watch your phone bounce and slide under a fallen log to the side of the dirt path. And when you stretch your head up to look, it’s nothing but overgrown wild berry bushes - bounds of thorns and thistles everywhere in your sight - and your phone was beneath it all.

Shuffling over as quickly as possible, you can barely see the glint of your phone screen in the darkness of the night, and it’s more than an arms length away.

That phone is your saving grace, you have no choice. You won’t be able to reach and crawl through the overgrown sticker bushes, but lucky enough there’s a small dip in the ground beneath the log - just enough for a person to slip through if they really had to.

Slipping your coat off, needing to have as much space as possible to get between the log and the ground, you tossed it across the path to the other side of trees. Maybe he’ll smell your scent and go the other way?

Don’t worry about it, just hurry the fuck up!

You drop to the ground swiftly, hoping and praying to yourself that the sounds of the small twigs snapping beneath your knees weren’t loud enough to call for that man- no, that things attention. Laying onto your stomach, you attempt to scramble underneath the fallen log to reach your phone, but it was a tighter squeeze than you had anticipated. You sucked in a deep breath and held back your winces as you did your best to ignore the pine needles scraping and stabbing into your skin, and stretched your arm until the tendons and muscles began to burn until you realized this was a fruitless venture. And now you’ve just wasted precious time.

Hoping this went unseen and that the damp forest floor beneath your body muffled all noises of your shimmying, you pushed back on your palms to make a hasty escape - but you didn’t budge.

Surely you were starting to get splinters from how hard you started to push your palms into the ground, but you weren’t moving. You took deep breaths and tried to stay calm, but it’s been too long. He’s definitely catching up by now. It’s not like you made it far either.

Pushing one more time, you moved just a tad, but the searing pain that ran across your lower back from the harsh bark of the log scratching you suddenly made you holler - which you definitely shouldn’t have done.

“What are you doing?” A familiar voice chuckled from behind you.

It didn’t take but 5 seconds for tears start to spill from your eyes and down your face, surprisingly the first time you’ve cried so far tonight.

You ball your fists up when you hear him stepping closer to you until he’s standing right next to your legs, he has to be judging by how warm you’re already getting.

A warm hand comes out to lift the bottom of your shirt up, your scratch stinging more as the cold wind whips across it.

“Oh, you should’ve been-“

“Please don’t kill me! Please just let me go - I won’t tell anyone what the hell happened! Or - or what I saw! Th-thank you for saving me from, the um-“

He was surprised, and confused, as you started to ramble, in front of him. It’s not like he was listening all the way anyways, he was far too focused on how compromising your position was.

“Just please don’t kill me, please…” You sniffled and let your forehead rest against the dirt, chest constricting at the thought of how helpless you are like this. You couldn’t even fight back if you wanted to.

“What makes you think I’m gonna kill you? You think that’s what I’ve been planning on doing to you?” A pair of strong hands pull your ass up by your hips slightly, and run along your inner thighs soothingly as they press them apart.

Your eyes go wide at the realization of what he’s implying, yet your stomach flips at the idea, too. You’re silent as you feel him maneuver around behind you…

It’s a much better option than dying, right?

“No- I- just, just let me go!” You do your best to squirm and tell him you don’t want his cock buried deep in you, but your body wants other things.

And you hate the way the thought doesn’t actually despise you immediately, instead a dull throb from your cunt responds to his desires, and he knows it, too. You gasp when he suddenly has his face buried between your thighs and against your jeans, inhaling your scent deeply.

“Oh, you smell better like this.”

It’s not fair - it’s not your fault that he’s not… ugly. And you can’t deny that the thought of how big he is, especially compared to you, doesn’t turn you on at least a little. It’s easier to make yourself think you want this - that’s what you’re telling yourself, that it’s probably just easier to… convince yourself the idea isn’t completely off putting.

I mean, he’s probably huge, so you’ll need to be properly prepared and soaked to take him anyways. You can be sure of that judging by his height alone, and just the sheer body mass of him. Not to mention how thick and broad he was when you first laid your eyes on him…

“Whadya thinkin about, baby? You’re really working yourself up, I’m not even touching you.” He laughs softly and your body goes hot at his words.

You get even more pissed at yourself at the way your body continuously reacts to him, but you aren’t given any more time to yell at yourself when your jeans are quite literally ripped off your lower half.

God, you’re so small and helpless beneath him, and he knows you love it just as much as he does - he can tell you do. He can smell how exciting this is for you, as if the way you’re practically dripping wasn’t telling enough.

He knew he wanted you the moment he saw you walking with your little friend earlier, knew he needed you. Not only that, knew he needed to breed you, make you his. He sat and waited, followed you on your way back and thought about how he should do it. He didn’t want to scare you - well, he thought he didn’t. But then that other animal started to stalk you, and your fear wafted off you in such potent waves, and you smelled so good, he couldn’t stop his dick from twitching as he watched you run.

But you were his to fuck, to play with, maybe even to keep; so he’d be damned if you got hurt.

The thought alone makes anger rise in his chest, but the sight of your damp panties brings him back down to earth and remind him of the goal at hand - to fuck you till all you can think about his how bad you need him to fill you up.

Bokuto growls behind you before dipping his head down to lick against the wet patch on your underwear. He groans at the faint taste of you and sits up to discard you of them completely, surprisingly slowly, and whines when he sees the strings of arousal connect and break from your needy cunt to your long and forgotten underwear.

He grabs onto your thighs with enough force for the tips of his claws to just slightly break the skin, but any discomfort is disregarded when he buries his face in your heat and messily shoves his tongue between your lips.

His tongue is hot and wet, and his eager movements to scoop up as much of you as he can taste makes your toes curl and your eyes clench shut in surprise.

Fuck, this feels really good.

He pulls back and pants, spitting down onto your ass and watches his saliva drip down onto your clenching hole.

“Fuck, already so needy for me to fill you up, huh?” His voice is raspy, and you no longer care how odd or humiliating this all is, how weak you are - you want him so bad.

But all you can do is whimper in response when he bites down onto the fatty part of your ass, surely leaving a mark, before going back to licking long, languid stripes against your cunt. Your eyes roll to the back of your head when you feel him move to start sucking on your clit with a need you’ve never felt any man please you with before.

Your thighs want to squeeze together but they can’t with the unmatchable strength he has, keeping you open and spread for him to do as he pleases to you. His constant sucking and licking on your clit suddenly becomes too much as you feel your orgasm coming close, your stomach clenching and thighs shaking.

“Ahh! Fuck!”

You scream when it hits, he’s relentless and doesn’t stop once throughout until your squirming bad enough to catch his attention, who’s unapologetically pussy drunk. He only stops and pulls away, giving you a break, cause he needs more.

He wants to taste you more, give you more, but he can’t with you stuck like this.

He sits up and wrenches the log off your body, a sigh of momentary bliss leaving your lips, before he pulls you out from where you were by your waist with his other arm.

Your vision isn’t clear from this perspective, you think you’re dangling upside down, slung over his shoulder, but before you know it he has you flipped back around and standing on your own two feet in front of him - and fuck were you right, he is big.

Bringing your gaze up, now eye level with his chest, you crane your head up to look at his face with wide eyes.

“C’mere.” You’re lifted up by the back of your thighs until your calves dangle at the sides of his waist with his arms resting under the bend of your leg, warm hands gripping your sides.

Instinctively, you reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, pressing chest to chest, irrationally scared that he (yes, the same man who previously tossed a log off your body like it was a twig) might drop you.

But all focus is lost on that thought when you feel the fat head of his cock - the girth of which you don’t even want to imagine right now - slide between your sticky lips, nudging against your swollen clit.

A whimper falls from his lips as he starts to poke and prod against your entrance, his head slowly pushing in and you can already feel the stretch of him. A small dose of fear mixed with an overwhelming amount of anticipation runs through your body. You can’t tell whether it’s your own lust clouded mind or some power he might have over you - but you need him now, greater than your apprehension for his size.

“Need you, need you now. Gotta fill my puppy up.” He huffs down at you and you can’t help but flutter a little around the tiny bit of him that’s made it’s way into you at the use of the nickname.

You nod against his chest and wiggle in his grasp, hoping he gets the idea that right now, that’s all you want, too.

He does his best to slowly sink you down onto him, but fuck the feeling is unbearable - you’re so warm and soft around his cock, and he can’t help but think about how it’s the perfect pussy for him to breed.

Biting down onto your shoulder, he sits you onto the rest of his cock, your cunt squelching and dripping onto his thighs and heavy balls. You yelp a little from the pain of it all; his sharp teeth sinking into your shoulder far enough to leave a scar, with the vague feeling of a small trickle of something warm dripping down your back, and the burn from the way you’re stretching around him. But the first time he lifts you off to slam back into you, all you can think about is how bad you need to come around his cock.

Your head leans back and your jaw goes slack, his pelvis - dawning a furry patch of pussy soaked coarse hair - rubbing against your clit with each roll of his hips. It’s like he’s hitting every spot inside of you at the same time, too, repeatedly brushing against the one that has you drooling and whining: “please, please, please!”

He leans his head down to speak into your ear, panting heavily with each smack of skin, “Yeah? Wanna make you feel good before I fill this dirty pussy up.“

Giving an unexpected tender kiss to your neck, he growls before picking up his pace - thrusting in and out of you hard enough to have your head rocking back and forth.

Fuck, you were so close.

Reaching a shaky hand down, trusting his strength to keep you up, you rub weak but rapid circles onto your clit. Thankfully, not much more effort needed to be exerted from you for you to reach your climax.

Bokuto presses kisses into your mouth, open in a silent scream, as you squeeze around his cock and twitch in his arms.

Leaving a gentle kick across your lips, he groans and whines before his thrusts still - your own orgasm enough to nearly make him pass out from the sensation - as he shoots his hot seed into you. He has so much, the inside of you not nearly enough for it all, as it spurts out onto the sides of his thick cock.

You’re not sure how long he held you in his arms like this, swearing you were going in and out of consciousness by the end, but eventually you feel him pull himself out of you that leaves you with an emptiness you couldn’t begin to describe.

But rather than being set down, you’re still held in his arms. The warmth from him is overwhelmingly soothing now, lulling you to sleep as your exhaustion starts to take over you. There’s only vague murmurs of something sounding like “keeping you safe”, or “keeping you home”; but right now that’s the last thing you care to think about as his hands rub up and down your back.

That’s something for tomorrow you to worry about, just like tomorrow you will worry about where your backpack with all that hard work went. However, you have a feeling deep in your gut that your missing bag will be the last of your worries in the morning.

——————

taglist: @plutowrites @touyaz

2K notes · View notes

bakatenshii · 5 years ago

Text

Rapture

Oikawa Tooru x Reader (Haikyuu!!)

word count: 2.8k

TW: 18+, smut, incest, dub/noncon, mild somnophilia

A/N: I started writing this in my notes bcos I wanted to get out a cheeky Oikawa drabble for his birthday, didn’t wanna commit to a proper fic bcos fuck knows I’ve been writing my first ever fic for over a month. Technically this is my first official fic I finished! So much love for my wife @blahkugo for listening to me sob and whine about this & beta-ing it, also to @lookslikeleese who created this brainchild of Tooru-nii with me.

rap·ture

/ˈrapCHər/

a feeling of intense pleasure or joy.

(according to some millerian teaching) the transporting of believers to heaven at the Second Coming of Christ

Blood is thicker than water, in all forms and shapes and sizes. The guilt of blood lays thicker, sweaty and clammy, threatening to matte his perfectly coiffed hair. The guilt lies limp on his childhood bed, delicate legs dangling just a hair away from toeing the carpet.

You couldn’t reach when you were younger, he’d always help you down with all the gentleness of a protective mother and its cub. Long slender fingers tucking under your armpits to lift you from his stiff mattress to stand you on the soft carpeting.

Guilt, in the form of his baby sister laying vulnerability-up, presenting to him in taunt, as if it’s a gift from Satan himself. You won’t know, will never know, It promises. You’re out cold, too many cups of trashy house-party drinks in, your night was bound to end up like this one way or another— exposed and defenseless in a man’s bed. You should be lucky it’s your own big brother’s.

He curses himself for still having been awake when you called him at half four in the morning, curses himself for staying up studying tapes of his opposing team. Bad habits die hard. You were loopy, slurring your words, and all he could hear were the warm familiar sound of ‘niichan, niichan’ tinkling through the static. He had the keys clanking in his hands before he even registered the other voices across the line; deep, low, predatory— of men.

The drive there felt like a blur, tunnel visioning only on the number plate you’d sloppily sent him three times, each varying in one digit. It wasn’t even the right address, it didn’t match your location on his phone.

He saw crowds, loud bass reverberating through to his sleek car that stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the sea of beat-up sedans and trucks. He saw limbs, too many limbs, entangling together in a frenzy of sweat and lust; limbs on curves and humps of silhouettes, limbs on your small frame leaning into the corner of the dimly lit room. Then he saw red.

He couldn’t hear the shouts and hollers of his name, crazed fangirls pawing at him for an autograph, a picture, any type of affection from The Oikawa Tooru himself, international volleyball superstar with too many sponsorships under his belt. He reached out an arm towards you, and you clung to him like a magnetic pull, whole body suctioning onto his and tittering out a string of ‘niichan came to pick me up’ and a fit of giggles.

His first conscious breath was taken once he got you in his car. He didn’t want to look at you, didn’t want to assess the damages lest he drove his car straight into the dastardly party if he saw any hint of protrusion. He didn’t; you were fine. You seemed fine, too. You were all-too happy to see him, bragged to him ‘I bet them that you would come pick me up if I called you.’

You told him you missed him, ‘missed niichan so much, he never even bothered to call when he came back to Japan’. Tooru sighed, half part relief, half part guilt. He told you he couldn’t bring you back to his hotel, had to bring you home, because imagine the scandal if he got papped.

It was a lie, he couldn’t give a damn if he got papped, he could easily have explained that it was his own sister; he couldn’t give himself up to the safety of his own enclosed room. His room with no security net of Mum and Dad threatening to barge in, his room where he was free to do whatever he wanted.

He drove you home.

You begged him to pick you up and carry you upstairs, because your feet hurt, they’re so sore from dancing all night. He complied, using all his decade-molded muscles to pull you into his chest and his heart sank to his gut at the realization that you weighed like nothing to him; just like you had when you were younger.

You were bigger now, grown, an adult, but he had grown all the same. It was like a cruel joke— no matter how much you grew, he’d parallel your growth so he would always be just that much stronger than you, that much bigger. The perfect size to protect you. The perfect size to hurt you.

He was directed to his own room rather than yours, with the excuse that yours was too close to the master bedroom, too risky to wake your parents up. His feet moved before his mind could stop him, muscle memory bringing him to the space he’s barely stepped foot in since he was eighteen.

It was too familiar, whole body transcending back to his childhood, back to the innocence of your relationship before he’s tainted it with his twisted perversions. His arms laid you down on his bed, hands finding the straps of your heels to pick off before you thumped back onto his bed, sprawled out and fast asleep.

He’s been staring at your vulnerable placid silhouette splayed on his bed for what feels like minutes, hours. He can’t bring himself to tuck you in, can’t trust his limbs to function how he instructs them to. His skin crawls at the gust of wind kissing the sweat embalming his body, but he doesn’t let himself strip off the suffocating layers. He wants to bask in the physical manifestation of his disgust, nausea, let it remind him of his twisted perversions he can never, ever indulge in.

You shiver, and he jumps. Your tiny body is quivering in chills, begging him to warm it up. He moves with the grace and caution of a robber on the prowl for an expensive jewel, gently snaking his arms under the crook of your knee and top of your spine, lifting you up and away from him like he’s terrified— disgusted, by you.

He lifts the covers and daintily drapes it over the small rise and fall of your chest, pinching the top with only two fingers. A deep breath, a moan, a soft ‘niichan’, and he thinks his heart has stopped completely.

He’s frozen, the hammering in his chest arguing that no, he’s still very much alive, and spares a glance down at you. Your eyelids are fluttering, lips softly pouting, and unmistakably still asleep. He’s mid sigh of relief when he feels a small hand wrap around his arm, and for the second time that night he thinks he’s died.

All the gravity weighing him down disappears as he lets himself be tugged down onto the bed, the weight of his body crushing your tiny one, but he can’t bring himself to move. He’s too scared, he’s horrified.

He can feel two dainty arms loop around his neck and cage his head into the side of your face. He can feel the palpitations in his chest, heart hammering straight into yours, tangling with your soft cadenced beats, reaching in and provoking it to waltz to the same fatal rhythm. He can feel his trousers strain and his blood run cold.

Deep breaths to the count of the tick and tocking of the clock on the wall. He feels blurry, vision blotchy, skin prickling with every flood of blood traveling south. He wills it to stop, begs for it to spare him, he’ll behave, he’ll never let his mind wonder to you ever again, he promises.

God is all merciful, but God has long given up on him. Satan wants to watch his world burn, collapse, and dance in the ashes of his crumbling dignity. It teases him with the hilt of your soft body moving to press into his, crawling into his arms caging you in, willfully entering the den holding a ravenous lion fighting its own fangs.

Your eyes flutter open, gaze finding his with striking precision, and smile. It’s the same smile you’ve given him his whole life, the trust and love carved into every quirk of the lip. It shatters his dignity, stomps on it with childish fervor, and Tooru chokes on the breath coming out.

He feels you nuzzling closer, can feel your hair tickling his chin, and prays for forgiveness to any God willing to listen. None do— he’s too far gone. His hand’s reaching to cradle the back of your head as he plants the softest kiss on your cheek with all the practiced grace of a man begging for salvation.

Your eyes stare straight into his with undeterred conviction, glazed over with equal parts alcoholic daze and pure, unadulterated adoration. There’s not enough oxygen traveling to his brain to justify his actions, no amount of repentance would excuse his sins. His lips press into yours, so gently it feels like a mere ghost of breath, quivering in prayers for forgiveness.

A shift; small warm body squirming under his arms, shuffling closer. It catches the tent between his legs, and his whole body twitches like it’s been stung. He barely chokes down the whimper that threatens to come out.

He can feel your hands locking behind his hair, pulling your body infinitely closer to his, smushing your soft tits into his hard chest as he feels the breath sucked out of him by the Devil himself. There’s no more feigned chastity, all abstinence launched aside as he feels a little tongue prod at his lips. They open to let yours in, sucking on it as if it’ll bring his very breath back.

He doesn’t let himself wonder if it’s okay, he knows it’s not; it’s wrong, so wrong, on so many levels. He’s given up trying to please a Holy deity, Satan can take him whole if it means he can ravish in his sick twisted fantasies. He slots a leg between yours, letting the two pairs tangle and waltz to the symphony of your matching heartbeats, finally synching in a virulent tempo.

Breaths turn to pants, turn to unmistakable moans, and Tooru has to pull back to clamp a hand over your mouth in warning. The imagery of his long slender fingers covering more than half your face sends jolts down his body at the same time he realizes it’s him whining out so desperately.

He looks back at your face, beady, glassy, needy eyes peering back at him in sheer devotion, and he shuts his eyes in pure agony as his heart clenches in pangs of guilt, while his adulterous cock twitches in revelation. The warm soft breaths fan his palm, lips puckering underneath to peck softly at his fingers in hopes of escape; he thinks he might cum untouched.

His hand yanks back in shock, in horror, in disgust. But your hands clasped firmly behind hair pulls him back in, and he whispers out a prayer before a soft, “We can’t.” His eyes bore into yours, begging for mercy, begging you to let him go so he can suffer for his sins.

You don’t respond, not immediately. He feels his face pulled into yours and a distinct moisture building up on his thigh wedged between your much smaller legs. Wet— the suction on his tongue, the grinding on his leg, everything’s wet, and damp, and he thinks his mind might be drowning.

He can hear whines, pitched in desperation, and he’s certain they’re from you this time. His arm moves to grip at your hips, cupping your supple mound to shift it up the sheets and press your cunny against his straining erection. His hips buck on instinct, grazing the drooling slit covered only by a thin piece of cotton.

His mind goes blank, vision patching, and it’s too fast, too much, “please, Tooru-nii”— he’s crying. There’s tears stinging the corners of his eyes while he chokes out a string of ‘no, no, no’. He can’t slow the erratic humps against his lil sister’s cunt, the fingers digging into your hips marking you with patches of blooming purple and green, ‘I love you, niichan’.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction; he yanks his body back, takes sharp inhales of breath, until he can open his eyes to look at you again. Panic and nausea coat his tongue where it once tasted like you, but he’s met with the same look of pure adoration you gave him before he tainted your body with sin.

He realizes your hands are still straining to reach the back of his neck where they were before he wrenched his body away. They’re laying gently on his shoulders, twirling lazily at the strands of his hair curling around the base. Tears are flowing down his cheeks, or maybe it’s one single continuous tear, and his body is wracked with guilty desperation.

There’s no malice in your expression, no accusatory anger, and most of all, no disgust. Your face is painted with bliss, and joy, and love— Tooru snaps.

He’s pushing your shoulders back until they meet his singular pillow, and crawls down to nest in the space between your thighs. Large palms hook under your knees and push back until they touch your shoulders, and he moans when he sees your arms reach out to hook them in place obediently.

He wants to cherish this moment, burn the image into his brain for years to come, however many he’s spared, but his loins burn with years of yearning. He grants himself one glance at your tiny frame spread open for him, revels in the sheer devotion in your eyes, and plunges his face into the drenched cotton covering your core.

You moan out his name in a wanton reaction as he inhales your sweet toxins like he’s trying to drown— he is, he has no reason to live past this moment he sins, no right to live as he indulges in his sick perversions.

He can feel each shake and tremor of your thighs above his head as he sucks and licks at the soaked cotton, rendered nothing but an useless scrap now. Each suck is paired with a deep whine, echoing through his now-barren room. With one swift move he pulls off your panties and let it dangle between your ankles hanging above your bodies. Slick lines drip from the wet rag, stretching to connect back to your drooling pussy.

Five seconds— that’s how long he allows himself to marvel at your leaking slit, lips pink and puckered around the clenching hole. His cockhead drenches through his pants, so painfully hard a soft breath could send him tumbling over.

But he doesn’t allow himself to touch it, it’s not about him; it’s about you. Your devotion, mercy— your sheer, unadulterated, unwavering love for him. It’s about you; you deserve the best, you deserve it all, you deserve someone that’s not him.

He licks up, tongue flat, and slowly follows the dip between your folds until he suctions onto your swollen bud. His lips give it a soft peck, before wrapping around it and enclosing it in the hot heat of his mouth.

He has half a mind to snake his hand up to clamp over your mouth, stop the loud moans and sobs from coming out, but each wail shoots jolts of arousal straight to his leaking dick; he can’t bring himself to shut it down, despite how good you look with his long fingers wrapped around your face.

With every long lap, he pulls more cries out of you, and by the time he prods his tongue into your needy hole, you’re clenching down on him, sucking back on the muscle. You’re close, he can feel it. His tongue fucks into you without any of the mercy you’ve graced him, hips rutting into the bedsheet in tangent to your growing squeals.

The palpitations hammering in his heart synchronizes with the pulse of your cunt, weaving into a fatal rondo before everything stops; his hips, your cries, the air closes in on your writhing bodies as he paints his pants in shame and sin.

He allows his peripherals to roam your body; thighs indented with tiny crescents by your dainty fingers, mouth agape with your cute pink tongue lolling out— he swallows down his guilt, letting it scorch his insides before coating his cock threatening to twitch back to life.

He watches your hands drop down from their determined grip, thumping lightly as they hit his bed. He gingerly folds your legs back onto the flat surface before dipping down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead. He can feel your arms shake in attempt to reach out and cuddle him in, but give out to fatigue.

Your eyes flutter closed, lips molding back to that soft smile ever-present in his presence, and he thinks he hears a faint whisper of, ‘I love you, Tooru-nii.’

Placid, limp, he watches as your body loses energy and drains into the mattress below. It slaps him in the face, presents him with a trophy, a golden star stamped with a big fat ‘Sin’ calligraphed on. His world collapses around him, buries him in the debris of his crumbled dignity, and the Devil dances.

2K notes · View notes

edupunkn00b · 3 years ago

Text

Out of the Machine, Ch. 1: Delivering Magic

We Deliver Magic - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Gift for @houser-of-stories for the @sanderssidesgiftxchange.

Rated T: some injury descriptions, mild swearing, mentions of blood - WC: 1916

Summary: It's December 2075, 78 years since the first baby with Powers was born.

By now, well more than half the population has either been born or augmented with Powers. Most minor—a little telekinesis, perhaps extra memory or stamina. A few can fly, read minds, or paint imaginary worlds for the people around them.

A rare few are gifted with powers so strong they spend their lives in isolated in special institutions. Or worse.

And then there are the Traditionals, those with no Powers. People practically indistinguishable from those who'd been born a century ago.

Logan Sanders is once such individual.

And everything is about to change. ---

Christmas—no, holiday—lights in red, white, and green festooned the twenty-foot tall white-on-black sign flapping above the main entrance to the Abracadabra distribution center.

Abracadabra : We Deliver Magic®

Logan Sanders shuddered as he passed the third temporarily closed staff shuttle bus stop, his rain-soaked hoodie clinging to his arms, the frigid water running down his back in rivulets.

Three months ago, he’d been assigned to put up the temporary closure signs, announcing that the stops would be renovated with brighter lights, cell phone charging stations, and more seating. He’d dutifully taped off the bus shelters with stark black-and-white ‘Please excuse our (fairy) dust while we make the magic happen,’ caution tape. Now, he grit his teeth against the driving rain as he and his fellow white badge workers walked the extra two miles to and from the only open shuttle stop.

Traditional workers weren’t permitted to park in the lettered lots closest to the complex. Those lots were reserved for corporate staff and Powered landing platforms. The warehouse received quite a few tour groups at this time of year, as well, masses of chattering visitors from all over the country, flying and teleporting in to catch a glimpse of the largest warehouse in the company staffed by non-Powered—“Traditional”—workers.

There was parking available out in the numbered lots, but with the substandard lighting and utter lack of security, parking there was a quick way to have your car prowled—or worse. Logan and all the other Traditionals just sucked it up and took the TW shuttle bus that trudged through fifteen miles of winding exhurb roads to connect to the city bus system.

Finally reaching the staff entrance on the eastern side of the building, Logan stood in line to check his belongings in the secured area, feeling his toes squish and rub against his wet socks. He’d likely dry out by the time his shift was over, and, with any luck, tonight he’d be placed in a warmer part of the warehouse, far from the chilled perishables wings or, worse, the loading docks.

Once he reached the covered section of the waiting area, and was out of the rain, he pulled out his phone to check his school email. Scrolling past the daily Trusted University Partner™ credit card offers and a second notice from the Bursar’s Office, he read the subject line of the latest email from Professor Walker, his Engineering advisor, and smiled. It simply read ‘Proposal Accepted.’

Logan glanced up and saw there were still several Associates ahead of him in line, so he took a moment to log in to his research lab’s security system to check on the remote controlled mech in his lab. He’d programmed detailed instructions in the controller so the mech could continue building a new frame for the hydraulic-powered lifting frame he was developing for his dissertation.

He overrode the automatic camera settings and turned on the camera closest to the mech. The sensors in its dome, likely alerted by the flashing light near the edge of the lens, blinked, and the mech paused its work to wave at the camera.

“Next!” The Abracadabra security guard—’Magician’s Assistant,’ Logan reminded himself—called to him, and he shoved his phone back in his pocket and let slip a tiny crooked smile as he approached.

“Salutations, Sam. Lovely weather today, wouldn’t you say?” he deadpanned, placing his sopping wet hoodie into a storage box.

Sam’s mouth twitched. “Yes, isn’t it? I was thinking of taking a stroll in the park on my lunch break.” The Magician’s Assistant opened a smaller lockbox and looked away while Logan powered down his phone and placed it, along with his keys, wallet, and health tracker, into the box, then punched in a locking code and sealed it with his thumbprint.

“I have often wondered, Sam. What would happen if I were to cut my thumb or otherwise temporarily damage my fingerprint while at work?” Logan raised his eyebrow. “Or what if I didn’t have a thumbprint in the first place? How would I get my valuables, such as they are?”

Sam tilted their head, smiling ruefully. “Leave it to you to think of that, Sanders.”

“Basic principles of Universal Design, that’s all,” Logan murmured. Sam finally barked out a small laugh, the tight, tired lines around their eyes relaxing for the briefest of moments. “And I’m only playing my role… I just got the news today. By this time next year, I will be Dr. Sanders, PhD in Mechanical Engineering and Accessibility Design.”

“Your proposal—it went through!” Logan nodded, a small smile tugging up his lips. Sam punched his shoulder, “Attaboy, Sanders! Oh—excuse me, Dr. Sanders,” they said with a wink. The AM’s scanner started to vibrate, warning them they were close to their limit for Time Off Task between security scans. Sam gave Logan a tiny wry salute before he hurried ahead to the line for the time clocks. Sam turned back to the check-in line, calling out for the next staff member waiting to start the work day.

After Logan clocked in and thumbed the reader for a scanner, he powered it on as he walked toward the workfloors. A glance at the crowds queued up for one of the three working elevators led Logan toward the stairs. He paused, waiting for the screen to load with his assigned area for the day.

A blue Buffer window slowly began to resolve on the tiny screen and Logan started jogging down the stairs. He stopped short and his guts churned when a bright red overlay popped up, directing him to the Oversight office before he took his spot on the belt. Pivoting quickly, he ran up the four flights to her floor.

---

He tapped his badge at the stairwell door, catching his breath while he waited for the system to validate his temporary access to the Powered Staff level. Finally, the door flashed green and he pushed his way through, taking quick but measured steps to Esperanze Ondas' office.

Logan kept his eyes down as he passed Silvertongue’s desk, not wanting to give their facility's human lie detector any chance to question him. His orientation leader had warned Logan about the Powered staffer when they’d spotted him during the training tour.

“Stay outta his way.” Logan had frowned, opening his mouth in protest. The orientation leader laughed. “It don't matter if you haven't done anything. The bosses don't like secrets. Everybody's got somethin’ to hide and Silver’ll know.”

Logan cocked an eyebrow. “But, he’s just another Associate. I know he’s Powered, but what can he do to us?”

The leader had leaned in close and whispered, “They used to say he was in the Mad Lads.” He shook his head, as he’d caught Logan’s eye. “You don’t need that kinda trouble.” He watched as Silvertongue strode past them in the hallway. “Nobody does.”

Logan felt Silvertongue’s eyes on him as he approached Ms. Ondas’ office.

He raised his hand to knock on the solid wooden door and he grit his teeth as he heard her voice in his head before his knuckles even touched the surface. "Come in, Sanders." The door slid open and Logan stepped through.

Logan stood just inside the doorway in Ondas’ office, gripping his scanner tightly in shaking hands. The wrist strap was broken and he couldn't afford to fumble it and have the device's replacement cost docked from his pay.

"Yes, Ms. Ondas? I was—”

"You are Sanders-113? The Sanders who filed a Health and Safety claim on the Lambda belt Picker?"

"Y—yes, that is I."

Ondas let a low growl of frustration slip from the back of her throat and she closed her eyes. "Sit down." She sent the order directly to Logan’s mind and he felt compelled to obey, if only to lessen the droning in his head.

"You filed this claim against the direct orders of your immediate supervisor at the time, did you not?"

"Alain? He's—at the time?” Logan frowned. “Have I been reassigned?"

"No. Alain is no longer a team member at this facility. His failure to control his direct reports was the last of many infringements." The droning in his head increased, now a rapid stabbing at the base of his skull. “I expect a loyal team member such as yourself to not open yourself up to the same fate as his.”

She released her hold on his mind for a moment and opened her eyes, one eyebrow raised. “You participate in the tuition payment program at your university, correct?”

Logan paled as he fought to catch his breath and adjust to processing her oral voice. He cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I have a semester to go before I complete my Engineering degree.”

Ondas smiled, a thin, tight, upwards curve to her lips that did not reach her eyes. “And as a valuable member of the team, we are happy to extend that benefit to you.” Smile dissolving, she closed her eyes and delivered the rest of her message directly to Logan’s mind. “We would be very disappointed if you were to leave us, forcing us to retroactively withdraw our financial support for your education.”

"I understand, Ms. Ondas, and—and I would not trouble you with this issue if I did not believe its resolution was vital to the safety of our Associates.” He sat forward in his seat, spine straight, keeping as much of the tremor from his voice as he could. “With the primary failsafe disabled on the Picker Bots for the holiday rush, any failure in the secondary systems could—”

"Sanders, I know you are sincere, but your concern is misguided. Any major systems failure would be detected by the Powereds on this floor." Her voice reverberated through his mind, forcing his head to fall forward under the weight of her mental presence. "There is nothing that you have detected with your manual tools that we have not already been long aware of. The risks have been calculated by the best minds the Powered Guild has to offer."

Her tone softened slightly, perhaps realizing how close she was skating to a Bias violation. "We have access to stronger tools, Sanders. I mean no offense, and I am certain that were you born or bred with Powers, you would have come to the same conclusions we have."

Swallowing hard against the rising bile that continued exposure to unshielded telepathy can cause in more sensitive Traditional Workers like himself, Logan folded his hands over the scanner in his lap. "So the risk to Traditionals has been calculated?"

"Yes, of course, and it all falls within acceptable parameters." She swiveled in her seat, finally speaking aloud again.

"My decision is final and this meeting is over. Any additional time spent arguing will be considered Time Off Task and will go against your Rate." She tapped at a small screen on her wrist. "And you've been reassigned. You’re due at Inbound Shipping, Delta Dock."

Logan’s jaw clenched. Delta Dock was on the opposite end of the facility. He lowered his head as he stood. "Thank you, Ms. Ondas." He hurried back out through the door, pausing only when Ondas spoke again in his mind.

"Oh, and Happy Holidays, Sanders."

"Happy Holidays," he forced out and walked as quickly as he could back to the stairs. With any luck, he could make up the missed time with some extra hustle loading boxes.

taglist:@mavenmush @melaniidarling @braingoburr @lunatatic @demon9980 @crossiantgay @psychedelicships @justmeandmygayships @ts-creator-boost @bluerosesbleedred @tsfanficarchive @ghostmugs @rottingartist

Additional tags will be added as more characters are introduced.

#Out of the Machine #ts logan #ts janus #Logan Sanders #Silvertongue #sanders sides fanfic #superhero au #vigilante au #some people don't have powers

13 notes · View notes

pastelpaperplanes · 4 years ago

Text

No. 1 on the list of gay ppl I do NOT respect,,, YELLOW JACKET

and here I thought that there wasn’t a character in tf that could have this big of an eye sore for a color palette, this dumbass looks like a gd grilled cheese

little bit of context: Yellow Jacket is the crack kiddo of Bee and Prowl. In all honesty I’m not sure how those two got together, but they ended up w caution tape wrapped son so good for them I guess????

He’s a speedy field agent for the Autobots, and is literally too stupid to be trusted with any information other than the meal time schedules. His job is to escort covert teams to drop points and be the bight and flashy distraction if they get caught.

YJ doesn’t even know what impulse control is, or special awareness, or volume control,,,,,he’s a loudmouth and irritating mess he’s GREAT. Imagine Bumblebee 2.0 but make him 12X more annoying and THERE we got that’s our boy right there

YJ’s voice claim is BabyJake and his alt mode is smth similar to a Polaris Slingshot

actual ref and a Snare and YJ interaction bc yes:

#i hate him....but i love him....#transformers #my art #yellow jacket #cybertron’s crackhead kiddos au #snare #tfa prowl #prowl #tfa bumblebee #bumblebee #prowlbee #macacdam #transformers animated #pastelplanes kiddos

526 notes · View notes

ellariasand · 5 years ago

Text

i’m not gonna teach him how to dance with you

pairing: frank castle x karen page summary: frank's helping karen with a story. some slight miscalculations put them in serious trouble. rating: t warnings: references to sexual situations & canon-typical violence - no actual depictions of either; swearing word count: 8.2k (sweet jesus) a/n: i’m not particularly used to posting my writing on tumblr (you can find this same piece along with others over on my AO3), so this is new for me! big props to @peoniesforfrankcastle for pitching me the softball of “what do you think would happen if frank and karen ended up in their own version of the landlord threesome situation from new girl??”, because that’s a normal thing to discuss at 1:30 in the morning on a saturday. enjoy!

“You’re sure this is the place?”

It’s pissing rain outside the pathetic blue Jetta Frank’s sitting in — because of course it is. It’s dark, it’s wet, and the only thing he can see properly is the profile of Karen Page’s face, highlighted by soft blue dashboard lights. It’s cold, he’s not dressed properly, and he’d be at home in bed if not for her. He’d be warm, comfortable, and not packing three different pistols on various parts of his body. He’d be, for as much as the Punisher can be, safe.

But Karen, despite every warning and caution and threat to her life, never quite knew when to quit.

She’s packing quite a different arsenal as she sits in the passenger seat, hands still covered in glitter from the bachelorette party she’d been at an hour earlier. Marci had insisted, she claimed as she checked the clip on her own gun, just an hour to say hi — but Frank knew better. Just an hour, he thinks as she makes sure her tape recorder’s working, is an hour she doesn’t have to think about what she’s about to do.

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

She sounds absolutely certain as she speaks, even though Frank can see her hand shake as she stuffs the gun and the tape into her coat pocket. Her research is sound, her head screwed on straight, her plan well-equipped. (Well, perhaps not so much her plan as the plan Madani and Frank helped her make, but it’s all the same to her.) She’s Darius and Daniel all at once, throwing herself into the lion’s den without even a backwards glance.

She’s here for a story, and she’s going to get what she wants, no matter how it scares the shit out of her.

Or Frank, for that matter.

“You’re dead sure?”

His voice is as deadpan as it was the first time he asked - all bite, no bark. Someone once joked that he sounds like he gargles with rocks when he does that, pulls out the Marine voice. The voice meant for giving and receiving orders, not sitting in a Volkswagen with a Bulletin reporter helping her with a story. Apparently, it’s as intimidating as the bruises perennially darkening the orbitals of his eyes - not that he’d be able to tell, the way Karen responds to him.

“Yes, Frank.” She sounds as impassive as he does, if not more. He can’t read her expression in the low light, but he’s sure it’s as stolid as his. “Why are you so concerned about it?”

All he can think to do is scoff as she pats herself down in a quick double-check.

“Because I’d’ve appreciated it if you’d told me we were going to a Cooley gun club instead of having to hear about it from Lieberman.”

If he couldn’t read her expression before, he can now. It drops like a sack of bricks, and for all that his voice suddenly sounds upset, Frank can practically feel the weight of it hit his chest as the frown envelops her entire face. It dents her eyebrows, creases her forehead like some imitation of a child’s origami project. It’s a frown of surprise, not dissimilar to the ones he used to see on Lisa when he caught her reading past her bedtime. She’s been caught with her hand in the metaphorical cookie jar.

Even if Lieberman hadn’t tattled, Frank would’ve figured it out eventually. Anyone north of 119th this late was asking for trouble, if not pointing the gun at their forehead themselves. Even he didn’t stray this far if he didn’t have to. Not if he wasn’t on a job. Once Central Park was in their rear-view, he’d gripped the Weston under his jacket a little more tightly.

Karen’s parked herself right in the middle of a warzone, and judging by the loss of confidence in her expression, she knows it.

“I didn’t want to lose my chance at getting you to help,” she mutters. She sounds as much of a spitfire as she did before, but the way she’s gripping her coat sleeves betrays her real reaction. “David knew?”

“‘Course he did.” Frank scoffs. “Guy can hack the NS-fuckin’-A, you think your laptop’s any different?”

Karen’s frown deepens, the delicate origami construction of her face crumpling.

“So that’s why you agreed to come,” she says quietly. It’s almost enough to make Frank regret his choice of words. Almost, if not for the truth of what they’re about to do weighing down on his shoulders.

“You can’t just...throw yourself in with the Kitchen Irish, Karen,” he replies, firmly but carefully.

“I did it with Grotto.”

It’s like she doesn’t even think before the words are out of her mouth. She’s so sure of herself. It scares Frank. Just enough.

“Yeah,” he says, “And look how that turned out.”

“With you in the driver’s seat of my car, wearing a tape wire and helping me with a story.” Karen’s still wearing the frown, but she’s repurposed it now. Outfitted it to her advantage. Crumpled the paper and refolded it - treasure out of trash. “Not too bad in the grand scheme of things.”

She says it with a shrug and a nonchalant glance over at him, and Frank can’t muster much beyond an incredulous laugh in response. A small part of him knows he’d walk through all seven circles of hell with weights tied to his legs if it meant helping Karen with a story, but sometimes he wonders how she does it - looks danger in the face and laughs like it’s nothing more than a carnival clown, there for her amusement. Like the few inches of column space she’s afforded can be weaponized as much as the Ruger she keeps in her purse.

Karen dances with devils and comes out in first place every time, and Frank should know. He’s one of them.

“We get in, you talk to the guy, we get out, alright?”

He says it with a deadpan that hardly hides how much he’d rather taken Karen right back home, but he doesn’t stop Karen from fixing her lipstick in the mirror, doesn’t stop himself from checking that all three of his pistols are loaded and ready to go. The faster they’re in, the faster they’re out, and the less he has to feel his heart pounding in his chest like an animal trying to escape its cage.

“No funny business.”

Karen’s nod in response is perfunctory - she’s thirty-two, not twelve. She knows how this works. Frank knows that too, but the words come out anyway, in some vain attempt to reassure himself that what they were about to do wasn’t completely and utterly batshit. They’re more of a mantra than a command, and Karen’s response comes quickly on their heels as she pops open the door to the Jetta.

“People say my sense of humor is surprisingly dry.”

Frank Castle has, thus far, simply been too angry to die. No other way to phrase it. He’s been shot, tortured, run through, hit by cars, and electrocuted, amongst a handful of other, unmentionable things. He’s gone through more injuries than a child’s video game character, and yet he’s gotten back up, beaten and bruised, every time, without fail. Whether it’s stubbornness or just rage, no one can ever really tell.

But, he thinks as she smirks and hops out of the car, Karen Page might just end up being the death of him.

___________

The club they end up loitering outside of is dark, barely more than a husk of a building on the outside. It’s creative, the amount of effort these scumbags put into disguising themselves in plain sight, despite their existence being as common knowledge as the Harlem bus schedule. Decrepit storefronts, butcher shop basements, even the occasional apartment over a nail salon. Real estate in New York is slim, and Frank’s seen just about all of it - and a disproportionate amount of it with Karen at his side.

He doesn’t understand how he keeps getting dragged into these places, these undercover ops for information held so closely it might as well be fantasy. He doesn’t understand how Karen gets herself involved, much less convinces him on nothing more than a hunch and a prayer to follow at her heels, sneaking about like Zoey when she’s trying to dart out the apartment door before Karen can catch her.

He is, as Lieberman not-so-lightly puts it, built like a brick shithouse — sneaking isn’t particularly his style. Pretending to be someone else is something he’s done enough of in his everyday life. The life belonging to Pete. The life that doesn’t quite fit right - a present from an overbearing grandparent that collects dust in the basement from disuse. An old shirt, run through the wash one too many times that ends up stretched and worn, too grimy and ugly for everyday use.

The only parts of that life that seem to fit right are the ones with Karen in them. Even if they involve breaking the law.

The both of them are soaked by the time they’ve made it down the street, out of sight of their little blue getaway vehicle but in too much of a hurry to have bothered with an umbrella. Mercifully, there’s an overhang, and in some stroke of luck, the Irish at least have the courtesy to answer quickly when Karen knocks at the peeling wooden door with bare knuckles.

She’s good at that, sneaking right in the front door instead of prowling around out back. Good enough that Frank can only stare in silence as she barely blinks at a burly, dark-haired man opening the door, drilling her with enough questions to unsettle a Marine. He watches intently as she tosses around names Frank’s never heard, places he’s never been like she’s at some kind of fucked up family reunion. She calls him Robert and herself Harriet, and all he can think as they’re invited to cross the threshold is that at least it isn’t Pete.

The inside of the club looks more inviting than the outside, but Frank’s eyes are too busy scanning the interior for exits to notice the furnishings. He lets Karen do all the flattering as they’re dragged through room after room, past locked door after locked door, each one more and more concerning as Karen makes inane comments his ears barely hear. He’d been primed on all the exits - and that did mean all - but the anonymity of what lay behind those dark panels of wood doesn’t bode very well for them.

He manages to count sixteen separate doors by the time one of them opens to invite them in. The creak of it grates on Frank’s nerves, but he pays no mind as his attention zeroes in on Karen, whose blonde hair is disappearing into a dimly lit room, leaving him to chase after her like fool’s fire.

His eyes are practically evolved for low-lighting by now, but his pupils still blow wide as he ducks past a burly security detail and into the darkened room. He could swear he’s stepped into an old-fashioned parlor, one of those overly ornate ones from the PBS dramas Karen likes to watch. Velvety couch, paintings on the wall, the works - even that awful gold gilt that old New York money people thought was pretty, rather than like they’d plastered scrapyard salvage all over their walls. Frankly, his grandmother had had better taste in decor, but clearly the new Irish have money. And they want to prove it.

They want to prove they can defend themselves, too, based on the three men Frank clocks the instant the door snaps shut behind them. Strapped to the gills with firepower, looking like they could take a hit from a train and not move and inch, and angry to boot. Not too dissimilar from himself, in a way, aside from the way they mold themselves around the presence of a much slimmer man, in much better clothing, looking significantly more smug.

If Frank had to describe him, he’d say the man standing in front of he and Karen looks like one of those people mothers describe as “homely” when they’re young, but is really just the kind of person women cross the street to get away from on their commute home. Pasty, skinny, unsettling to a degree that Frank can visibly notice as Karen’s posture goes rigid. The suit he’s wearing is very obviously couture, as are his cufflinks and shoes, but it doesn’t offset the alarm bells that his general presence sets off in the both of them. Not enough to truly make either of them afraid, but enough to suck all the air out of the room in less than an instant.

Why do all drug lords remind Frank of the rats in the 34th Street subway station?

Perhaps because of the way they sneer like this one does, overconfident and cocky when Frank knows he could crush him under the heel of his boot in one step. Perhaps because of the way they carry themselves like they own the world, own the people standing in front of them and all that they’ll ever say simply because they’re on home turf. They’re leeches of the worst kind - vacuums of airheadedness and egos so big they could stop a truck.

Frank prays this isn’t the guy Karen’s come to see.

There’s a reason he stopped doing that.

“Ah, Miss Smith.”

His voice is as cocky as his face, dripping with something between venom and crude oil. His hand extends towards Karen, and Frank can only watch as she accepts it with a plastic smile.

“What a treat to finally speak in person. And this is Mister…?”

“Martin,” Karen replies. “My partner, yes.”

“Partner.” He says the word as if considering it, as if the answer is better than he’d been expecting...which is, ironically, the best reaction Frank’s gotten to his own presence in years. Clearly the beard he’d started growing in was doing its job as a mask. “Wonderful.”

He’s like a cartoon villain, this guy - if cartoon villains trafficked women and had bodyguards wearing enough firepower to set a building alight. All he’s missing is a mustache to twirl. Too bad he looks too young and skinny to be able to grow one.

“We weren’t expecting a third,” he jeers, “But in that case, would you prefer business or pleasure first?”

Karen shrugs, and Frank mirrors it. It doesn’t look as friendly coming from someone as broad-shouldered as him.

“I suppose we could do both,” Karen says. “It’s a bit late for shooting, but I’m not opposed to firing a few rounds while we talk about the--”

The laughter that cuts Karen off is even more jeering than the Bad Bond Villain’s voice. It’s high-pitched, off-key - like the vocal equivalent of nails scratching on a chalkboard. It takes a significant amount of Frank’s restraint not to flinch as he grins at Karen, far too boldly to simply be friendly.

“Oh no, my dear,” he replies as Karen’s mouth is left hanging open. “This isn’t that kind of club. Did Georgey not tell you?”

Karen’s mouth closes, then opens, then closes again as she blinks. Frank offers a quick “no sir” in place of a response from her, despite the fact that the closest thing he’d ever heard to the name Georgey was one of Karen’s silly pet names for her dog. Whether she’d crucify him for that, he couldn’t tell, but it was better than leaving the reject Lucky Charms man hanging. The expression on the man’s face tells him that’s a bad idea.

“His loss, my gain, then.” The man shrugs, sits up straighter in his seat. “You two are...swingers, no?”

Ah. So, not a gun club then.

Frank can feel Karen tense next to him. Not enough to alarm the asshole, but enough that he hears her breathing go shallow, notices the way she sits up that much straighter on the couch. She nods, refusing to break character, but he can see how far the comment has thrown her off course. He even goes a bit stiff himself - and not in the way the creep sitting in front of them would hope for - so he’s not sure he blames her. He can do guns, he can do knives...but this was new.

“It’s all part of the deal.” The creep sounds far too satisfied with himself, far too pleased in reaction to Karen’s nod that wasn’t any more than perfunctory. “We give you what you need, you give us...a little something in return.”

The look he shoots at Karen is enough to make Frank’s trigger finger twitch.

The locked doors suddenly make more sense, much the same as the furnishings that seemed slightly too impeccable for a mafia den. Everything is slightly too pristine, slightly too well-oiled for a bunch of amateurs fresh out of metaphorical diapers. No criminal gives this much of a shit about appearances unless they’re trying to impress - who that is, Frank doesn’t know, but he can only imagine the kinds of clients that run through here. A gun club in the middle of Harlem is bad enough, but this? Nothing wrong with a bit of fun if you aren’t psychotic, but...

“You traffic girls and you run a swinger’s club.” Frank’s voice sounds like he’s down an entire construction site’s worth of grave, disguising the sarcasm he can’t quite keep out of it. “Clever.”

The man nods, oblivious to Frank’s train of thought.

“We pride ourselves on it.” Pride isn’t exactly the word Frank would use, but the emotion shows on his face anyway. “The guns are a temporary cover. While we get our hooks in, so to speak. Clearly a good cover though, eh?”

He’s teasing Karen now, clearly trying to get under the thick skin of the identity she’s created for herself. It won’t budge, Frank knows that much, but the remark still makes him shift in his seat, fighting off the urge to throttle the bastard before they’ve even gotten a word out of him.

Frank’s never been good at holding his tongue, but he’ll do it for Karen.

She nods at the remark, a sound coming out of her mouth that’s as far from her real laugh as Frank imagines she can possibly get. It’s a hollow tittering sound, like hearing birds chirping through the metal of a roof they’ve nested on, but it’s convincing enough for their host, whose grin borders just the slightest bit on insane.

“We’ll give you two a moment,” he says. “Only reasonable to let you get...comfortable.”

There’s that teasing voice again, and Frank hardly has the chance to let it annoy him before one of the guards is swooping in on them, an ominous black-clad raven with an assault rifle strapped across his chest. He almost reaches out when he puts a hand at the small of Karen’s back, not quite pushing her but not letting her move of her own free will either. The cold stare Frank receives when his nerves jump is enough to tell him that he should follow, or suffer the consequences otherwise. He’s not particular to following the rules - not anymore - but he chooses to make an exception this time.

The creep stands by as the two of them are herded away, towards a door at the far end of the parlor that hangs just ajar enough to remind Frank too much of The Shining. The darkness beyond doesn’t look promising, and the results aren’t much better as they’re herded into some kind of dimly-lit antechamber, presumably a dressing room of sorts. Broom closet would’ve been a better term for it, given the fact that Frank and Karen are nearly chest to chest once the gorilla takes his hands away and leaves the two of them in relative dark, lit only by mood lighting that does about as much for Frank’s eyesight as a flashlight with mostly-dead batteries.

He can see about as much of Karen as he could in the Jetta, but he’s hesitant to say anything. Who knows how much of the club the Cooleys had bugged for posterity - he wouldn’t be surprised if there are cameras hidden in the tiny cracks of exposed brick he can see behind the swaths of fabric covering the walls. These types didn’t seem entirely beyond a bit of voyeurism at all.

“You okay?”

Frank Castle is not a man to whisper, but that’s how his voice comes out anyway; low enough that it would probably be unintelligible to cameras. It’s not as though he needs to shout in this broom closet anyway.

Karen shakes her head, less as a response to his question and more as if she’s trying to shake cobwebs from her brain that she’d missed when she dusted last.

“I swear to God I didn’t know this was going to happen.” She’s rambling, her sentences peeling off one after the other with no way of stopping them. “There was nothing in the notes about it. Not in the witness statements, not in the police reports...fuck, somebody should have told me or else I wouldn’t have brought you here into the middle of this—”

“Hey, hey, hey.”

Frank’s hands are on her shoulders before he can think to stop them, a grounding wire for his emotions and hers. He knows how it feels to have a plan go to shit, that feeling of the ground spinning underneath you without any recourse to stop it. He can see that feeling in Karen, the way her pupils are so blown with fear he can practically see himself in them. It’s not often that anyone can strike fear into Karen Page.

“Shhh. It’s okay.” He’s rubbing her arms now, though perhaps a bit more for his own sake than for hers. “Even Lieberman missed it. It’s not your fault.”

It really isn’t. He’s not sure how a sex club got confused with a gun league - all euphemisms aside, even Lieberman isn’t that stupid - but the Irish must be smarter than he thinks. Or, at least, clever enough to deflect attention away from themselves. It makes sense, in the long run of things, he thinks... if you’re that kind of subway track scum that traffics human beings.

“I’ll handle it,” he mutters. “You go out the back, call Nelson or Walker or somebody, get the hell out of here. I’ve still got the tape so you’ll still get what you need, I promise. I can take care of—“

“What?”

Karen’s voice interrupts the speech that he has memorized all too well, and he short circuits. Feels his hands squeeze her shoulders in place of a question. Watches her shuffle in place, shift her weight to her hip. He’s not prepared for this. This doesn’t usually happen.

She’s got her eyebrows raised, shoulders squared under his hands. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. He can’t focus when she’s looking at him like that. Can barely focus when she’s looking at him at all.

“Red door down the hall takes you out the back,” he sputters. Now was not the time for thought-out tactical plans. “I’ll get you what you need. You just get out.”

He’s not sure exactly how he’ll manage that, but he will. It’s the least he could do, in return for everything she’s--

“Frank, I’m not leaving.”

He can feel Karen’s enunciation down to his bones. It rattles her shoulders and moves the curtains that swirl around them, an energy not even Red could match if he tried. It’s an energy that speaks to the reason she’s good at her job, why and how she gets herself into situations like this, cramped in a tiny dressing room in a swingers’ club well past midnight when she could very well be at home, safe and secure without a second though otherwise. It’s an energy Frank knows all too well.

Here she is, looking as much like a scared rabbit as Frank’s ever seen, and Karen chooses now to be stubborn.

“You kiddin’ me?”

His arms flop down at his sides, and the air stings his palms where they’d touched Karen’s shoulders. She’s looking straight at him now, and that’s all he can focus on - the stinging and her eyes. Both of which flare when she shrugs.

“No, I don’t think I am,” she replies. “I don’t think “coercion via the Punisher” is a printable source. It’s my responsibility to get this information, and if takes going a little out of my comfort zone, then I’m more than willing to—“

“The guy wants you to strip down and have sex with him, and you call that your responsibility?”

It seems like an applicable moment to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, had he not broken it less than a week earlier. His definition of “responsibility” might be more muddled than the average New Yorker’s, but being propositioned for a threeway in exchange for information is certainly not in his dictionary.

“He included you in the offer too,” Karen protests, “And I’m pretty sure I just heard you say ‘I’ll handle it’.”

“Not by playing into whatever fucked up fantasy he’s got in mind!”

He might as well have pulled the pistol out of his waistband for all the good his words did. They ricochet off the walls like stray bullets, and he can see them lodge into Karen, though the way she rolls her shoulders and stands all that much straighter proves that she’s not in any mood to back down. She never is, and he knows it. Anyone who assumes otherwise is in for the shock of their life.

Being around Karen is like sticking your finger in an electrical socket, and Frank is a curious kid who doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.

“How badly do you need him to squeal?”

He chooses the sentence carefully, measuring his words as though they can remedy the situation all on their own. He’s not good with that, figuring out what to say. Actions speak louder than words, he’d always believed that, but this is Karen’s show. Karen’s livelihood. A livelihood she’d built on words alone.

Her expression doesn’t change.

“Enough that I’m willing to stay,” she says. “Frank, this story could wipe out a whole new generation of Kitchen Irish before they even get started. If I get this guy to talk, they’d be busted wide open within the week. Maybe sooner.”

“Same thing could happen to your head if you say the wrong thing.”

“I’m a journalist, Frank.” Karen squirms under his gaze, but doesn’t falter. “Saying the right thing is what I get paid to do.”

But you shouldn’t have to.

That’s what Frank wants to say. Wants to blurt it so loudly that the shit-for-brains in the next room can hear him loud and clear. Wants an excuse to bust them out of there, to avoid this situation entirely rather than subject himself to the burning gaze of this woman who doesn't know when to quit. He wants to shake some sense into Karen’s head, despite the fact that she’s about the only sensible person left in his life.

“I emptied a clip on a man,” she says. Her words are measured, careful. “I think I can handle...that.”

It suddenly feels like there’s not enough air in the room for both of them to breathe.

“Fine.”

Frank can’t tell if she’s being entirely serious, or if this is another facet to the facade she’s put on tonight - whether her bravery is manufactured entirely because she’s too persistent to walk away from a story unfinished. The room feels like it’s running circles around him, and he’s too dizzy to fight.

“You want it?” His voice is harder now, sharper. “Let’s go in there and get it.”

It’s not quite the Punisher persona she’s used to - it’s a little frayed around the edges, askew from being out of place - but Karen recognizes an irritated Frank when she sees one.

“I can do it by myself,” she sighs. Frank isn’t convinced - not when there’s half an army on the other side of the door and a creep who’ll undoubtedly take advantage of her the moment he turns his back.

“Like you said,” he replies, “he said both of us.”

Karen frowns.

“You’re really going to go in there and do this just to get me to admit that I’m wrong?”

“Could do worse.”

His shoulders are too heavy with the weight of their predicament to really make his shrug convincing, but he does it anyway. Tries his hardest to look nonchalant, despite the fact that his dominant hand still burns - this time for something a bit more significant than the air it’s currently grasping at.

“Too much longer in here and they’re going to get suspicious,” he offers. “Either we do this or we don’t. Your pick.”

He’s offering her an ultimatum. Karen fucking hates those.

“I do the talking.”

It’s the only thing she says while she’s shrugging off her jacket, loosening the top button on the starched, Wednesday Addams-looking blouse she’s got on. It’s the only confirmation Frank gets to shirk his own hoodie (how he’s going to finesse hiding the wire he’s wearing, he doesn’t know), before she slips out of the dressing room and back into the parlor, where Redhead Dr. No has shirked his own suit jacket, and the armed gorillas have all but disappeared.

He can’t tell if the feeling in the pit of his stomach is regret, but it certainly makes him nauseous all the same.

If it’s at all possible to have dimmed the already barely-lit lights of the parlor, that’s what they’d done in the time it’s taken he and Karen to argue their way into this mess. He can see the room for what it really is now that he’s removed the rose-colored glasses of playing along with Karen’s scheme: the way the room is laid out, with larger-than-usual couches, designed with open slats for things Frank didn’t even want to begin to think about. The fact that, despite being part of a much larger complex of rooms, there are no doors leading anywhere except the small antechamber, and no windows either. All that’s missing is some shitty Careless Whisper saxophone playing in the background, and even Frank wouldn’t do that song that much of a disservice.

“Ah, the lovebirds return.”

The phrase lovebirds makes the hair on Frank’s neck stand on end, but he beats the impulse to stir like a startled cat down just enough as their host approaches, clearly more keen than when they’d been whisked away. He’s rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, and Frank’s fairly certain he can see rope burns up and down the lengths of his arms - fresh enough that they might not even be a day old.

That is what makes him startle.

“It’s club policy for couples to...initiate proceedings,” their host says, with an eagerness that makes Frank want to beat it out of him. “To ensure all parties have a comfortable evening. Unless, of course, you’d like to…?”

“No, I think we’re fine.”

Karen’s face is red as she replies - not the kind of red it gets when she’s angry, but a brighter kind. It makes her look gaunt.

“No sense breaking the rules our first time ‘round, huh?”

The man smiles, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Very well,” he sneers. “I’ll be here. Whenever you’re ready.”

Whenever you’re ready.

The dealer’s voice is laced with the chill of dry ice, and that fact doesn’t escape Frank. This isn’t some jaunty weekend experiment, where consent is key and anybody who isn’t comfortable can bounce when they want to. This is payment, and he expects his full share, whether they like they like it or not.

That’s the thought that ruminates in Frank’s head as the dealer fiddles with the buttons on his perfectly-starched shirt, and Karen moves into his space enough that his vision is enveloped by her. That’s the thought as she steps in close, close enough that they can share the same breath, and that’s the thought as he considers the fact that nothing on Earth could possibly be more humiliating than this. The thought of touching and being touched in ways that don’t bear thinking about is worse than any embarrassment he’s ever suffered. Worse than any hazing his Marine buddies ever put him through, worse than any and every time he’s said something stupid and gotten himself landed in the wrong place at the wrong time. He feels stripped bare, down to the bone, and he hasn’t even taken off his clothing yet.

But for a moment, he looks at Karen, and thinks of the way his hands burned when he touched her, and a part of him thinks, Maybe if we spin this, we can get out mostly unscathed. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Not with Karen. He thinks that, of all the people he could end up stuck here with, at least it’s her. Their foreheads are touching, and he can feel Karen skate her own hands down his arms until she’s gripping his. At this distance, he could reach out and--

But then another part of him remembers Maria, remembers that he can’t recall the last time he used those hands to do anything but cause hurt. He remembers everything he buries deep inside, under layers of Kevlar and firearms and a voice so gravelly no one could ever think that it had ever belonged to a father. He remembers all the reasons why Karen shouldn’t trust him anywhere near her, and the situation morphs, molds itself into something that could only be a disaster, could only end with both of them hurt in a way that no stitches or antiseptics or trauma nurses could ever fix. It’s inescapable, and it’s all his--

“It’s the red door, right?”

Karen’s voice is a whisper, barely audible even when she leans in close (too close, too close, she’ll get hurt); it’s easily misconstrued as sexy, but really, it’s a well-practiced way of communicating in crisis, and Frank can hear the wobble in it even as she breathes.

He nods just enough that she can feel it, without looking like he’s doing anything but...well, setting the mood. Karen nods too, and he’s sure the both of them look fidgety - like nervous first-timers, not sure how to proceed. And it isn’t far from the truth - Frank’s got no idea how he’s going to proceed from here, but he’s nothing if not good at improvising.

“I, ah...think you should take charge.”

This she says at full volume, loud enough that their partner can hear. Like she said - she knows when to say the right thing.

And Frank knows enough about the fear on her face that his pistol’s out of his pocket before she can blink back tears.

And when he blows them out of there, it isn’t a euphemism.

_________

The sun is peeking out over the horizon line by the time the two of them stumble down the sidewalk to Karen’s walk-up. It plays peekaboo with them, reminding them that they've survived to see another day as Frank watches Karen digs for her keys in her purse. It’s stopped raining now, though the air is still muggy with its aftereffects, and they walk slowly as they approach the stairs to her building. She’s got cuts in three places on her face, and he’s got at least one broken rib, but they’re out. They’re safe.

She’s safe.

Her hands are still shaking though, vibrating ever so slightly as she attempts to find the right key to get them into the building. The ring jingles like an out-of-tune band, and Frank can see the frustrated, tired tears in her eyes as they slip out of her hand and onto the ground.

“Let me.”

He stoops before she can and dutifully ignores every protest from his tired, overworked muscles as he picks the bundle of metal up from the ground. They chime their high-pitched tune as he does, muffled by the size of his hand compared to Karen’s, like wind chimes in a distant open window. She doesn’t look at him - won’t look at him, maybe - as he straightens his back, but she can’t hide her frenetic blinking from him as he does. He doesn’t blame her. This is the longest night either of them has had in years.

He’s never sure how to fill long silences between them. He’s a man of few words, always has been, and the idea of saying anything when his entire body wants to shut down is beyond his area of comprehension right now. Is he supposed to hug her? Pat her on the back, tell her it’s alright after she watched him (not for the first time) eviscerate a handful of human beings like it’s nothing? Nothing he could possibly say can erase that. Erase everything else he’s ever done to her, every layer of hell she’s been dragged through and back out again. Silence feels like the only appropriate response, the only way to avoid dragging her through anything else.

She’s the first to speak up, naturally. Her voice comes out soft, a quiet monotone Frank suspects she uses to disguise the fact that she’s choking back a night’s worth of emotions all at once.

“Thanks.” She’s still not looking at him, but she doesn’t move to wipe away tears, doesn’t hide behind the high collar of her jacket to avoid him. “Do you want to…?”

She hesitates, and Frank can nearly hear her backtracking in her head as her sentence drops off. The missing word hangs in the air, heavy and loud despite the fact that it never leaves Karen’s mouth.

Stay.

“I’ll be up working on this damn thing to make the deadline.” She shrugs, as though overnight shootouts and going thirty-six hours without sleep are a regular part of anyone’s workday. The laugh that comes with it is watery. “Might as well have some company.”

The scoff that escapes Frank’s mouth isn’t entirely intentional, but it isn’t accidental either. He can feel the bruised muscles in his face sting as he lets the sound ring, ducking his head to fiddle with the glittering skull trinket she keeps on her key ring.

“Almost get your head blown off and you’re worried about a deadline,” he mutters. “Should be resting.”

“So should you. And I know for a fact you won’t sleep a wink.”

Karen shrugs, reaching a hand out for her keys. Frank obliges, and there’s something of a smile on his face when he does. The little skull glints in the light of the streetlamp, a sly reminder of just what kind of a mess she’d gotten herself involved with.

“I started this story,” she asserts, “And now I'm obligated to finish it. Just like any job.”

“You think you’re gonna be able to get anything outta that wire?”

“I’ll have to,” she says. “If not, I’ll pester Turk, see what else he can get me. Maybe do a ridealong or something. I know what’s there. We saw it. I just need proof.”

Frank laughs then. Not maliciously - not really intentionally, either. It just spills out, a soft, short bark of a thing that sounds off coming from him. Frank Castle doesn’t laugh, much less like that. It’s like interference on a radio; a negative side effect of pushing the wrong button or adjusting the wrong lever. The AM channel no one ever wants to use.

“Y’know,” he huffs, “I wonder if you don’t know when to let something die.”

It’s not that he doesn’t think before he speaks - Frank’s a smart man, he knows what happens when someone backs Karen Page into a corner. He’s seen it, from the moment she shoved that photo of his family in his face while he was chained helpless to a hospital bed, and he respects it. She’s a force to be reckoned with, a hurricane of immense proportions that doesn’t give a shit who you are or how much power you say you have if you’re in the way of the truth. Karen Page is not someone to be taken lightly.

But she’s more than that. She’s also a human being, a woman with a life, friends, family that cares about her. She’s got more than blood on her hands and a legacy so stained she can’t even use the name her family thought to give her when she was born. She’s better than that, better than this ugly, misshapen world they’ve both found themselves in whether they like it or not. She’s the best goddamn thing to happen to New York - hell, the country, probably - since god knows what, and to lose her to the storm of her own determination is something that Frank thinks might snap a lot of people clean in two.

Himself included.

He knows he’s said the wrong thing, knows he’s pushed that button of hers that makes her cheeks flare red and her voice hike up a few notches. He can tell as soon as the words are out of his mouth, as soon as she bunches her keys up in her fist in a way that’s got to hurt as she finally looks him in the eyes.

“Oh, you mean the hundreds of people that would die because I put myself over the truth?” She spits the words out like they’re shitty vodka from Josie’s, like if she kept them in she’d explode. “What am I supposed to do, just let this fall by the wayside? Tell Ellison I need him to switch me to the lifestyle section this week? I can’t just let it go. That’s not how this works.”

A part of Frank knows she’s right - knows that this shit won’t stop until the world can see the man behind the curtain - but a bigger part of him, the stubborn, protective part of him that he can never quite seem to fight down, can’t live with the idea of danger knocking at Karen’s door.

“You could’ve been killed before the truth ever got out!” He doesn’t mean to be as loud as he is, but that hidden part of him doesn’t like the quiet. “You really want to do that again? You want to put a gun to your own head like that?”

“I was hardly in danger of anything except hurting my own pride and you know that. I just let myself get scared.”

Frank can see her flex her hand where her keys are digging into her palm, but she doesn’t relent. She doesn’t look angry, but he can see the way her jaw clenches to fight back another round of frustrated tears threatening to spill over. He can see how tense she is, how close her shoulders are to touching her ears. She’s got every hallmark of a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but she refuses to move an inch.

“Don’t make this about my safety, Frank,” she says. “You can’t keep mothering me like this. I can handle myself.”

She stares at him like she bore a hole directly to his soul, and Frank’s skin burns when she looks at him like that. Not like fire, but like acid. Corrosive, stinging, sizzling. It’s a burning that seeps through his clothes, plasters them to his body so nothing he does can serve as escape. It’s the worst in his hands - pins and needles that suddenly makes that “reach out and touch faith” song make more sense. He feels the stinging down to his bones, and sometimes he wonders whether he’s just a skeletal ghost floating around anymore. Whether the rest of him matches the skull crudely painted on a vest in his closet.

No, it’s not like fire. Fire would be too easy, too instant. One splash of water and it’s out, wiped from body and from memory. It burns brightly but shortly, in and out of someone’s life with almost no passing thought beyond treating the wounds left behind. Fire is an easy solution. Fire doesn’t come from people who matter.

No, the burning Frank feels isn’t fire, because Karen Page never does things the easy way.

“‘M sorry,” he says, conceding another in a long list of arguments that neither of them would ever be able to win. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do to stop the burning. Isn’t sure if he wants to stop it. “Just didn’t—I didn’t want it to be like that.”

“Didn’t want what to…”

Her sentence drifts off before she can finish it, and he can’t be sure whether she understood what he was referring to. Her fists clench and unclench, and the burning worsens when she looks at him like she’s staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Frank, come on.” Her voice is tired - the groan of someone who’s been through far too much, far too soon. “You’re bleeding. I’m tired. Let’s just go up, and you can crash on the couch and we’ll talk about this—“

In the morning. Later. After. That’s always how it goes. Let things settle. Let them rest. Let the blood flow out of things, let the venom run its course. Take the rose-colored glasses off and let reality settle back in before anyone does something dumb. Karen wants an after for him, she’s said as much. She wants him to be able to walk out, as unscathed as a man with blood on his hands can ever manage to be.

What she doesn’t realize is that his after is already standing right in front of him.

Which is his only explanation for why his hand shoots out and closes around her arm like he’s pulling her away from some invisible danger. It’s the only explanation for the way he spins her like a top, until they’re close enough that he can see her eyes dilate in surprise. It’s the only explanation for the way he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, a feral animal broken free and running down the streets of Brooklyn with wild abandon.

It’s the only explanation for the way that he kisses her on her front stoop for God, the early morning garbagemen, and the rest of the modern world to see.

Karen Page, he realizes, is everything good left in the world. She is sun after a thunderstorm and a comfortable bed after a long day. She’s raucous laughter at a terrible joke, the kindness of a stranger when you need it most. She’s good friends and fond memories and the ridiculous way she dances to Lady Gaga whenever she finishes a piece that gives her trouble. She’s the beers they share on her fire escape after weeks away and the tight feeling he gets in his chest every time someone asks what the hell he’s still fighting so hard for. She’s everything he thought he’d given up the right to have a long time ago, and she’s everything he fights to keep.

Pulling away from her is painful. More painful than any gunshot, any gut punch, any knife wound he’s ever received. Pulling away from Karen is like pulling the skin from his bones, the air from his lungs. It’s like the burning he feels, only a million times worse. A million hot pokers on his skin, burning away anything that makes him who he is and leaving nothing but a shell, cradling this stubborn, beautiful, terrifyingly intelligent woman in its arms.

All that’s left is her. All that matters is her.

Her eyes are closed when he finally moves far enough away to see her face in full. For a moment, he panics, terrified -- too close, too close, fuck, did I make her cry again? -- but then she’s opening them, something he thinks might be glee or absolute horror written on her face. He can’t tell which is which, so he improvises.

“Didn’t want to do that in front of the Irish.”

Karen’s pupils are still dilated, and the glee-horror-something-else-maybe morphs. Becomes a little clearer.

“Oh.”

It sounds less like surprise and more like a smug question. He shrugs. He’s still got a hand at the small of her back.

“Didn’t want them to get a chance at it either.”

Now he sounds smug. The garbagemen can definitely see them now. He’s not sure he cares.

“Mmm.” Karen doesn’t bother to move. Doesn’t bother to separate herself from him. “Kinda glad about that.”

Frank quirks an eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” She fiddles with her keyring. Glances at the tiny skull. Jams the whole thing in her pocket. “‘Cause you kinda just ruined it for me for the rest of my life.”

“What, the saving your life or the kissing?”

“Both.”

She taps his chest with her newly free hand, and the spaces that have been hollow there since the park feel just that much fuller. Just enough to ease the ache.

“But mostly the latter.”

Frank can’t even remember what the latter is, but Karen’s kissing him again and that’s all that matters. This moment, on this grimy doorstep, with her hands bunched in his coat and his wrapped around her back.

So this is what it means to finally have an after.

#do i know how to tag this? absolutely the fuck not.#the punisher fic #punisherff #kastlenetwork #kastleff #my work #maggie.txt #karen page x frank castle #the punisher

20 notes · View notes

komahinasecretexchange · 6 years ago

Text

Title: Let’s Be Unpredictable

Author: @thatsrightdollface

For: @bluenurse

Rating/Warnings: Ahh, I think maybe I’d rate this T, due to descriptions of violence! This is meant to be Kamukoma during an extended, canon divergence-y interpretation of the Despair period, after all. Towa City’s kinda something else right now! (Let’s say Ultra Despair Girls went pretty differently, here? :P)

Prompt: “Despair Wedding with Izuru and Servant, bride Kamukura please hehe.”

Author’s Notes: Hi, and happy Komahina Exchange!!! :D I had fun writing this, and truly hope you have fun reading it too. Hopefully it came out okay… I’m sorry for anything I might’ve gotten funny. I decided on this prompt ‘cause I saw a lot of your lovely Kamukoma art when I went to your Tumblr page to see what you might like!

Let’s Be Unpredictable

Izuru Kamukura tried to smile, seeing himself in his wedding dress. To test if he could, mostly. Izuru was reflected in a shattered shopfront window, just then; the street had been splintered to screaming-siren pieces around him and the air was sour with ash. This was a ruined place, but the man who could love a creature like Izuru – who adored him almost too completely, given how Izuru felt like a ghost of his own self – said that meant it had become the perfect garden. They had planted the despairing, gory seeds of Hope here. It was time to see what would rise up and make everything even more beautiful.

That was so boring, Izuru told him. Told Nagito Komaeda, who insisted on being called “Servant” so much of the time. The bodies mangled along the side of the road, left kicked and splattered apart by mechanical death-bears were so boring. Whatever “Hope” was supposedly going to come next… Whatever awful purpose Junko Enoshima had bound Nagito and all his old classmates to serve… Izuru tried to feel something for it all, he really did, but he was hollow inside like his heart was clear cold glass.

The Servant only hummed and shook his head, hearing things like that. He said, “Hope is never boring, I don’t think. Though… As you’re the Ultimate Hope… I bet you know better than I do, right? I could have sworn your heart was only blood and meat!”

Izuru understood he had been named the Ultimate Hope. He understood his talent was an abyss, an impossibly deep well of potential that’d swallowed up whatever his ordinary self had been like, once. He also understood that Nagito couldn’t know what it was like to feel so empty. Nagito was always full of shaking words, full of wants and eagerness and the kind of desperation that meant he would give anything for what they were to matter. Meant he would drink horrible milkshakes he’d accidentally made for those twisted Warriors of Hope out of mostly lard… Meant he’d tracked Izuru down and tried to get to know him once the world had been almost completely won for Despair.

Izuru might have expected someone like the Servant to irritate him for all time. Now, though, he watched his lip twitch in the cracked-open shop window and straightened the sleeves of his dress. Jataro Kemuri, the Li’l Ultimate Art, had made that dress out of yellowed bandages and lace, out of caution tape and glass shards and mismatched crystals plundered from very expensive shops. He was one of the Warriors of Hope Nagito served, and they had defeated so much of the Future Foundation now. Komaru Naegi’s death had been such a dark and hopeless one… Nothing like what so many people had wanted for her, given what Nagito’d confided about Monaca Towa’s actual plans. Humanity’s champions were falling, one by one, all the time.

Izuru had wanted to see which was less boring — Hope or Despair — but maybe the least predictable thing for him personally could be a self-proclaimed Servant asking him to make actual proper milkshakes for a gang of murderous children. The Ultimate Hope had baked cookies, too, and helped decorate his own wedding cake. Maybe the least predictable thing here could be Nagito Komaeda his own self. The Servant asked for favors in a way that implied he didn’t expect even the infamous Izuru Kamukura to refuse.

There was no reason to expect that someone able to bring the Remnants of Despair down – able to change all this – might still stumble out of the ashes of the world… But Nagito Komaeda believed all the same. His stubbornness? That was predictable. But the earnest, broken innocence waiting behind that faith was something Izuru had found himself wondering about lately.

There was no reason to expect that someone like Izuru Kamukura was capable of being truly known, either. But there you go – Nagito wanted to know him anyway. And after Izuru had shot him, too; after Nagito and his classmates had become so ruinously changed.

Maybe it meant something that Izuru even thought about smiling, before he got married. This was a union of Despair. This was flipping off the Future Foundation just one more time, gathering the people who had ended the world to celebrate a pair of murderers ruling over their graveyard. Taunting the dead, willing someone to stand against them.

Izuru’s face felt lifeless as the shop lying broken apart before him, in the end, with all its toppled headless mannequins and shredded half-off sweaters. Bloody carpets, sparking streetlights. He shook his head, muttered, “Useless,” and spun around on his heel.

Nagito’s face was always sort of twitching, on the other hand: full of expression and nothing like Izuru’s at all. There was rot seeping deeper under Nagito’s skin all the time, too… He should have died ages ago, by rights, years before Izuru ever met him. That had been one of the first things Izuru thought about, meeting the Servant: here is a man who was supposed to be dead. I wonder why he isn’t, yet?

Thoughts like that made Izuru feel an ache that might have possibly been loss, sometimes, nowadays. He kept expecting to grow numb to it. The world was a stretch of nothings, bored and waiting for change that never came. Nagito was something sort of struggling to be new, and he combed out Izuru’s long, long hair with shuddering fingers. It had grown… Unpleasant… Imagining him truly gone. Nagito’s living hand was so gentle with him, as though Izuru was someone who should be treated with care. One of Nagito’s hands belonged to Junko Enoshima, the Ultimate Despair, of course, and that hand was so cold and rubbery against Izuru’s skin when Nagito petted bits of charred building off his cheek. Simple, kind motions like that contradicted everything his new hand represented, but Nagito didn’t seem to realize it at all. There was that good-intentioned sweetness, again, the impossible optimism behind everything terrifying the Servant did. How was it possible?

Nagito couldn’t move that dead-girl’s hand very well, even now. Usually he kept Junko’s fingers hidden beneath a singed old mitten, but he’d thought it was important Izuru understood who he agreed to tie himself to. It was possible Nagito hadn’t expected Izuru to go along with his plan at all – it was possible part of him would always be stuck trying to figure out how to respond when Izuru had actually said yes.

“If we’re going to get married, even for the sake of Despair… For the sake of Hope, I mean, the Hope that has to come after… You should know everything there is to know about me, if you want. I won’t keep any secrets. You can ask me anything, okay?”

Nagito said that sort of thing, but his words were like a carousel, spinning around and around, the carnival music growing warbly and strange. Busted speakers, toxic, chipping paint. Izuru both understood him and thought maybe this Servant wasn’t the kind of person it was easy to get to know no matter how completely he wanted someone else to know him. Nagito could spill all his secrets out to someone, but what made him tick… What kept him going… Well. That was hard to get anyone to understand. Nagito’s nature was his alone, the same as Izuru’s inscrutable talent. They were both cut off so much of the time, keeping their own company even in a room surrounded by the people Junko Enoshima would have called their “Friends.”

The Warriors of Hope. The Remnants of Despair – Nagito’s old classmates. They had all gathered here in Towa City to see this wedding. To will the Future Foundation out of hiding once again, if there was anyone left to take the bait.

The Ultimate Animal Breeder’s beasts had blood hardening under their claws, now; they prowled the streets, scavenging from the dead. The Ultimate Musician was going to sing as Izuru led himself up a crooked aisle to the Servant’s side, and her songs would make almost anyone who heard them feel a deep, chest-crushing Despair. Sometimes people cried, feeling that, or screamed, or tried to scrape out their ears… But the Servant always laughed.

Nagito would be laughing at the end of the aisle, then, his arms folded around himself and chains hanging heavy from his neck.

How predictable.

Izuru thought he could imagine the panicked, spinning look in his husband-to-be’s eyes — imagine it perfectly, down to his pale eyelashes, down to the twitch of his brows — even now. He made his way through the corpse of Towa City, stepping over a broken Megaphone Hacking Gun on his way. If Izuru didn’t step just right on the glittery shrapnel shoes Jataro had made him, they would slice his feet to ribbons. That was probably meant as a gift — meant to make things less boring.

Of course Izuru didn’t slip and cut his feet, not even once.

Izuru Kamukura took the Servant’s so-cold dead-girl’s hand under a broken roof, under a smoky sky. Nagito’s flyaway hair had been combed out just a little, and he was wearing a tattered suit jacket over his ordinary clothes. Just that morning his ridiculous luck had accidentally flooded their hideout building — the clothes he’d been intending to wear today had been completely trashed.

That was alright. Nagito had been called the Ultimate Lucky Student, once, and at least the calamity that followed him everywhere was sometimes difficult to predict.

There was a constant guarantee that something would go strangely around the Servant — either amazingly right or amazingly wrong — but it was true that Izuru couldn’t always guess exactly what. He had told Nagito he enjoyed that about him, once, and Nagito had offered him a sing-song story about a time when nobody in his family had been willing to pay the ransom to bring him home. He was so much trouble; he was dangerous; he was alone.

When Izuru took Nagito’s hand, the Servant grinned all lopsided and spun him around to see the glass on his wedding dress catch the sticky chemical light. Izuru let him. He had been wondering why Nagito wasn’t laughing the sort of laugh that shook his bones, as the Ultimate Musician sang just moments before, but now that he’d reached the end of the aisle he saw Nagito had worn nearly-invisible earplugs.

“I should keep you guessing sometimes, shouldn’t I? If I want to make you happy?” the Servant murmured, then. The affection in his voice was enough that Izuru couldn’t meet his eyes.

Izuru wanted to tell Nagito that he didn’t know how to be happy — that he hadn’t been created to be happy — but all of a sudden he realized that he was squeezing Nagito’s… Junko’s…. Waxy-dead hand. Nagito wouldn’t be able to feel that, no matter how hard Izuru squeezed, no matter how tenderly.

That was familiar, somehow. Izuru might have almost felt tears burning along the back of his eyes. Could that have been the Ultimate Musician’s talent finally working on him, there?

The Future Foundation didn’t make it for their ceremony, not this time. No one attempted to stop them, or bring them to justice, or shoot anybody in the back of the head with high-tech weapons that broke just about as easily as the less expensive kind.

Izuru might have expected the Servant to be disappointed by that, but he could tell Nagito wasn’t. Not really.

“If nobody else stands for Hope, maybe we’ll have to,” Nagito told Izuru Kamukura, the Ultimate Hope, just after their wedding in the name of Despair. The Ultimate Chef had begun to cut the cake, by that point, and sickly-sweet strawberry syrup bled out of it like a wound. “Maybe we’ll have to be the game changers. You ever think about that?”

“Yes,” Izuru answered. But of course, with his earplugs in, it was difficult to tell if Nagito heard.

“From Hope’s stepping-stones to its champions,” Nagito murmured. “What do you say, Izuru?”

Izuru thought. He thought about what it meant that the idea of a world without Nagito Komaeda in it struck him as even more hopelessly boring than the one they were rattling around in. He thought about Nagito’s unknowing contradiction; he thought about how it had felt trying to offer his own reflection a smile.

After a long, slow breath, Izuru said, “I think the music’s starting, again. You should dance with me,” and Nagito Komaeda blinked at him. Wide-eyed. Mouth hanging partway open. The Servant finally choked on that swaying, dizzy-eyed laugh of his, then, and promised he would do his best not to stomp on Izuru’s toes.

#kamukoma #fanfiction #komahina secret exchange

55 notes · View notes

tailahjanbash · 6 years ago

Text

What I Learned About Being a Whole When I Was a Half

I fell in love once. It was a time of raging teenage hormones and an unrealistic view of love due to my Taylor Swift obsession. It was the ultimate pining-for-your-bestfriend-80’s film-love that would ensure disaster on my naïve heart.

Looking back now, it was like a John Hughes movie on repeat—but every time you thought the happy ending was coming, I just kept getting my heart broken over, and over, and over... you get the idea.

Eventually the movie ended. After it was all said and done, I remember crying on the bathroom floor, wondering if the pain would ever leave. I remember praying every night that God would just make it easier. That I would wake up the next morning and feel just a tiny bit less than what I felt the night before. Am I resonating with any romantics here?

Well, it’s been a few years since then, and those wounds have healed—but I’ll never forget the priceless lessons I learned throughout the healing process.

Today I want to share with you some of the things I learned about being a whole when I was a half.

1. I believed the lie.

I believed the lie that I would never find love or connect to another person as much as I did when I fell in love. I fueled this fear with what I thought was “logic” and “reasoning”, but in reality, I was just letting fear bully me.

That was the furthest thing from the truth. It doesn’t align with God’s promises or nature.

2. There’s a natural way to deal with heartbreak, and there’s a supernatural way.

The truth is, when you find the person that’s right for you, it will make complete sense why it never worked with anyone else before.

When glass breaks, it’s natural to pick up the larger shards first in order to clean up the mess. The bigger pieces are easier to identify, pick up, and throw away. Breakups kind of happen the same way. Once everything has fallen apart, it’s easy to spot the big issues, like bad communication or dishonesty. But after those big pieces have been cleaned up, we are still left with the small shards; the ones that are not always visible that contribute to the brokenness.

The smaller pieces take longer to clean up. They require precision, careful attention, caution, and accuracy.

Anyone with decent eye sight can spot large pieces of glass. Meaning—it’s common knowledge that cheating is wrong, ghosting is immature, and lack of communication is the kiss of death. Even Cosmo can give you sound advice on this.

Then we get to the shards.

This is where the world gets the healing process totally wrong.

The sin, behaviors, and emotions underneath the surface that aren’t so easy to spot— those contribute to our broken condition.

Let me put this into an example: A lot of people think that getting into a new relationship will help you forget about your old one.

This is using another person to distract you from your pain and emptiness. Not only is this unfair to the person you are dragging along with you, but you can’t heal properly this way. You need to face your demons instead carrying them into your next relationship!

That rejection, fear of vulnerability, anger, loneliness, sorrow, depression, bitterness, resentment, pain, and allll the other negative emotions that accompany heartbreak— are the shards.

A playlist, going out with friends, a new bae, drinking until you forget, and all the other remedies that the world gives you… they don’t work.

The good news is, God is dying to heal you. (Quite literally)

He can’t wait for the night you put down the bottle or turn off of the T.V., whatever the distraction is, and turn to Him for the healing.

God doesn’t leave us alone in our fragmented state and expect perfection. In fact, He promises to get down in the mess and brokenness with us to find the solution and piece us together into a new and beautiful creation.

That’s exactly what He did for me. And I know He can do it for you.

3. You’ve gotta catch the foxes

“You must catch the troubling foxes, those sly little foxes that hinder our relationship. For they raid our budding vineyard of love, to ruin what I’ve planted within you. Will you catch them and remove them for me? We will do it together.” Song of Songs 2:15

When I read this scripture, the Lord made it very clear that my foxes at the time were guys and relationships.

The bible says that satan prowls around like a lion, looking for whomever he may devour. So, it should come as no surprise that he sends distractions and uses people and/or demonic principalities to keep us from effectively serving God.

I noticed that whenever I was minding my own business, crushing my school work, and super close to God… some gorgeous boy would pop out of nowhere and ask me out. I didn’t catch on at first. I was giddy and couldn’t wait to go out.

Okay so, what happens when you start talking to someone? Your brain goes from paying attention in class to planning the next date. Your hangouts take precedence over bible study and your mind and heart become filled with this person.

Eventually I would learn that these guys were great people, but simply not meant for me. And then I would remember the instructions God gave me and immediately want to slap myself in the face. How much time and energy did I invest in something that I could have avoided had I been obedient? I could have put that time into improving my grades or making new friends.

Maybe your foxes are ungodly friendships, being overly invested in a sport or celebrity, or a sin you always find yourself going back to.

A good indicator of your hearts priorities is seeing where you spend most of your time and money. Anything that takes precedence over God is not only a fox, but an idol.

I find it interesting that the word of God uses foxes to illustrate this picture. Foxes are sly and sneaky. They operate in darkness and in shadows, and they rob you of your crop. Spiritual foxes do the same.

They rob you of spiritual growth. The more time you spend binge-watching Netflix, the less time you have to read your bible and pray. Whatever you sow, you will reap. If you are sowing unproductivity—meaning putting your time towards sleeping, laying around, and watching tv, you are going to yield a crop of laziness, procrastination, and slothfulness. The fruit of your life will be marked by these negative characteristics.

I believe there are things God wants to continue to plant and grow in you and the beautiful thing, is that he says he will catch the foxes with us—we’re not on our own in the battle against sin and temptation. The Spirit of God helps us identify our foxes and gives us the strength to catch and kill those bad habits.

4. If you can make it past the first few months, you’re in the clear.

Just like breaking any habit, it’s going to be really difficult at first. Especially if you have never truly been on your own (romantically) like I had.

Relationships are wonderful—you have someone doting over you, laughing at your terrible jokes, and telling you how beautiful you are. But pull the rug out from under the relationship and you’re left with two seriously insecure people.

It’s human psychology—you’re used to receiving love and attention, so now that it is gone, you must fill that void with affirmation.

*downloads tinder*

Just kidding.

I wanted to break that habit because it never worked; I was never truly healed. Seeking male affirmation never satisfied my heart, soul, and spirit. I realized I needed to fill that void with God’s love instead of attention from guys.

And ladies, once I made that decision, I was unstoppable.

First, I had to set barriers for myself. I literally stopped everything related to relationships cold turkey... I was serious about getting the full and complete healing I needed!

I did not allow myself to go on dates, text guys that I liked, and on nights when I was particularly sad, I would turn everything off (tv, phone, laptop) and spend time with God.

Eventually, it got easier. Once the Holy Spirit started filling the holes in my heart, they actually began healing effective immediately. Getting over heartbreak became a million times easier because I wasn’t trying to duct tape DIY my heart back together. I was giving it back to the one who created it. It’s funny…we so easily forget that the master designer of our heart knows exactly how to heal it.

Looking back, I can’t believe how much of my heart was not only divided but broken. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. God had to stop me in the middle of a rebound relationship, arrest my heart, and give me these step-by-step instructions like you would an unruly toddler.

My encouragement today, is don’t be hard-headed like I was. Don’t let your heart get so tangled up in its own will and desires that it forgets God’s.

And finally, I’m not selling you a foolproof step-by-step guide on how to get over someone. Your story and your heartbreak are different than mine. But I do know heartbroken people, more than anything, want to feel like they aren’t alone. That someone understands them. To that I say, “Have you considered the one who planned this long ago?” Isaiah 22:11

For more blogs and content check out my website!

http://www.thechosengirl.info/

23 notes · View notes

catthepillarr · 8 days ago

Text

Thought of something mid doodle

#transformers #prowl #maccadam #art #transformers earthspark #artists on tumblr #caution! it's the prowl™#prowl with scarf #prowl in caution tape lol #do you still want him?

157 notes · View notes

bluepenguinstories · 6 years ago

Text

Intention Headaches Chapter Three

Hung atop aside, hinged off a chiseled face of a cliff rest a vestige some know as home – a domed structure, bolted on by nails and years of structuring and reconstructing. Inside lie bodies, torsos and limbs, abreast a bereft vestibule. Bodies moving, some stationary. Animated, alive, lively for all the motions and immobile actions.

Without the use of movement, chromatic machinery lit up a main hall, where piles of ancient manuscripts lie among magazines of a bygone era (beside a pile of magazines ready to be loaded into weaponry).

“We have been assigned a new mission,” One such figurehead, poised in such a figurative manner, walked in with a voice of a sultry honey badger in heat.

“Out with it, Virgil!” Roared an uproarious uproar amongst munches of an ultra rare steak. One human poised seated, having counted her losses and after counting her winnings had decided she had earned an ultra rare steak, but therein lies the problem – one should never count winnings amongst their losses.

“Very well,” veracious Virgil henceforth found footing. “Underway, we have been requested to assassinate Hemingway.” Overhead, stiff air in a stuffy room supported a cough. “Should we...?”

“Accept it, dammit!” Growled and howled a huff from a mouth stuffed.

“Now Adeline, I know you have a personal vendetta against the Hemingways, but we must remember those words we read on the side of the mechanic caterpillar, written through the use of an aerosol can. 'Love comes close, but it eludes me'. Do you remember what that means?”

“As our leader has said, 'love is a labor and we are indentured servants'. But I've always hated how she said that! Tryin' to pretty up her words!”

“Yes, and as such, if we deny this mission, we may lose funds for the month. However, if we accept it and fail, we may lose lives in the process as well as our funds. Is such a high risk worth the reward?”

Adeline, fulfilling a carnal desire, tore into the pieces of meat, ravaging and pillaging what once belonged to a cow. Deep down, remnants of cow burrowed within the conscious and melded the mindset, a just cause for such a lass to be on the prowl.

“I know you have been voted best girl in the wake of Virginia's illness, however, she still makes the final decision.”

“She better say yes is all I'm sayin'! After our loss against the Plaths the other night, we gotta show this town our fangs!”

“I will pass that message along and inform you of her decision.”

Virgil walked over to the console just two footprints away, where Adeline could still see. Silent hums from the machine greeted the two. Displayed in the air were options, in which Virgil knew just which combination created the recipe to speak with the ill.

“Dear leader, mission request to assassinate Hemingway. Should we accept it?”

On the other end, crisp and clear as less than apple and closer to day, yet still miles apart, enshrined the vocal choral reef of an undersea beauty. Or, that of a tenor.

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to brew potions. Some drink glitter, I find porcelain dolphins in my lobotomies; vases taped shut to suitcases, some know of my return, but only upon your graves shall I utter the names of all the best breads for those to eat. Under each table are necessary supplies. Glue to hold us all in times where we can feel the cracks from the Earth. Ground beneath our little toesies. We know of the days spent, shrouded in cement, unbearable societies, yet we chisel away. If we are to work as a union, we must commune in each room, rooms of our own.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“I know you all will betray me!”

Adeline was slurping on fat. Loud and clear; queer findings, she heard it all.

“So in other words, yes,” Adeline concluded.

“Indeed,” Virgil was somewhere nearby, having made a reply.

“Excellent!” Added a line, aggressive in the grin department. Teeth spread, some sharpened on the ironing block. Forged ahead was a stomp across the base hall.

Plump aplomb, plum bedsheets plopped a volatile, stomach first, face smushed down against down pillowcases. Middling mutterings uttered outside an open mouth, drool exiting stage right.

“I won't rest until I hear an adverb...”

From outside a room of her own, two shapes with two sets of limbs gestured to one another.

“How could you let her just accept the offer?” Gyrated gruff giving of words.

“Adeline is best girl. It has been decided,” replied other set of limbs.

“That may be so, but look at us! We've taken a shitton o' hits over here! At this rate, we're gonna need new members! Remember when one Ka wanted in? Y'know what Virginia said?”

“'Only fools Russian'?” Virgil took a guess and hit outside the target.

“Excuse, em, me?”

“Apologies. I know no enunciation.”

“Anyway, no! She said, 'we cannot allow practitioners of magic.' Yet magic ain't even a thing! Did'ya see Ka claim to be a churchgoer? Nah! Ka ain't nah churchgoer! Far from, Ka a free woman!”

“Yes, however, Ka married. As she said, 'love is a union inside a megacorporation.' Under those circumstances, suspicion becomes necessary caution.”

Vinny volunteered to vanish; Virgil followed suit. Pinstripe, tuxedo, two-piece. All there inside closets. Both made their turns down the aisles, Virgil reassured.

“I will ensure this mission is as close to success as possible.”

Plan underway, assassinate Hemingway.

Adeline had a way, then lost it. Made one again so as to meet the main hall where members conversed. Virgil, unconsumed with conversation, consumed instead in an ancient manuscript well before days of neon.

“What's that ya got?” the best girl addressed.

“Research material on the Hemingway gang.”

Within Virgil's hands rest a book titled 'The Importance of Being Earnest'.

“What's it say?” Insistence increased.

“Unsure just yet. From what I gather it is a biography on the gang's leader, Ernie.”

“That bastard oughtta gimme an adverb 'fore he bites the dust, all's Im'ma say on that!”

Added to the tension was the pace meat muncher found herself in. Add a line and Adeline followed. Two steps one way, two steps back.

Preceding preparations post-declarations, another bold statement was made:

“Remember: if he breathes, he's a thought.”

“All gang leaders are queens,” Virgil made due diligence to remind those with high steaks.

“This one's diff'rent. Doesn't use adverbs. Shorter than the rest. Merely a thought.”

Virgil nodded a virginal nod. Sole male sorely knew his place.

“I shall sit this one out.”

Fruits of labor at times may involve blue. While quiet and sulfuric as the night, certain arrangements could be made to blue gear armed to the teeth, about 26 of them, give or take a few here and there depending on how many punches had been served. Blue hats, blue vests, blue as their cold, dead hearts.

Knocked upon one door of an aromatic adornment stood a blue, awaiting the pace of a refined romantic enamored with the allure of romance in times of war.

So soon, frozen. Door opened, quiet creak. No bells and whistles. Just wood application.

“Your purpose?”

“I have a report of smuggled narcotics in the area,” blue blathered before blasting barrels of bionic explosives packed into a tangible L-shaped device, small enough to fit inside such small hands.

Swaths of graceful age, reduced to meaty chunks and disintegrated charred bits where once stood tall a perfect paragon to the finer things in life. Also gone, were parts of the door. Door hinges, unhinged.

Surrounded in response were other gentlemen, prior sharing cups of tea, now enraged at the blue at the door. Shotguns in tow, cocked and barreled past the point of reason. One blue life, no more.

“Shameful,” one bearable bear body decreed, observing in equal measure dead hired hitman in blue as well as one who understood preciousness of presentation.

“Highest esteemed gentleman breathes,” a relief voiced by one who could wrestle bears with words.

“Attack meets retaliation,” forewarned one higher up on the respectable ladder. Rungs wrung out followed a pattern, polka-dots unruly, all things considered. One atop such a ladder may have sat, whiskey in hand, whispering of days of old.

Sure, just, fair, and true to form, each and every one of the single employs and envoys met such a lament, seated on a throne of regret. Sipped and chipped away at old days, one known as a leader of Hemingway. However, one day, Hemingway knew not the way. Such a day was an older day, when blood lay in a more sporty pool where all could drink and swim from sans the sanguine anxiousness of urination.

“We fight,” Ernie avowed, having taken to declaration.

Such strutted men, taken to streets. Outside, street lights with camera lens flares and a crimson radial temperature. Men in heat, overall, such men wore overalls.

World weary childlike syntax stopped the men in their tracks before reaching too close to the liminal space between Woolf and Hemingway.

“Stop,” commanded one without subordination and to his subordinates.

On the ground rest many pairs of mittens made of leather the size of a mouse, or smaller. Such mittens small enough to fit a foot (a pair fitting feet) who had given their introduction from out of a womb. In spite of having been strewn across the grime of the ground, such leather mittens fitted for feet were in such a condition as to suggest having not having a pair of feet placed inside of them.

“Baby shoes, never worn,” observed over three feet, yet less than five feet tall a man who looked to be between 10.2 and 12.9 years of age yet bore the voice of one with at least five ten's worth or greater years lived as a breathable human.

Men looked at each other. In unison, looked toward their miniscule pioneer.

“What must be done?” Question given.

“Stand back and ready shotgun.”

Command placed upon a chess board meticulous as the one which does not exist and all men were knights in the absence of pawns or bishops. At once and arms drawn before bidding them farewell; arms raised, as if to wave goodbye. So too, baby shoes.

Explosion in response to removed baby shoes from the battlefield. Erupted choruses of men who forged ahead.

Moon above and bereft. Sky of sulfur.

Once threshold had been crossed, howls took form. Henceforth Hemingway gang on guard, arms raised, scanning their environment once more. Dense streets ought have been arid, or lucrative, yet instead, invalid. Buildings best sat where better to stand and homeowners would have fled. Better yet were those without homes who could have found temporary residence within their wits. Instead, homes of abandonment.

Cascading howls hinterland. In earnest, Ernie sent signals to extraordinary gentlemen and such gentlemen took residence searching for shadows in each home.

“Dens for wolves,” muttered breaths.

Blood sprinkled, an inverted rainbow in only one color as howls from both friend and foe sprang forth once more. Fashioned by the Woolfs were claws used for burrowing into chests of burly men. Such claws, equipped with electricity, stacked with static. Even those to stand and breathe would see immobility.

Upon noticing injury and deaths of comrades, shot into the air spiked forward, launching itself forth as a gleeful missile would.

More Hemingway sprang.

“Jolly good,” all sang.

From afar, two jars in place of binoculars, a line added in the line of danger.

“Damn,” damned the one handing out damnations. “Curses,” cursed the same person.

To top things off, to even the odds, the 1's and 3's became 2's and 4's. In other words, rugs, carpets, and mats, make for good deceptive works of art. All one has to do is lay them flat and the world gives itself a pat on the back.

Wolves got to work working carpentry just in time for bundled burlap surgery to unfold. Backed away was a way with hemming. All rest were irons struck hot and forged ahead of schedule.

One step and a splintered acorn fission created flame and flash alike. Spectacle of smoke, specifically of the destructive variety.

Vicious visage which was voted greatest seized the confusion or upstaged clarity to make leaps and bounds across building tops and plunge to the bottom with her claws spread. Observant owl watched such a display.

“Carpet bombs,” his two words said and his look of disapproval said everything else.

Stepping forward once more were the Hemingway men, unscathed.

Unable to deny, Adeline, awe, star, and dumbstruck, struck a look of disgust.

“How the fuck?”

“Shielded clothing,” sang jolly good fellows.

“Thought you fuckers 'ere against modern shit!” Feral lady gave a series of barks which translated rather well into English words and phrases albeit some creative liberties taken.

“Everything with purpose,” next verse.

“Men,” preached a prophet little more than four heads tall.

Ways of hems aimed and took potshots at wolves inside buildings. Claws could not save those without shield.

Last whimpers made by canines slain. Growled a displeased pooch, lines added were diminished by the one who adds lines via combinations of finesse, razor sharp claws, and a ducked head.

Joyous chorus became showered confetti of blood crystal droplets, which Adeline collected and lavished.

“Your gang's mostly toast! You're definitely next!” Proud roar of a wolf.

“T'is Sunday,” gave a friendly reminder from a gentlemanly gentleman. Hiding underneath Ernie's underpants rest a righteous rod which he pulled out gracefully for all the world to see. Split into two, one rod became two, smaller rods. Each rod lit up, beams of pure energy, until the energy took the shape of a blade.

Ernie on a Sunday, blades of energy in tow, sliced down upon the arms of the one always adding lines. She saw two limbs dropped, plopped, and a jetstream of ruby liquid, tasting of salty iron shot forward before fizzling out.

“Farewell,” saluted a man in earnest.

She, in response, took to knees, and/or a scream.

“Does this mean defeat?” She asked of Ernie.

“Absolutely.”

#intention headaches #writing #surreal #crime #street gangs #fiction #literary #hemingway #woolf #cyberpunk #gangs #a farewell to arms #the importance of being earnest

4 notes · View notes

theshapeshifter100 · 6 years ago

Text

Guess What? I’m Not a Robot RC Ch5

Word Count:2,394

Chapter Warnings:anxiety, tasers

Masterlist

12.03PM Wednesday 10th

It took longer, way longer than Megan was happier with, but they were finally ready to go.

Alex had whipped around the other supporters they had and a few had agreed to protest in Capitol Park. Lucas had his phone charged and had tried to download the app for the traffic cams, but had come up with an error.

“Cell phone’s just gone down, wifi and signal,” he groaned. “It won’t be long until we have no internet connection at all.”

Julia had come through there, having found a bunch of old hand held radios in her house. They had spent most of their time trying to find working batteries for them all. Finally, everyone had a working one, they all had working flashlights (also from Julia) and something to defend themselves with.

Alex and Julia’s households were anti gun, which was the first time either of them had cursed it. So instead rolling pins, kitchen knives and a single taser served as their weapons. Ivy, Oscar and Julia went without, trusting either their skills or their size to hold their own.

Megan was more than slightly horrified that she had the taser, but caved to the argument that she was the most vulnerable, and the most likely to be able to sneak up on someone.

They had all been decked out with peaked caps and beanies, and as many layers on their upper body as they could get away with. Megan’s skinny frame was padded out to over twice her size and Oscar looked like a giant. They didn’t have any bullet proof vests, so this would have to do.

Alex adjusted their extra padding and looked around. Their eyes flicked over to Allison, who stared back coldly. Alex and Julia had explained the breakdown, more or less, but Allison clearly hadn’t forgiven them yet.

“Alright,” Allison put herself in charge of the pep talk. “This is probably the most insane thing we’ve ever done, but we’ve got a convoy to interrupt and a bare minimum of two androids to save. We’re going to have to be clever, we’re going to have to be sneaky,” she then took a deep breath and looked around the rag tag group. “This might not work. This might fail horribly. We’re only human, but we’ve got to try.”

Oscar slowly put his hand up.

“What?” Allison asked.

“That wasn’t a good pep talk,” Oscar said what they were all thinking.

“At least I think we’re going to be successful!”

“Really?” Ivy asked. “I didn’t get that impression at all.”

Alex took a deep breath. “Let’s kick the army’s ass and rescue the androids!”

“That’s more like it!” Nathan crowed. “Let’s do it!”

3.23PM Wednesday 10th

All enthusiasm had died half an hour into the walk. The weather had improved, the sun was out and the wind dropped, but it was still somehow colder. Even worse the multiple layers were baking them at the same time.

The rolling pin and taser weighed heavily in Megan’s various pockets, and felt wholly inadequate. A rolling pin and a taser against fully armed and armoured soldiers. They were doomed.

Also, three hours, anything could have happened in three hours. Paul could already be-

No. Now’s not the time for worrying. Do now, worry later.

Alex walked over to Megan, bundled up in black like the rest of them.

“You okay?” they asked, and it took Megan a few seconds to answer.

“No.”

“Me neither,” Alex admitted. “Do,” they swallowed and lowered their voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “Do you really think we’ll find them? Paul and Ella?”

“Why are asking me?” Megan hissed.

“Because you’re in the same boat. What do you reckon?”

“I-I don’t know,” Megan admitted. “I want, I want to find them in one piece and save them, but I know it might not happen.”

Alex took a deep breath through their nose and nodded. “Yeah. We might not find them,” the words were awkward, like they didn’t know what they were saying. “But, we will. We have to.”

Megan stepped away and Alex drifted off to the others, who still hadn’t quite forgiven them. Alex had apologised, but had not explained what had caused their flip flop in priorities.

“Guys,” Oscar suddenly said, voice echoing along the empty road they were walking along. “We’re here.”

The group split up to cover opposite sides of the road and proceeded to move with more caution. They crested over a ridge and Megan felt her jaw drop.

A line of vans stretched for miles, all the way to near horizon, where the vague outline of what could only be the Recycling Centre stood. The vans were single file for now, but further down they seemed to go into two lines, only to merge into one line at the end.

Or at least, that’s what Lucas, the one with the binoculars, claimed.

“Can you see Paul’s truck? Over,” Megan asked over the radio.

“Paul’s in one of two trucks, and I can’t see licence plates with these binoculars. Over.”

“Anything else we need to know? Over,” Alex asked, as they were on Megan’s side.

“Looks like the military are patrolling the road edge further down. Seems like we have two options; circle around as much as we can and approach from behind, or go through the road. Over.”

“We’ll be spotted if go through the road,” Allison was quick to argue, but Julia jumped in before she could say ‘Over’.

“It looks like there are guard towers. We’ll be spotted either way. Over.”

“Why don’t we just take the truck?” Nathan asked. “I mean, they’re bulletproof right? This one’s right at the back of the queue, I can’t hear anymore coming. We take one truck and drive straight through the fence and take over from the inside. Over.”

“All of these ideas are insane. Over,” Allison groaned.

“Do you have any better ideas? Over,” Alex asked, and the responding sigh could be heard from Megan’s side of the road.

“How about we take a truck and go from there? Over,” Oscar suggested.

“You want to play this by ear? Over,” Ivy sounded incredulous. “We’ll get killed doing that!”

“We’ll have to play it by ear no matter what we do,” Julia argued. “We can’t predict everything. I agree with Oscar. Over.”

“Same, over,” Maggie agreed.

“Who else thinks we should go by Coubertin’s plan? Over,” Allison asked.

Megan, Nathan, Lucas all gave an affirmative and Alex jumped in.

“Good, now that’s decided, let’s bust this truck. Over.”

Allison tried to protest, but was ultimately drowned out.

“Megan, you’re the smallest,” Julia suggested, and Megan braced herself. “Can you get a look at the driver’s cab? Over.”

Megan felt nerves grip her. No, she couldn’t. She’ll get spotted, shot, ruin everything somehow. There was no way-

“Yeah, okay. Over,” the affirmative was out of her mouth without realising, and she couldn’t take it back.

“You sure?” Alex asked without the radios. “Lucas and I aren’t that much bigger.”

“It’s okay,” it wasn’t, but Megan didn’t want to waste any more time. “I’ll be quick.”

Megan dropped her backpack by Alex’s feet before pressed herself against the hedge. She prowled as best she could along the road. Her heart pounded in her throat, and once she got close enough to the truck she darted behind it.

She stood there for a few seconds, catching her breath and trying to calm her nerves. She couldn’t pick at her sleeves with gloves on and found herself fidgeting with her fingers instead.

Taking a deep breath she somewhat settled her nerves as best she could and crept around the side of the van at a crouch. Once at the driver’s window she carefully peeked up through the window.

A bored soldier sat on the passenger side, the driving put on automatic. The soldier had their helmet off and on the passenger seat next them while they read the news on their tablet, only occasionally glancing up through the windscreen.

Megan made her way back equally as nervously, and didn’t relax until she was on the other side of the hedge with her half of the AA and re-shouldering her backpack.

“One soldier,” she panted over the radio. “Not alert, passenger side. Over.”

“What do you mean by not alert? Over,” Allison asked.

“Helmet off, reading the news. Over.”

“Okay,” Alex took over. “Nervous Incarnate, you go and distract him by knocking on the driver’s side. Coubertin can open the passenger side and drag them out. Captain Hardass, you still have the duct tape? Over.”

“Yes, over.”

“You tape them up, get the keys, we get the androids out of the van and see what happens. Over.”

“And, we should just go along with that?” Allison asked snidely.

“Do you have any better ideas? Over.”

There was no response from Allison, and Oscar turned to Megan. “Shall we?”

Megan nodded quickly and crept back towards the van, taking the same path as before. Oscar took position on the other side of the van and after a minute or so, Julia appeared, wielding duct tape.

Megan crept back towards the door, and realised that everyone was waiting on her signal.

She raised her knuckles to the door and made to rap, but stopped. Why did she stop?

Her breathing was loud in her ears, her heart rate thundered and snakes were mating in her belly. Yeah, that was why.

She considered using the rolling pin, but balked at the last minute. It might attract other drivers.

The first time she lightly tapped on the door, and got angry at herself for such a light knock. Even with the quiet electric engine idling there was no way they heard that. She poured her anger into the next one, almost banging on the door.

Alarmed at how the violent the reaction might be she darted back to hide behind the van. She heard the door unlock, and then it all happened quickly.

The passenger door was flung open and there was a brief cry of alarm as Oscar grabbed them. Megan couldn’t bring herself to look, but the sounds of struggle didn’t fade.

She suddenly heard frantic footsteps heading her way and panicked, scrambling for her taser and rolling pin, one in each hand.

The solider appeared from around the side of the van, and Megan lashed out with her best baseball swing with the rolling pin. It bounced off the body armour and sent a judder of pain up Megan’s arm, but it got their attention.

Megan backed up against the truck doors as they turned to look at her, expression turning ugly. Somehow her hands felt slick and she had a hard time gripping the taser, even with gloves on.

The soldier reached for something, but Oscar came barrelling around the truck and tackled to them to the ground. He clapped a hand around the soldier’s mouth and cried at Megan.

“Tase him!”

Megan fumbled with the weapon in thick gloves and discharged it almost accidentally. By some miracle it hit home and the soldier shuddered under Oscar, volts of electricity coursing through them.

A garbled screech tried to get past Oscar’s hand, but they collapsed before it got too loud.

Julia appeared once they were down, and started helping Oscar tape them up. Julia threw Megan the keys, who caught them with shaking hands.

Never again, she never wanted to do that again!

Megan turned to open the van. Her hands shook so much she dropped the keys twice before she even got them in the lock.

It took another few tries but she got the doors open.

She had to pull them to open properly, and saw almost exactly the same thing as she did in the police parking lot. Androids, packed in like sardines. Not all of them in uniform, but all staring forward.

Megan stepped back and found her words sticking in her throat, so Julia came to rescue.

“Everybody out!” she called in a calm, not overly carrying way. It worked and the androids trooped out in rhythm. Once there was space Oscar threw the solider in the back, barely fazing the androids.

Julia went to address the androids again and Megan reached for her radio. Her hands were still trembling, but she felt more in control.

“Van secured. Captain Hardass is talking to the androids. Over.”

“Nicely done,” the smirk was clear in Ivy’s voice. “We’re on our way. Over.”

Megan turned her attention back to the androids and Julia. Some of them were jogging past her into the city, but a large chunk of them had remained.

Oscar leaned out of the back of the truck and frowned at the group of androids.

“Not to be rude, but why are they still here?” he asked Julia, but one of the androids answered.

“Because we want to be.”

A male android stepped forward, Asian and with a muscular build, he eyed the three of them warily as his LED spun yellow.

“Sorry, why would you want to hang around here?” Julia asked, “And for goodness sake get over here! What if the guy in front looks in their mirrors?”

The androids moved to stand behind the van, but the one who spoke still looked warily at the humans. They jumped about a foot in the air when the rest of Android Allies appeared over the crest.

“Easy,” Julia was quick to pacify. “They’re with us.”

The male android fixed her with a hard glare. “I don’t even trust you.”

“Aaand who’s this?” Allison asked. Alex glared at Allison before looking at the android.

“Sorry about her,” Alex interrupted, ignoring Allison’s glare. “What’s your name?”

“Callum,” the android responded. “None of the others are deviant, but they seem to follow me.”

“Good to meet you Callum,” Alex beamed. “We’re going to blow this joint, whaddya say?”

“That wasn’t the plan!” Allison hissed.

“The plan was to get a truck and play it by ear,” Alex responded. “We’re also looking for two androids, an AX400 called Ella and a red haired PL600 called Paul.”

Callum went into thought.

“Not seen them. I can send word out,” he offered.

“Please do,” Megan jumped in, trying not to let desperation lace her voice.

Callum’s LED spun yellow and he closed his eyes.

As I go through this I realise that Alex is the most like my usual protagonists. If I hadn't wanted a change in pace writing Megan's POV Alex would have been the main character. For those who are curious, Callum's model is in the game, he is an HR400, or a male Traci.

Other Options Flowchart

(Megan) Comment on the pep talk- Compliment Allison. Agree with Oscar (would affect relationship)

(Megan) Say you're okay. Say nothing. Shrug.

(Megan) Be unwaveringly optimistic. Be pessimistic.

(Megan) Decline going to check the truck. (Allison would do it instead)

(Megan) QTEs on the knock. Can do it loud the first time(Megan) QTEs for the rolling pin and the taser. If the rolling pin fails it's not so bad as the soldier would notice her anyway. If the taser fails the soldier would escape and punch Megan before Oscar could restrain them again and they could be dazed. If rolling pin hit and taser failed Megan would have a black eye for the rest of the game. If rolling pin didn't work the solider would attempt to restrain. Rolling pin fails but taser hits, nothing changes.

(Megan) QTEs for the keys, fairly complicated ones to not drop them

Tags @nightmarejim @septicart-appreciation

#Guess What? I'm Not a Robot #Guess What? I'm Not a Robot RC #Guess What? I'm Not a Robot RC Ch5 #Alternate route #Detroit: Become Human #Detroit Become Human #DBH #D:BH #Detroit Become Human OC #DBH OC #Detroit Become Human fanfic #DBH Fanfic #TheShapeshifter100 writes

1 note · View note

tomdeckard · 8 years ago

Text

-2880067194370816120. caution tape

elephant

manic motions on the prowl

hunt us down

the jar is loose with no lid

can’t think and i

feel the sadness of the ages like

grandstand tickets

to my modern paranoia

colorado longing

on hiatus

it’s a long fall coming

on a one way camping trip

can’t stop to

not be able to explain

how it’s coming all together

altogether, how it’s coming

and our hearts

and this rhythm ‘neath our feet

will make it real

every day is sunny

when you live above the clouds

#spilled ink #poetry #twcpoetry

3 notes · View notes

wayward-wheels-blog · 8 years ago

Text

I've Been Waiting for This Part

She’s My Rider - Chapter II

(I know this is a switch, but hell it’s been a year and writers find new ways at going about things so … this is all in third person. Too many personas to balance and I thought Gabriel’s part came out best in the original anyway. Sorry this took so long. I hope it was worth the wait.)

Word Count: 4401

Read Chapter I and Chapter III

THEN

To say the last year had been a pivotal one in the book of Winchester would be an understatement, but also somewhat disrespectful to everything that had come before it.

When Gabriel woke Baby up, Dean had just put an end to Death and the Darkness had been unleashed on the world. Looking back now, the brothers are almost certain, Gabriel didn’t expect any of them to survive another year. They’d spent countless hours on back highways discussing that night … the angel’s shifty movements and cryptic messages about keys and kingdoms.

It was Sam that suggested it first. “I think he thought we were all gonna die.”

“And what?” Dean glanced across the cab at him. “She was our parting gift?”

“He did always have a soft spot for you two,” Castiel said. When Dean cut his eyes at him the angel glanced back out the window. “Or so it seemed.”

“Or she was our last ditch effort,” Sam shrugged. “He said she had power.”

Dean’s eyes had flickered to Baby in the rear view mirror, oblivious to their conversation. He’d bought her an iPod and a set of headphones and the girl could disappear for hours into her music. She was staring out her own window, hair half-pulled back in a clip, looking perfectly normal.

And that was just the problem.

For all intents and purposes, aside from a head full of years and memories she looked too young for and a bloodhound’s nose for danger, Baby was a normal, human woman. If she got hit, she fell down. If she got cut, she bled. She’d never thrown any furniture across the room with her mind or scared a demon out of its stolen skin. Sometimes she knew things, like knowledge had simply been instilled in her upon creation, but it wasn’t anything to write home about.

The year rolled on. The Darkness became Amara who became God’s sister who turned out to be Chuck. Dean still couldn’t make himself call him God. It was both too big for the strange little man and too intimate at the same time.

Chuck had taken one look at Baby and said, “Oh! You’re here,” with a quirky grin. “I’ve been waiting for this part.”

Then the siblings of creation and destruction had disappeared leaving behind another Winchester in their wake and new questions to ask and, more importantly, a new normal to find.

NOW

Chicago, Illinois

It was after hours at the Field Museum and Bill Cunningham was making his first rounds of the night. He always swept the building of trash first before he went back the other direction with the cart loaded full of cleaning supplies to give the place a thorough scrub.

The janitor didn’t notice as he rolled his cart down the hallway, long oblivious to the obnoxious squeak of one of the wheels, that something moved inside one of the exhibits. He didn’t notice the strange smell that wafted in the air, a bi-product of too many chemicals stinging at his nose for years while he cleaned.

It was only when he walked past the exhibit of two lions prowling dangerously over a rock that he thought he saw something twitch. One of their tails, maybe. Bill turned and stared at the lions, but their dead coats lay dusty and still. He chuckled at his own foolishness and even waved the big cats away as he turned back to his cart.

Then a low, menacing growl stalled him in his tracks. The sound rolled over itself like a giant rattle in a deep, tumbling box. Bill Cunningham turned back to find one of the lions had stepped forward … right up to the fucking glass.

The lion met the janitor’s eyes and when he looked back, he saw a depth of evil that turned his blood to ice water in his veins. A fear like he’d never known swallowed him almost completely, numbing every nerve in his body so that only his eyes were wide in stark, ghastly terror. The lion’s lips drew back and it let loose an unearthly roar just before his brother leapt over his back and straight through the glass, cutting short Bill Cunningham’s screams with his massive jaws.

Blood splattered across the sign that hung to the right of the exhibit, engraved with four words in brass: The Tsavo Man-Eaters

Sam was frowning at the story of the janitor’s mysterious death in Chicago when he saw Baby appear in the kitchen doorway over the top of the laptop screen. She was wearing one of his t-shirts, which swallowed her like a baggy dress and the neck was so wide it hung off her shoulder. She’d stolen several of them to sleep in. The girl yawned and shuffled in her slippers towards the coffee pot.

Sam chuckled, wondering if she’d even noticed he was there. “Morning, B.”

“Morning Sammy,” she said groggily.

Dean was the only one who called her Baby anymore. Sam had been right, of course. A girl that looked like her in a public place with three grown men calling her “Baby” came off a little weird. The looks irritated Dean and made him want to punch people. Sam found them embarrassing. Cas was oblivious to the whole thing. So, they’d taken to calling her “B.”

Sam clicked to the next article, looking for something a little more concrete. Dean plodded into the kitchen and went straight for the coffee pot, too. He didn’t think twice anymore when Dean kissed the side of B’s head and they mumbled mornings to each other while they made their coffee. It was just understood that the bond Dean and Baby had was something sacred.

If Sam had been a betting man, he’d have been certain his brother would have tried to get her into bed by now. He was much more affectionate towards her than he’d ever seen Dean be towards anyone, but there was nothing selfish about the way he touched her either. He wasn’t looking for anything. He’d never tried to kiss her or even cop a feel that Sam had noticed, though he did stare at her sometimes. But then again, it wasn’t that normal covetous stare he turned on other women.

In the end, Sam had decided it was very simple. They loved each other. There was nothing complicated about it. He loved her, too. Even Castiel had come to see her as one of their own. Their mother was still a little weirded out by her, but Mary hadn’t been around much so it hadn’t been much of an issue.

When Dean and B made it to the table, Sam turned his laptop around. “Think I’ve got a case.”

Dean grunted.

She reached out to drag the laptop closer so she could read.

“You remember that movie, Ghost in the Darkness? About the lions that killed all those men?”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Dean motioned with his coffee cup. “Kirk Douglas played Remington.” He looked at Baby and did his best Douglas impression. “Everyone has a plan until they’ve been hit.”

She smirked.

Sam chuckled and kept going, “Right, well, it was actually based on a true story. Two lions really did kill all these people when the British government was trying to build a bridge through Tsavo. They eventually killed the lions and had them stuffed and they’ve been on display at-”

“The Field Museum in Chicago, Illinois,” B read from the laptop, finishing his sentence.

Dean was actually reading now. “Wow. They found the guy torn to pieces.”

“Hinky,” she muttered.

Sam lifted a finger. “Gets hinkier. The lions? The actual lions from the display?” He lifted his chin a bit for effect. “No one can find them.”

He watched Dean and Baby exchange a look and then his brother shrugged. “Okay. So let’s go lion hunting.”

—–

One twelve hour drive and three hours of sleep later, the 65 Mustang they’d taken to driving since Baby showed up pulled into the parking lot of the museum. Sam was continually surprised by the fact that Dean never lamented the absence of the Impala. The only time he ever brought the car up was to make note of how much better she handled than whatever else he was behind the wheel of.

They met a short, gray-haired man at the door, still taped off with caution tape, who introduced himself as Detective Schrader.

“I’m Agent Kristofferson,” Dean flashed his fake badge and motioned at Sam and Baby. “This is Nelson, and Joplin.”

Then, with a bright grin, “We hear you have a stray cat problem.”

The crime scene had been cleaned, and obvious construction had already been made to the metal frame in preparation of a new plate of glass for the display. The very empty display.

“So-” Sam frowned. “Let me get this straight. He was lying here, right?” He motioned at the floor and quirked his head down the corridor at the display case where Dean was bent down over one of the fake rocks and B was watching with her hands on her hips.

“What was left of him,” Detective Schrader said.

“Hm.” Sam muttered.

“What?” Schrader asked.

“Just … not really lion behavior,” Sam said. “They kill and they eat. They don’t play with their food.”

“You telling me you think this was actually done by lions?” Detective Schrader cast him a pitiful look, like he almost felt sorry for him.

Sam looked up curiously. “You don’t? The autopsy seemed pretty conclusive.”

“So did my last prostate exam,” Shrader huffed. “Still got cancer. Look, are we done here? I don’t really see what you expect to find around here, anyway. Like I said, you can read everything we found in the report.”

“Yeah,” Sam forced an irritated smile and slipped his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t fond of law enforcement that treated a person’s death like another day that ended in Y. “We’re done.”

Dean and Baby wandered over while Detective Schrader let himself out. Dean rubbed his fingers together, gave them a sniff and jumped his brows at Sam. “Sulfur.”

Sam looked confused. “Really? Demons?”

“That surprises you?” Baby asked.

“No. I mean …” Sam looked past them at the empty display. “Kind of. I was betting money on some kind of Hoodoo thing.”

“Why?” Dean asked, thumbing over his shoulder. “Cause Africa?” His brows lowered in sarcastic accusation. “That’s racist, Sam.”

Sam’s face dropped, annoyed. “No. Because it tends to be used to bring things back to life, Dean.”

“Uh huh.” Dean smirked. “Racial profiling then.”

“Whatever.” Sam rolled his eyes up then back to B. “Any of those spidey senses tingling?”

Baby frowned, her heels clicking against the floor as she circled around to the other side of Sam, staring at the spot where Bill Cunningham’s body had been found. “Not really,” she said. “But I think you’re right. This isn’t a normal demon thing.”

“Well.” Crowley’s voice lifted up behind them from out of nowhere. “You’re not wrong.”

Sam and Dean pivoted on their respective heels in an instant, the youngest Winchester tugging Baby behind him.

“Relax,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “I haven’t tried to kill you for months now.”

The brothers exchanged a look. Did he know about Baby? Had he seen her?

“Then what do you want?” Dean quipped.

The lapels of Crowley’s peacoat flashed outwards with a shrug of his hands from inside his pockets. “To be of humble service.”

“Right,” Dean said. “Cause you’re always so helpful.”

“Helped with Lucifer, didn’t I?”

“Yeah?” Dean chuffed. “Where were you when they tossed us in a hole and threw away the key?”

“Like I told Wings, I didn’t know where you were. Still working on getting a demon into the oval office,” Crowley sneered. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Fine,” Sam said. “Then why are you here?”

“To let you know you’re in way over your heads on this one,” Crowley said. “The Cwn Annwn? They’re Lucifer’s personal lapdogs.”

Dean arched an impatient brow. “The coonan-what?”

“Kun,” Crowley emphasized the phonetics. “An-wynn. It’s Welsh.”

“Okay fine, whatever,” Dean said. “Explain the coon hounds.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother.”

Dean growled Crowley’s name, signalling his loss of patience.

The demon king sighed like a long suffering, and very bored girlfriend. “Fine. The Cwn Annwn aren’t lions. They’re the original hounds of hell. The first breeding pair. The two that came for you?” Crowley quirked his brow at Dean. “Those were puppies in comparison.”

Real fear flashed across the eldest Winchester’s face in a single split second, but Crowley caught it and smiled. “These two were made specifically for hunters.”

When the boys exchanged another look that managed to hold an entire conversation, Crowley spotted a slender hand slip out from behind Moose’s hulking figure and catch the side of Dean’s jacket. He watched Dean’s head snap to the side like he’d suddenly remembered she was hiding there and shake his head at whoever was back there. He watched him grab the delicate hand curled around the army-green corduroy and push it back down in an attempt to conceal it.

It didn’t work.

“Well well,” Crowley mused, rounding out a step to try to get a look behind Moose. “Who’s this?”

Sam flexed his jaw at Crowley and side-stepped to obstruct his view. It only served to deepen the demon’s curiosity. Sam shut his eyes against the inward scolding he gave himself for his mistake and cursed under his breath.

It was futile anyway.

They couldn’t hide her from him forever.

Baby peeked out around Sam’s arm from between the two boys and Crowley’s eyes went wide … could he really be seeing what he thought he was seeing? The beautiful brunette stepped into full view, Sam stepping aside with a relenting sigh.

The Winchesters watched Crowley like hawks while his face went slack and his jaw dropped open. “Oh … my,” he shook his head in, what looked to Dean, like a certain flavor of awe. “I haven’t seen you in a very long time.”

“Wait-” Dean started, and Sam joined him when he said, “What?”

“You know her?”

Baby was staring at Crowley the way a little girl might stare at a massive gorilla at the zoo … with that look when it dawns on a kid that what they’re seeing is just a little too scary and yet, a little too much like them to be okay with it.

Crowley’s voice was almost reverent. “Of course I know her,” his eyes ticked up to meet Dean’s. “Do you?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed at Crowley like he was assessing which punch to throw to break the man’s nose. Then, after a few seconds, his entire body abruptly kicked into gear. “Alright, Sammy, let’s go.”

The boys split to move past him, Dean yanking Baby tightly into his side, trying to unsee the wonder in Crowley’s face when he watched her go by. He could practically feel the demon thinking about how he could use her.

“… Don’t you want to know about the lions?”

Dean dropped Baby’s hand in time to pivot back and charge like he meant to beat the ever loving shit out of the King of Hell, but somehow managed to reign himself in before he got within swinging distance. “Crowley, you have thirty seconds!”

The demon managed to pull his eyes away from Baby, a little too slowly for Dean’s liking and smirked. “Matilda of the Night,” he said. “She controls them. It’s her punishment.”

Worry clouded Sam’s features. “… Punishment for what?”

“Well,” Crowley shrugged. “The woman once said if there was no hunting in heaven she’d rather not go. That might have had something to do with it.”

“So she’s a hunter,” Sam said.

“One of the oldest,” Crowley said. “She was a viking once upon a time, and very nearly brought down Lucifer himself. He created the hellhounds to return the favor and when he finally caught her, he granted her wish. She would hunt with her hounds for all eternity … hunt people like you.”

The more he spoke, the colder the room seemed to get. It was Sam’s turn to reach for Baby and pull her back, swallowing a tight dread that had formed in the back of his throat. He wasn’t necessarily worried about himself or his brother, but she was still learning how to fight.

“They say she cries out in misery when she has to kill them,” Crowley added with a hint of whimsy. The demon king cast one last, lingering look at Baby. “I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you again, sweetheart.”

Then his form blinked out in a split-second you could never see with human eyes and he was gone.

Sam, Dean and Baby trotted quickly down the stairs of the museum and made for their car.

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” Sam looked across the hood at his brother who was opening the back door for B.

“About Matilda?” He slammed the back door and jerked open his. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he turned the engine to life. “I think I actually read about her in dad’s journal a while back. He called her the traitor.”

“From the sound of things, it wasn’t her fault what she turned into,” Baby said, slouching down in the back seat.

Dean caught her eyes in the rearview before he turned back onto the feeder road. “Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. If those things are Lucifer’s pups and she’s got the leash …”

“Yeah, but how do we find her?” Sam asked.

“Far as Luci’s concerned we’re the big bads,” Dean shifted gears a little harder than he needed to. “I’m betting she finds us.”

They didn’t stay in Chicago. “It was too damn crowded,” Dean said. And anyway, it was best to keep to back roads and small towns, especially now that half the government had it in for the boys. Instead, they shot down I-57 to a town called Champaign and stopped at a rundown Super 8 for 41 bucks a night.

An hour later, Sam was propped up on one of the beds with his legs stretched out and his laptop in his lap while Dean sparred with Baby in the space that the small kitchenette jutted out to provide. He glanced up just in time to see B duck a swing but miss Dean’s opposite fist when it came in at her ribs. His older brother had an uncanny ability to bring a punch mostly to a stop before it hit her too hard.

“Keep your fists up,” Sam offered. “Block him with your forearm.”

The girl lifted her fists, concentrating, determined to get better. Dean darted down to pat the back of her leg, “Weight on the ball of your foot,” before he came back up to throw the same combination without warning.

This time, Baby blocked the sucker punch.

“There ya go,” Dean nodded, bobbing out of the way of her next swing before smacking her upside the head. Not hard, but it got her attention. “Fists up.”

“Hey,” Sam said, sitting up. “Hey, I think I got something.”

“What?” Dean said, crossing the room to look over his brother’s shoulder.

“They moved quick,” Sam said. “An entire campsite just got wiped out next state over. I bet it’s on the news.”

Baby snatched the remote up off the end of the bed and flipped through the channels until she found a 24-hour news channel. They caught the tail end of a story about the President getting out of the hospital and exchanged nervous looks at the reminder.

Oh yeah. There was still that to deal with.

A few seconds later, the screen jumped to flashing lights in the darkness and a view of police walking through picnic tables in the background. One bent down and looked inside a body bag.

“Park Rangers have verified this was some kind of animal attack, but there’s still no official word on what kind of animal it may have been. What we do know now is there are multiple dead and, as of yet, there are no survivors. From Ft. Wayne, Indiana, I’m Sarah Smith.”

“Shit,” Dean turned from the TV and pushed a hand back through his hair.

“We need help,” Baby said. “Where’s Cas?”

“With mom on a werewolf hunt in Mississippi,” Dean huffed.

“We could use them both,” Sam said.

“No,” Dean said. “She needs to work some stuff out. Let her do it.”

Most people, even Sam, had assumed Dean took after John. He didn’t. He was much more like Mary on an emotional level.

“You realize that leaves Rowena and Crowley,” Sam said.

“Uh uh,” Dean shook his head sharply. “Nope. He’s not getting within a ten miles of Baby again.”

“Dean-”

Dean motioned at Baby, looking half pissed and half horrified. “He was looking at her like she was food. No, Sam!”

“Does Baby get a vote?”

The boys both looked at her, Sam with an open mind, Dean immediately irritated.

“Yes,” Sam said, at the same time Dean barked, “No!”

She lifted her hands to her hips and looked pointedly at Dean. “Call Rowena.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Not Crowley …”

“For now,” she said. The man had entirely creeped her out but she wasn’t about to tell either one of them that. “If she thinks we need him, then we need him.”

Dean stared at her for a beat, forced himself to take a deep breath, and admitted defeat. “Okay,” he rolled his eyes, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “But I’m not calling Crowley. You can bat your lashes at me all you want. No.”

“We need Fergus,” Rowena said, leaning back in her bar stool and casting a disgusted look over at a table full of rednecks laughing about their exploits. “Honestly, this was the best place you could find to rendezvous?”

“Yeah. Cause, whiskey,” Dean said, immediately downing the rest of his glass.

“Why,” Sam interrupted, “do we need Crowley?”

“Because,” Rowena’s brows lifted at him as if it were simple. “He’s the King of Hell. He’s the only one aside from Lucifer who can see to it that the hounds are locked back in their kennels. I can’t imagine how Lucifer woke them up in the first place, truth be told, given his state. It’s quite difficult to conjure that level of magic without a proper vessel.”

Dean pointed a finger at Baby the second her mouth opened. “No.”

“Dean, you’re being ridiculous,” she said.

“She’s right,” Sam shook his head at his brother. “We’ve gotta send these things back to hell and if there’s only one way to do it …”

Rowena sat back watching in utter amusement, with a smile that said she knew something they didn’t. Neither of them noticed. But Baby did.

“Fine,” Dean shrugged and sat back, locking his eyes on B’s. “Then you’re not coming.”

Her amber eyes flashed at him. Sam didn’t think he’d ever seen her look at Dean like that … let alone yell at him. “Like hell I’m not!”

“The stitches just came out of that shot to your shoulder last week!” He snapped back at her.

“Ya know what, Dean?” The legs of her chair scraped against the wooden floor, scooting away when she lept to her feet. “Maybe it’s time you remember that I’m the one who’s protected you for the last 39 years. Not the other way around.”

Baby turned on her heel and headed for the door, finally putting Dean on his feet. “I’m 38!”

The girl whipped back with clinched fists at her sides, “Fine! 38 years and nine months!”

The door slammed behind her, leaving several patrons staring at the Winchesters’ table curiously and looking at Dean sympathetically because they assumed he’d just had a fight with his girlfriend. Sam was staring at his big brother wondering if he had.

“Oh, I like her.” Rowena’s Scottish brogue crooned, eyes floating up at Dean. “She certainly knows how to put you in your place, doesn’t she.”

Sam shook his head, completely disappointed, and pushed to his feet. “That was great, Dean. Real classy.”

The guilt of yelling at Baby finally seemed to make its way through Dean’s features after Sam turned away, watching his brother head for the door to go calm her down. It occurred to him that if he were the one headed out there, he’d have no idea how to calm her down because he’d never seen her that angry. And that was his fault.

“Shit,” Dean muttered and dropped his ass back into his chair, reaching for Sam’s leftover whiskey.

Rowena was watching him with her chin propped atop her fingers. “Do you even know what the poor lass is?”

Dean shot a look at Rowena, warning her he wasn’t in the mood for games.

The woman simply stared at him. Like he was an idiot. “She’s the burning bush, Dean. The dove with the olive branch. She’s the very breath of God, himself.”

The glass was halfway to his lips but it stopped on route. “She’s … what does that even mean?” In the back of his mind he was scolding himself for humoring her, but .. she sounded like she knew what she was talking about.

“It means, dearie, that she’s as powerful as they come,” Rowena smiled that sweet, yet twisted little smile she had, put her palm against the table and pushed to her feet. “If she wants to be. That really all depends on you.”

Dean’s brows twitched trying to put that together and when he couldn’t, he looked back up at her. “So … what am I supposed to do?”

“That’s between you and her.” Rowena tipped her eyes up as if an answer had suddenly come to her from the ether before dropping them back to Dean with a wave of her hand. “Try sex. It worked for the pagans.”

Dean’s eyes widened and his face dropped blank, staring at her while his brain tried to catch up. It made Rowena toss her head back with her laugh. “Dean Winchester, proper scared … Now that was worth stepping out for.” The overly sensual witch turned and sauntered out the door, leaving Dean thinking about things he shouldn’t be.

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #bitchachos #deanwinchester #dean winchester fanfiction #impala #baby #she's my rider #sam winchester #dean winchester gif

2 notes · View notes