#she works at a hotel but can easily have a different job for this thread y'know

[touchbased]

"so, in conclusion, i am never going on a tinder date again." laughs softly as she leans her head back against the chair, well aware this isn't exactly appropriate work talk, but also not really caring. they've "how, uh," pauses to clear her throat, "how was your big date?" / @angeldcgs

[itsclydebitches]

@thewhitehairedwitchgirl​ many ramblings below feel free to ignore hard agree with everything you’ve said in that thread (I’m snagging a portion in a new post for brevity’s sake). I also think it’s worth acknowledging that of course Jacques needed a PR team to manage his own slavery. Not because that’s the only way to cover up any kind of abuse, but because he was running a slavery operation. As in, thousands of faunus workers mistreated across Remnant with major tragedies like the cave-in that killed Ilia’s parents to try and cover up. But one hotel owner? The Madame doesn’t need all that to hide her abuse. Hers is much smaller (in the sense of the number of people involved, not the emotional damage) and therefore much easier to keep out of the public eye. Jacques required PR damage control because of his status and the scale he was working on, not because every abuse case requires that level of power, funds, and manipulation.

As you point out, The Madame is legally Cinder’s mother. We as the audience know there’s no love there and that she pulled Cinder from a dubious hovel whose paperwork probably isn’t up to snuff, but on the surface they’re legally a Happy Family™. If we’re bringing Jacques into the mix, this is far more comparable to his public relationship with Weiss than it is his treatment of the faunus. And, just like Weiss, Cinder was conditioned to present an “Everything is totally fine!” front to the rest of the world.

Compare how Cinder looks in the hotel to when she first arrives. She’s clean, hair tied neatly back, wearing a spotless white uniform, and if you don’t know that the necklace is a shock collar (which, given that she’s only shocked in the privacy of the kitchen, no one does) you’d think that her mother gave her a very nice piece of jewelry to wear. It even matches her eyes! Aww, how sweet. She works, yes, but so do the two stepsisters (we see them carrying cakes and such out), so clearly these are sisters learning the family trade together, and if you’re only visiting infrequently - like, say, short-term at a hotel - you’d never notice that she’s doing the bulk of that work. Cinder smiles while delivering food to each door and when she trips Madame looks furious for a moment... but then very swiftly covers that anger up. Because she’s playing a part. She can’t afford to yell or shock Cinder here because people are watching. Out here, they’re a family. You know, just how out in public, Weiss is the perfect heir to a stern, but ultimately loving father. We likewise see her practicing smiling before she calls home. She knows how to work to keep things looking normal.

Despite the major issues with the episode as a whole, I think RWBY did a good job here of demonstrating how insidious abuse is; how easily you can hide it behind convenient excuses and a clean set of clothes. As a useful exercise, it’s worth going back through episodes and asking what do we as the audience know vs. what do other characters know? Because in Cinder’s flashback, I guarantee that what most other characters know, even Rhodes, is minuscule compared to our own knowledge that’s informing our outrage (shock torture sessions, soundtrack detailing her misery, obvious fact that Cinder is a villain and most likely didn’t have a happy childhood...) and the rest is just suspicion and speculation that people are going to have a hard time acting on. That’s one reason why abusers get away with it. When people see the Madame briefly get angry they don’t think, “She’s an abuser about to shock her daughter once they’re alone” they think, “She’s a frustrated mother who almost lost her temper over an accident that broke a ton of dishes, but then didn’t. Good for her.”

I agree wholeheartedly that Rhodes could have told someone, but I question whether that would have done any good in this world (I question if it might have made things worse) and, by extension, if his choice to go a different route that he thought would benefit Cinder (training her) is automatically irredeemable in the way most of the fandom has described. This isn’t a man who wrote an abused child off, this is a man who decided to help her in a way others don’t agree with... and those are two very separate things. Because yes, there’s this disconnect between how fans view the worldbuilding and I’ll always be on the detailed, practical side of, “What exactly do you want done?” Just saying he should have told someone sounds wonderful on the surface... until you require specifics and either someone can’t offer up an answer, or that answer is easily undercut by canon. Who’s he meant to tell? The CPS which doesn’t seem to exist? The police which, uh... has a whole host of other problems attached? The robots that got hacked and made out as symbols of oppression? (And that’s a whole other can of worms in the, “You shouldn’t have children fight” conversation.) Other huntsmen? Part of the shoddiness of the worldbuilding is not knowing what parties have what power and whether they’re trustworthy enough to send a child to. We have no idea if Rhodes or another huntsmen could have arrested the Madame with the evidence he’d gathered because Volume 7 treated Weiss’ arrest of her father as a joke, not a moment of clarification. We have no idea if someone official were to turn up, how easy it would be for the Madame to play everything off as just having a troublesome teenager. But given all those other details (how Cinder looks, how she’s been taught to smile, how careful the Madame is to do everything behind closed doors, the other girls being given ‘equal’ work, how common it is for kids to have weapons and how stealing a sword probably isn’t going to come across as a red flag in Remanent like it would here, etc.) I’d say it would probably be pretty damn easy. And, if we’re really going to treat this fantasy show ‘realistically,’ Rhodes had better be damn sure he can get Cinder out of there before he starts making accusations, otherwise she’ll be the one bearing the punishment for his actions. Like, that’s the entire point. It’s easy for abusers like the Madame to get away with their domestic abuse in a way it’s not easy for a billionaire to get away with large-scale slavery of an entire race. It’s so much harder to prove and as a result, it’s very likely that Rhodes telling the Yet Unestablished Safe Party Who Might Totally Save Cinder leads to him being banned from the hotel, Cinder shouldering the Madame’s fury, and now she’s out of any huntsmen training that could free her later. 

Which brings me back to Weiss because again, we’ve got another domestic abuse case right there. In the interest of fairness across characters, I have to wonder if we’re going to condemn Rhodes for not doing enough, what does that say about every character who has come into contact with Weiss across her life? She has an older sister who - shock, shock, surprise, surprise - in true Remnant fashion, chose to train Weiss in an effort to allow her to escape Jacques herself, rather than just sweeping her away to safety (and she seems to have forgotten Whitley entirely because he can’t be trained). There was an entire party where people watched Weiss get manhandled by her father and become upset enough that she instinctively summoned a grimm to defend herself. Based on the trailers people have listened to her sing songs about trying to regain her own autonomy and break free. Her friends (who, going back to the original conversation, are on the cusp of adulthood) at the very least have a strong suspicion about her home life... but no one does anything.

All of which I say not to drag those characters, but to point out that Rhodes, in turn, is not solely responsible for solving the deliberately secretive abuse of a stranger because even friends and family have been unable or unwilling to do anything. That’s not an excuse, just a really sad fact about the state of this broken system. Accusations require authority to follow up on, which RWBY hasn’t shown us exists in Remnant, let alone is established enough to be relied upon. We have no idea how much characters can actually do and, by extension, when they haven’t done enough. If Winter who has first-hand knowledge of her father’s abuse towards her, and her sister, and her brother, and her mother, and is a huntress, and in a really powerful position in the military, and has the ear of Atlas’ primary leader, and despite all that she still decides that the best course of action is to train Weiss in the dead of night so she can escape to Beacon and someday get out from under her father’s thumb on her own... I can’t personally fault Rhodes for doing the same? I mean, I could from that ‘realistic’ perspective, but not within RWBY’s canon. Like yeah, we as the audience in the real world are rightly going, “What the fuck you need to CALL someone and get that child OUT OF THERE” in the same way we’d hopefully go, “WHAT THE FUCK YOU CAN’T GIVE A 13 YEAR OLD A GIANT SCYTHE” but this is a fantasy story and I find it weird to continually judge characters by our real-life standards that, time and time again, RWBY says do not exist. If RWBY had told us that there was a Remnant 911 that Rhodes could have called to safely pry Cinder from the Madame’s hands then yeah, he’s the Fucking Worst for not doing that. But all RWBY has done is heavily imply that every problem is solved by giving kids weapons... which is what he did. Go figure.

[live-the-fangirl-life]

Stolen Stamps

Aelin Galathynius x Rowan Whitethorn - Stolen Passport Oneshot

“You took me on a trip just to break up with me so I stole your passport” - Prompt from @dailyau

I don't know where this came from, it just kinda happened, enjoy! Minor Chaolaena, Rowaelin endgame

Masterlist | Read on Ao3

Warnings: Language

2494 words

*******

The faint hum of the air condition filled the meticulously organized room in the back of the post office.

“Ms. Galathynius,” A deep, accented voice addressed her.

Her gaze on the tall bookshelf in the corner jerked back to the man sitting across from her behind his desk. His hands were crossed, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, exposing part of a tattoo that wrapped around his muscular arm. She tried not to watch as the muscles shifted as he leaned forward when he spoke to her.

“Can you please explain to me why you were trying to mail a very,” He paused, glancing at the messily-wrapped bundle on the center of his desk, “suspicious-looking package to the Adarlan embassy in Antica?”

Aelin opened her mouth to try to explain, but no words came out.

He raised a silver eyebrow and waited.

She sighed, “I swear, it’s not what it looks like.”

***

The cab ride to the airport was a blur. So was the flight, and the ride to her hotel. It wasn’t until Aelin locked the door of her hotel room and set down her bags, that the events of the day finally hit her.

Whether it was adrenaline or shock or relief, she couldn’t be sure. Aelin fell back onto the bed and rubbed her face, groaning. She thought back to that morning when everything had been fine.

Fine, not great, just fine. That’s how things always felt with Chaol, just fine.

Her brain was still working through what happened when she jolted up from the bed, eyes wide.

“Shit. What did I do?”

Aelin scrambled towards her purse and rummaged through it. She couldn’t find it; maybe she didn't take it. She turned the bag upside down over the bed and watched as her things fell out. She pushed aside her little paperback mystery novel, her lipstick, her boarding pass, she moved aside a wrinkled coupon and froze.

“Fuck.”

***

After wearing a track into the carpet with her pacing, Aelin decided to call Lysandra. It was going about as well as she expected.

“Lysandra, I did a bad thing.”

Aelin chewed her fingernail between her teeth, a bad habit she couldn’t kick when she was stressed, as she tried to tell her best friend what just happened. She was standing on the small balcony of her hotel hoping the fresh air would help clear her mind. So far, it wasn't doing a great job.

“Aelin,” Lysandra’s voice sounded amused through her phone, “This is you were talking about, you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

Rolling her eyes, Aelin ran a hand through her hair. “I did a petty, horrible, impulsive, really bad thing.”

There was a long pause as Lysandra seemed to realize how serious Aelin sounded.

“Okay. Now I’m getting worried.” Then a sharp gasp, “Was it illegal? Have you been arrested? Are you calling me from a foreign prison?”

“Lys—” Aelin tried cutting in, she wanted to stop the hysterics before her friend’s imagination got out of hand.

“When you told me you were going on a trip with Chaol I thought you’d be spending time on the beach, not using me as your one phone call from a dirty jail cell hundreds of miles away!”

“Lysandra!”

“And where’s Chaol? Is he there with you?”

“Lysandra, stop! I haven’t been arrested, I’m not in prison, I’m fine. Actually, I’m great.” Aelin closed her eyes and sighed, trying to scrounge up some guilt but failing. “Actually, it's because I’m feeling great that makes what I did so much worse, because I don’t really feel bad about it.”

“Don’t scare me like that.” Her friend's voice echoed in her ear. “If you’re fine, then tell me what happened and tell me why you’re calling me at,” she paused and groaned, “six in the morning.”

“Sorry,” Aelin winced, “I’m still on a different time frame.”

“Still? Where are you now? Are you not in Antica anymore?”

“Slow down, Lys.” Aelin loosed a breath and ran a hand through her hair, “I’m back in Terrasen.”

“What? When did you get back?” Lysandra sounded confused, and Aelin couldn't blame her, after all, she was supposed to be in Antica for four more days.

“Today. Less than an hour ago. I’m at a hotel, I just needed to clear my head.”

After a moment of silence, Lysandra asked again, “Where’s Chaol? Have you talked to him about whatever this is? Not that he’d help much “Lysandra muttered the last part, but Aelin still heard.

Here we go, Aelin thought, “No. We broke up.”

“What?” Lysandra was definitely awake now. “Really? Oh, honey, I’m sorry if you’re hurting, but good for you, I never really liked him.”

“Yeah, I know.” Aelin barked a wry laugh, “He dumped me, actually.”

“He dumped you?”

Aelin barked another laugh, getting angry as she told Lysandra the rest, “Get this, that bastard invited me on this trip specifically to break up with me”

“What the actual fuck?”

“Yeah, and honestly?” Aelin took a deep breath, feeling a mess of emotions as she explained. “I can’t blame him.” She amended herself quickly at Lysandra's sound of protest, “I don’t mean about taking me on a trip to do it, because that’s fucked up, but I mean the actual breaking up part. I knew it was going to happen sooner or later, it was more about who would pull the trigger first. Come on, Lys, you knew I was more excited to spend a week on the beach than to spend a week with him.”

Lysandra snorted, “Yeah, Ace, I knew that. I was hoping you realized that, too.”

“Well, I did. So, I left. I’m back in Terrasen, there was no way I was staying there with him any longer, that would’ve been too weird.”

Aelin could hear Lysandra’s coffee machine buzz to life through the phone and suddenly wished she had a cup of coffee. Once she figured this mess out, she’d go find a cafe.

“Right. Okay,” The brunette’s voice rang out, “let me get this straight, Chaol took you on a trip solely to break up with you, and now you’re back in Terrasen while he’s still on the Southern Continent. I’m still not seeing what exactly you did that’s making you freak out.”

At that, Aelin flopped back onto the bed and flung an arm over her face, groaning.

“I know breaking up with Chaol is for the best, Hellas, I feel relieved. But at that moment, I was so angry. I was furious that he’d take me on this trip instead of just doing it at home like a normal-fucking-person—I mean, who takes a break-up vacation? Anyways, when I was packing my things to leave, I, kinda, sorta, took something of his.”

“Aelin…what did you do?”

Aelin looked at the foot of the bed where the remains of her purse were strewn over the blanket. Her eyes caught on two matching little booklets with gold seals on them.

“I stole his passport.”

***

“Ms. Galathynius—”

“Aelin, please.” She cut off the silver-haired man behind the desk.

The only change in his stoic demeanor was a small twitch of his lips. “Aelin. Can you explain what exactly you’re trying to mail, that looks like that—”

‘That’ being the layers of spare newspaper she found tucked away in her hotel room haphazardly wrapped and tied with the thread from the complimentary sewing kit, also from her hotel room. She hadn’t been able to find any tape. Aelin thought if she brought it to the post office then she could re-package it with actual materials, but she’d chosen not to unwrap it before getting there. An obvious mistake.

“—to an official, protected, government Embassy?” His voice was stern and his green eyes steady.

This looked bad. Aelin could easily admit that this looked really bad.

She placed her hands on his desk and watched as his eyes tracked the movement. “I can explain. It's definitely not as bad as I’m sure you think it is.”

He remained silent, watching her expectantly.

She caught sight of the nameplate on the side of his desk. “Mr. Whitethorn—”

“Rowan, please.”

Did he sound amused?

Taking confidence from that, she sat up a little straighter and said, “Rowan,”

His mouth quirked a little higher as she said his name.

Clearing her throat, she started again, “Rowan, you can open the package, I assure you it's nothing bad. It’s just a passport.”

One of his eyebrows rose skeptically, “A passport?” He asked doubtfully.

“Yes, a passport. That’s why I was trying to send it to the embassy. It belongs to my b—ex.” She stumbled over the last word, still unused to Chaol’s new title.

He—Rowan—looked even more intrigued.

“You’re mailing your ex their passport, but decided to wrap it in the most suspicious, threatening way possible?”

Aelin winced. “I didn’t have many options.” She chuckled, remembering trying to tie the string together in the hotel bathroom’s fluorescent lights. “I thought I could fix it once I got here, but I didn’t even have a chance to ask for materials before being escorted in here.” She waved a hand vaguely and looked around his office.

Rowan was fully smirking now. He leaned back in his chair and watched her for a long moment. “It is my job to confiscate suspect packages. Especially when those packages are being sent to, say, a government building.”

Leaning forward slightly she smiled and told him, “Well, you seem to be very good at your job.”

Gods, was she flirting? She and Chaol literally just broke up. But she couldn’t deny she was attracted to Rowan. Not with the way his pine-green eyes lit up with amusement or the way the muscles in his arms flexed when he shifted in his chair. Not to mention that tattoo; she was a sucker for tattoos—and she’d never told him this, but it always disappointed Aelin that Chaol never even considered getting any ink.

Good gods, she was flirting. And not very well.

Still smirking, Rowan leaned forward and asked, “Care to tell me why you’re sending your ex their passport?”

Was it her imagination or did he say ‘ex’ like it was the most interesting word in his question.

She couldn't stop the small smile twisting her lips. “I don't see how the ‘why’ of it is any of your business.”

Rowan surveyed her and Aelin tried not to blush under his gaze. She couldn't stop herself from comparing him to Chaol, he never made her feel this flustered with just a stare. Rowan's eyes tracked her face, tracked the way her cheeks heated, and she tried with all her might to fight the blush.

She wasn’t a teenager with a crush, she was a woman who knew how good she looked and was very attracted to the man whose eyes had not stopped roaming over her. She fought down the blush and flipped her hair over her shoulder, smiling charmingly at him.

He seemed to like it and his grin widened before putting on a faux stern face.

“I try to be as thorough as possible, Aelin,” Gods, the way he said her name made her toes curl. “It would make things easier if you explained why. I could finish my paperwork quicker, get this thing sent off, and we’d both be free of this passport and your ex.”

Wow, he wasn't beating around the bush. She liked it.

He sent her a slow grin, “I’d be able to take my break at nine, and go for a cup of coffee.”

The way he said the last part left no room for guessing what he meant. He wanted to take her out for coffee.

A small part of her hesitated, she had just broken up with Chaol. But on the other hand, he took her on a fucking breakup vacation, so screw him and she could do whatever the hell she wanted. And she wanted Rowan. She wanted to go get coffee with Rowan.

So she smiled, winked at him, and said, “I’m mailing it back to him because I stole it from him.”

Rowan’s smile faltered and he blinked.

“You what?”

“I stole it from him.”

He stared at her another moment before a chuckle escaped his lips and he was shaking his head but smirking.

“You stole his passport.” He sounded very amused as he wrote a note down, most likely for the report he’d have to file.

“Yup,” Aelin’s grin turned feline, “He took me on vacation to break up with me, so I stole his passport and left him there.”

Rowan stopped writing and looked at her with raised eyebrows, “He’s still there? You have his passport, and now he’s stuck,” Rowan glanced at his notes, “in Antica?”

Aelin laughed; a loud, cheerful, sound that filled the office and pulled a small grin onto Rowan’s lips.

“Okay, I’m sure you think I’m a bit crazy,” Her grin didn't falter, “but it was impulsive and as soon as I realized what I actually did, you know, kinda leaving him stranded there, I tried to send it back to him. I couldn't remember what the hotel was, so I figured the embassy would be a good choice given it's a passport, and he is from Adarlan.”

“He’s from Adarlan, you’re not?” Rowan asked.

Aelin smirked, “That’s what you got from what I said?”

He matched her smirk, “That's what I want to know.”

“No,” Aelin shook her head and glanced out the window in his office, “I’m from here, Terrasen is in my blood.”

It seemed like that was the answer Rowan was looking for. He smiled, wrote down a final note, and looked back at her.

“I think that’s all I need right now, Aelin,” Again, the way he said her name sent butterflies flitting around her stomach.

He stood up and she did the same, pulling her purse back over her shoulder. He walked around his desk and opened the door for her.

“Aelin,” Rowan’s voice made her pause as she stood in the open doorway.

“Yes, Rowan?” she looked up at him expectantly with a small smile.

“I take my break in half an hour, there's a coffee shop just down the block, if you want to hang around or come back then, I'd like to take you out for coffee.”

Aelin smiled brightly at him and nodded, “I’d like that. I’ll come back in half an hour.”

He grinned and held her gaze another moment before she turned to leave.

“Oh, and Rowan?” She turned back to look at him but saw he already—or still—had his eyes on her.

“Yeah?”

“You don't have to use express shipping on that, it's fine if it takes a couple days.”

The sound of Rowan’s deep laughter followed her through the doors.

*****

Taglist:

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[axlsangel]

A Favor

Axl Rose x Reader

Concept: You work as Axl’s PA during the Use Your Illusion Era, but to Axl, you could be of more use.

Warning: 3,000 Words of S M U T

(*ovaries have left chat*)

You watch as the supermodel twirls her hair, tilting her head almost enough to snap her neck as she listens to Axl. It didn’t take a genius to recognize that she wasn’t much into his rambling as she was into making him believe she cared, but you had no room to speak. Instead, you were busy sorting out Axl’s suitcase for him before you all headed onto a plane back to North America for the next leg of the tour.

Needless to say, your arms were beginning to hurt from having to fold so many clothes since Axl had a habit of crumpling them and squeezing them together to make it all fit inside. Now and then, you snickered at the graphics, or just some of the outfit choices in general, like a shirt that read ‘Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian’. You even blushed as you came across a personal favorite, his Marlboro t-shirt he’d worn during their concert in Indiana. You examined the fabric for a moment, recalling how he had paired it with a light pink bandana, thinking him to be utterly gorgeous throughout the show where he’d offered compassion to his fans and nailed every note with ease.

“Should I wear that one for our next show?” Axl’s voice erupted you from your thoughts, urging you to look up. By now, Stephanie had left the room, plausibly to catch her flight back to New York, where she was staying.

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, looking through some of his options. “This black fishnet can work wonders.”

Axl snorted, giving you a playful eye roll as he sat back down on the hotel sofa. You can tell he was instantly sucked back into his thoughts just by the way he appeared— the familiar hunch of his shoulders, his pursed lips, and the way his knee began to bob relentlessly.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Boss?” You murmured, sensing his tension pivoting around the room. You’d been warned many times before taking up the job that Axl was hard to deal with, not only as a friend, but just his mere presence could be tiring. Though you continue to stick beside him, mainly because you fear him having to deal with losing another person in his life.

Axl looks up at you, scrutinizing you in a way that felt unfamiliar. The chartreuse in his eyes had darkened, a mysterious grey seeming to swivel around his dilated pupils.

“Do you think she loves me?” He asks abruptly, his voice lacking of any tone you could decipher as a specific emotion.

“Stephanie?” You think for a moment, regarding whether it’d be wrongful to tell him of your exact thoughts. But Axl was never not honest with you, and he deserved the same respect in return. “Frankly, I-I don’t...”

Axl nods, but he remains peering at you.

“C’mere, Y/N,” he orders, but you remain stagnant. If you came any closer, you would be hovering over him, perhaps too close to his lap, especially in a place as intimate as the couch where borders could easily be broken.

“Axl, I—”

“Just c’mere,” he says, this time in a sharper manner, and you reluctantly oblige, stepping forward. Right before him, looking down at him, you can catch the aroma of nicotine and a hint of cologne emanating off of him. You thought of all the times you were able to recognize his scent, even in a subtle moments such as when he walked past you to get to the stage or to his dressing room. But now, you two were this close, and all you wanted was to feel closer to him. He was a mystery you wished to unravel, to lose yourself in the twists and turns that make up his complex persona. But he was somebody else’s.

“Can you do me a favor, dear?” He cocks his head at you, and you almost fall breathless as you discern the look in his eyes to be of lust.

“Anything,” you exhale, almost too quickly and confidently for your own liking, but he only smirks in approval.

“Kneel down right there, on the floor.”

You frown as you look at the spaces on the couch beside him, though after working for him for a good extent of time, you’ve acquired a fair idea of how picky and demanding he could be. Therefore, you knelt down just as he’d asked, looking up at him sheepishly. You watch as his fingers graze across his own belt, beginning to undo it as you recognize your own look of desire lingering in the reflections on his rings.

“Slide this off for me,” he tells you as he pushes his pants down to his thighs, and you quickly pull them down further, tossing them aside. Looking up at him, you can already see the bulge almost bigger than the height of your face. “Again,” he continues, this time with his briefs, prompting you to pull them down, stopping as you watch his cock spring free from the garment. You can hardly tear your gaze off of it, feeling almost intimidated seeing him in a position like that right before you. His legs spread slightly, his cock almost to his stomach, white droplets of precum already beading off the reddened tip. And of course, the way he looked at you, as though a treasure placed right before him.

It was unfaithful of him, and of you regarding that you were just his assistant. But your pussy was already beginning to throb in your underwear as you never longed for a more desirable sight.

“Suck me off, Y/N,” he gives his next demand.

You lean closer, resting your hands on his knees, taking a moment to register the abrupt turn of events as you look up at him. “Are y-you sure?”

“Of course, I need this, I need you to do this...” His hand reaches to caress your cheek, and you almost lose yourself in the reassuring smile he gives you, a flash of sweetness in a moment of sensuality.

Without wasting another second, you salivate your mouth, gliding your tongue from the base to the tip of his long cock. Instantly, he relaxes into the back of the couch, inspecting you as you get a feel for him. Your tongue travels every vein before you wrap your lips around the head, looking up at him as you swirl your tongue around it.

“Fuck...” he exhales, and his voice is already rasped and deepened with an appetite, one of which you devote yourself to salvaging. His fingers thread through your hair as you bring your lips down further, hollowing your cheeks to allow room for his girth to push through. His hips rise from the cushion, descending and ascending again and again as he pushes your head down further. You don’t realize how far you’ve taken him until you feel his cock hitting the back of your throat. His hand had moved down to your neck, his thumb brushing along your chin in a slow and lazy manner as he released a deep moan.

You bobbed your head, caressing his balls in a more conscious manner regarding the tenderness there, though keeping your actions around his cock swift and sensual.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice laced with seduction as you come back up, allowing the saliva that was starting to choke you spill out over his cock. He smirked as he smeared your own drool over your cheek with his thumb, slapping your face lightly before pushing you back down on his cock. You gag around him, though he continues to hold you there, bucking his hips over and over and fucking your mouth ruthlessly.

He brings you back up, giving you a moment to cough and gather back your strength. He pulls his shirt off, tossing it aside before his hands fall to his sides as he sinks back further into the couch. “Take your clothes off.”

You don’t hesitate, instantly denuding before him. As you unclasp your bra, you look up at him, eyeing the lustful anticipation in his eyes and allowing the bra to fall, your nipples hardening with the brisk flush of the air conditioner hitting them.

“Come up here, beauty,” he murmurs, even though you haven’t taken your thong off. You climb onto his lap, looking at him shyly as he wraps an arm around your waist, his other hand stroking your breasts tenderly. A lilting mewl escapes your lips as you lean back a bit, allowing him to almost cradle you as his fingers flick against the sensitive flesh. You shiver as you watch him lean closer, his tongue circling one of your areoles before flattening against your nipple.

“Axl,” you whisper, closing your eyes as you relax into the feeling, growing even more wet as he begins to nip and suck at different m places along your breasts, leaving reddened splotches that you were certain would progress into hickeys in only a matter of time. Your hand reaches to wrap around his cock, lazily stroking his erection as his lips travel your body.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he mumbles against you. You open your eyes as he rests you down on the cushion, watching him adjust himself between your legs, feeling almost too seen in such a vulnerable position. Though the way he adorns your body with soft hands and agile lips, you feel desired for the first time in the longest while.

His index fingers hook along the remaining skimpy fabric between you and him, and you lift your hips, allowing him to pull them down to your knees. You blush as he leans down, so close to your pussy that he could inhale the arousal riveting off of you.

“Such a pretty little pussy,” he comments, pressing a kiss to your clit, his eyes meeting yours. “S’all mine tonight...”

“A-Are you going to fuck me?” You inquire shyly, feeling your juices glazing your inner thighs, needing him more than ever.

“I’m gonna take my time with you,” he says, giving you a cute wink as he kisses along your pussy again. You witness your own wetness glistening off his lips, leaning your head back and sighing with a mix of contentment and desire. You wouldn’t mind Axl making love to you all night, especially if it was all you could have him for.

He takes his time rubbing his lips against your pussy, his fingers now and then dragging across your folds, spreading your wetness. He minds it as though a cat playing with a mouse, getting a feel for which places brought goosebumps to your skin whenever he touched them, and simply just admiring seeing something so perfect before him. You instinctively spread your legs further as you feel his sharp tongue flick against your clit, sliding beneath it and running down your folds with as much dexterity as his own finger could do.

“A-Axl,” you whimper as you feel yourself throbbing for him, needing him to move quicker or you’d just combust.

“Patience,” he hisses, looking up at you hastily before reverting his attention back to his little game. You sit up to grasp a better view of him, lacing your fingers into his hair and propping your leg on his shoulder. He leaves kisses along your inner thighs before spreading your folds again, his tongue flicking harshly against your opening, lapping up the juices dripping out of you. “So fuckin’ wet for me...”

“Shit!” You moan loudly as he shoves the tip of his tongue inside of you without hesitation, drawing back before doing it again, his teeth grazing over your folds as he pushes his tongue deeper and deeper.

You couldn’t begin to decipher if he treated Stephanie this good, if he even cared to eat her out with as much passion as he was with you, thrusting his tongue in and out and slobbering over your tight pussy. And it wasn’t as though you cared either. If he needed you, then it was enough to show that she couldn’t even begin to chip away at the layers of satisfaction he vied for.

You let him know how good he was making you feel, gripping his hair a bit tighter and letting out pornographic moans, ones of which so passionate and raw that he almost lost himself in how perfect you sounded.

“You taste so good, darlin’,” he murmurs, sending vibrations right up your pussy. You shudder as you scoot up to the arm of the couch, pulling him back up to you, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your lips against his own, kissing him with all the desire pent up inside of you since the moment you first ever saw him.

He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you back onto his lap as his tongue rolls around your own, allowing you to taste your own sweetness.

“P-Please, I need you inside of me,” you whisper rashly as you pull away, rubbing yourself against his length, your folds spreading along him as you sway your hips.

“Such a needy little thing...” He smirks as his hands hold either side of your waist, his rings grazing into your skin as he lifts you, bringing you carefully back down on his cock. A mix of pain and pleasure courses through you as you feel your walls tearing to make room for his girth.

“Fuck,” you gasp as he brings you down all the way, his cock buried inside of you now. You rest your hands on his shoulders, taking a moment to gather yourself as he trails kisses along your jaw and neck.

“My pretty little gal,” he whispers, fondly snaking his arms around your waist, holding you against his chest as you subtly circle your hips.

“I-I’m not yours,” you reply, your voice just above a whisper as you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck. “She is.” You can feel him tense up, though he doesn’t loosen the embrace he holds you in.

“I’m gonna figure this out,” he reassures, his nose brushing against your cheek as you speaks to you closely, every word right in your ear as they belong to you only.

You lift your hips, beginning to ride him as your thighs straddled either side of his waist. He adjusts again, holding you close with one arm as he rested a hand on the cushion, making it easier for him to maintain balance as he bucked his hips up into your tight hole. You moved with him, rolling your hips into his, circling them, lifting them, dropping them— doing anything to continue expelling the deep grouses and moans from his lips.

He sounded so perfect; like everything you’ve ever wanted.

You yelp as you feel his thrusts getting sharper and stronger, eventually being shoved back against the cushions as he clambers on top of you. Your legs spread further for him, and you could care less for the pain in your inner thighs as he hammered himself into you.

In a moment like this, you’re able to get a better look at him. You watch as sweat glistens off his chest and abs, his hair darkening with the perspiration that’d soaked it, and his eyes hooded with carnality. You feel yourself getting closer, wishing to hang onto the moment. His hands move from your hips and up into his own hair, stilling himself and allowing you to writhe yourself against him, slowly enough to examine the way his big cock disappeared into your pussy.

Axl smirked as he looked down at you, adoring you and your actions. “Take your time, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m getting close, too.”

You blush as you pull away completely, seeing his tip already bubbling with his cum, letting him enter you again, almost instinctively recognizing the warmth inside of you to be of his own essence.

“Axl...” you whimper, feeling closer as he twitches inside of you.

“Cum around me, baby,” he tells you, his final order as he lowers himself on top of you, kissing your lips hungrily.

And you don’t hesitate, instantly feeling warmth contriving in your lower stomach, your pussy throbbing harder than ever as your walls close in on him. It doesn’t take long before you feel his own cum spilling into you, his body weakly collapsing on top of you.

You two remain there for another hour or so, your legs wrapped around his waist, his cheek pressed against your chest as he listens to your heartbeat. You’ve never been in such an intimate moment, and never did you anticipate having him even wish to stay clinging to you after all that’d just gone down.

“Was it love, or was it just sex, Axl?” You whisper, your fingers brushing through his strawberry hair. He smiles against your chest, perhaps because your heartbeat has quickened significantly, or was he just that infatuated?

“It was everything to me, love.”

“And what about her?” You frown as you remember Stephanie, feeling a bit of shame broiling in your stomach.

“She doesn’t matter, Y/N,” Axl tells you, looking up at you. “She can’t matter compared to you.”

“But you’re with her—”

“I’m gonna end it,” he interrupts hastily. “I don’t want to miss feeling like I matter because I chose to spend time with someone who could care less about me.”

You sigh as you look at him, your thumb brushing against the height of his cheekbone. “You do matter.”

He smiles as he rises up, kissing your lips softly. “And thanks to you, it’s not some facade. It’s a reality.”

[worldburnrp]

“It was a maddening image —

Little by little, the rooftop space filled up with guests. It’s impossible for a rum-sponsored party not to turn lively; and certainly, it has. While some are happy with their drinks and stay in the venue, drinking and dancing their spirits away — others choose to venture out, either returning to their rooms or getting lost in the maze that are the corridors of The Mark hotel.

In either case, the night is light and young, and there’s not a worry in their minds.

Little do they know however, that in the shadows, the Syndicate awaits.

— and the only way to whip it was to hang on until dusk —

Although the night had been planned to exhaustion, it’d been all but a coincidence that the operation had fallen on the same date as the party launch. It’s a blessing, at the same time that it’s a curse; more people circulating the area isn’t ideal — but a sea of potential issues isn’t so much so, if they’re impaired to begin with.

130 million dollars, gone up in flames. But they ought to make their money back, somehow.

So here the Syndicate hides, and at around 10:30, they strike. Swift and professional as ever, they go completely unnoticed — and they will take all that they can.

A highly effective heist, right under their noses. Those 130 million earned back in just a night.

No wild cards, no action that isn’t necessary, were the instructions given. Money, jewelry, art, anything of true value — that’s what they’re after. Designed as a victimless crime as far as bloodshed goes, the Syndicate still accounts for all. No issue, lest you get in their way.

— and banish the ghosts with rum.”

Unfortunately however, some unlucky few have. As instructed, should anyone be a concern, be it that they’re found in their rooms or other areas in the midst of the operation — they should be neutralized, by whatever means necessary. All with still keeping their anonymity, and succeeding at their tasks.

The pairs that have crossed paths are:

Ludovica Malatesta and Rus Ralston

Nora Vidal and Lee Malkovich

Zafar and Mathias Cain

Vir Zafar and Ibrahim Ziani

Abel Rousseau and Nik Erykssen

Oliver Wright and Jin Yoo

Tima El-Masri and Audra Smythe-Priestley

Avi Grover and Samar Burman

Max Szczesny and Enzo Principe

Karolina Erykssen and Samar Burman

OOC Info:

Part Two out of Three.

Part two will run for a few days, to allow for everyone to comfortably write their interactions in time; an update will be made both on the blog and discord for subsequent parts.  

There is no requirement that people drop previous event threads set during Part 1 — but we encourage everyone to prioritize Part 2. This can be either through new fresh threads, or shifting your Part 1 thread into Part 2.

For characters not involved in the conflict, there are no restrictions to replying to starters (or continuing things) from Part 1, unless they were posted by someone, or are written with someone involved in the conflict. In that case, those starters may no longer be replied to. You’re also free to start any new things with other non-conflict characters as you wish.

If you wish to have any injuries (be them major or minor) or heavy impacting plots happen involving your character, please contact the admins so we can include it into the narrative.

Those in the conflict are encouraged to come up with scenarios where, mid-robbery, one would have the other held hostage. Be it at a hotel room, in some hidden office, or anywhere that is far from view and where there would be plenty to steal. They’re on a mission, after all. As always, if you have trouble coming up with ideas, the admins are always willing to help.

At the end of this post, we offer challenges to the guests. However, those are simply suggested interactions — and even if you choose to write it, your character is not limited to just writing those.

SYNDICATE CHARACTERS:

[ ALL SYNDICATE MEMBERS ARE WEARING NEUTRAL BLACK CLOTHING AND MASKS. IF THEIR CLOTHES WEREN’T NEUTRAL AT THE PARTY, THEN AT THIS POINT THEY WOULD HAVE CHANGED. NOTHING ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE (THAT THEY CAN CONTROL) SHOULD BE RECOGNIZABLE. EVEN IF ENCOUNTERING SOMEONE THEY HAVE MET BEFORE, THEY ARE TOLD TO KEEP THEIR IDENTITIES SECRET TO THE BEST OF THEIR ABILITIES. ]

For Syndicate members especially, Part 2 should be prioritized so that plots can flow easily.

If you have Part 1 threads, we won’t ask that you drop them, but that you work your way into finishing them — with your characters, above all, keeping in mind that they have a job to do. It might be a night of fun for everyone else, but not them.

From now on, you can only interact with other Syndicate members, or the character you were paired with.

You can write as many mid-robbery threads with your fellow Syndicate members as your heart desires. Interactions amongst them are allowed, and absolutely encouraged!

As far as the rest of the party goes, you may only interact with the character yours was paired with, as one is the other’s hostage.

Your character should be focused in the robbery itself and collecting valuable goods. Anyone they’ve encountered is damage control.

Important: this is meant to be an incredibly secretive and smooth operation. Get in, get out, without causing disturbance. The main party should not have any inkling or knowledge that this is happening.

POINTS AND CHALLENGES:

Syndicate members and conflict volunteers will each earn 20 points for writing their paired threads. (It doesn’t matter if one character ‘wrote’ the starter; both members will be awarded points.)

All remaining characters will earn 20 points for completing the challenges prompted below. They are not mandatory, but we will reward you if you choose to go forth with them.

The points above will be awarded at the end of the event, to account for any starters going unanswered or quickly dropped, as we wish to be as fair as possible.

Surprise! We’re also rewarding conflict volunteers with 30 points for being wonderful team players and allowing us to use their characters for this plot. We adore you and appreciate you, so here’s a small gesture to reflect that!

CHALLENGES:

Jennifer Callaghan recognizes Izaak Walker from his internet presence, and attempts to strike an interview, or even a comment. Izaak knows it’s unadvisable to go forth with it, given all the rum ingested tonight.

Andrea Galán has been avoiding Aaron Keaton, until they cross paths. There’s an inkling or knowledge of her involvement with crime, and tensions rise.

Gideon Hayes is spotted by an off duty Joaquim Borges whilst trying to deal — be it to a random guest, or worst yet, the very detective himself.

Danvir Persaud thinks he recognizes Laith Hassan, from briefly crossing paths in the law-and-lawful world. There’s no reason for a sketch artist and a lawyer to engage however, until now — that they’re both trying to get a vending machine to work.

Renata Cervantes-Müller and Úrsula Villa are both powerful women in their own right — except that they share far different ideals, and defend different people. It’s been easy to avoid one another thus far, until the elevator doors fail, locking them in.

A dentist and the state’s most prominent politician walk into a... bathroom. It’s a classic, slightly awkward, run-in. Except this time, it involves Nicholas Bergeron — and Julian Berkeley.

Jakob Cervantes-Müller is a busy man, and the things keeping him busy aren’t the kindest. For prevention (and future endeavors), he needs a lawyer — and he’s heard Adam Starke is one of the best. What a coincidence, that their drinks just got mixed up at the bar.

Constance Romero, the Cartel’s informant manager, is always on the lookout for future contacts. Like some other select people, she’d heard of Lev Movska’s defection from The Brotherhood — and hell if she isn’t going to try and get all of that knowledge into archive for them. The enemy of my enemy, as they say.

With too much rum in their system, Lola Villarin and Diego Romero end up wandering — testing every other room for unlocked doors. Eventually, they make it into a suite; it’s all fun and games, until the lock won’t allow them back out.

Hazel Arthur and Ryan Fitzgerald barely look at each other, when touching up their make-up in the lobby’s bathroom. But they have to acknowledge each other’s presence when they realize they’re locked in — and Hazel hasn’t heard back from her partner in far too long.

They’d both had the same idea — the hotel’s fire escape as the perfect spot for a smoke break. Hans Starke and Zuleika Sandoval are now forced to share the space (that both claim to have found first).

Bob Bekker and Aera Paek, different positions at different publications. One man with success in his horizon, and a woman who can grant anyone it. It’s a throw-away conversation until the words fact checker come to rise. The best paper, after all, is the most accurate one — would this man do her the favor of failing, in exchange for a brighter future?

Araceli Aguilar suddenly stops Heather Hyeon Seo in the middle of the lobby, with an unwarranted prediction of her future. Even if Heather doesn’t believe in it, it’s intriguing enough that she must hear more.

Rahi Kumar is well known for his love of the sky, preferring to gaze upwards towards the heavens; it is this exact preference, that sends him careening into Andel Kenza, who scurries away from a main party room, clutching what appears to be an empty bottle of rum, a strange substance congealed on its base. The pair stare at another another - a stalemate. 

Erin Katz was never a woman to wait for opportunity to simply knock on her door - she prefers to kick it in herself, a stiletto crashing through wooden panels. JJ Baptiste is a man who can make or break you in this city, and with the intriguing wallet she’s just found on the floor, she thinks she’s got enough leverage to earn his ear as he lords over a table in the back of the bar.

Moon Subin is currently scouting the media world, looking for new voices to either support his agenda in the press — or to simply gain insight. It’s unclear which Maureen Keaton could be, yet... but it’s worth a try.

FINAL NOTES

1 — If by any chance your pairing partner, or your challenge partner doesn’t get back to you — please contact the main page and we will rearrange things so that you may still write it! No one will be left without some event fun, we promise.

2 — If you’ve missed the window to volunteer your character for conflict, or you have joined recently and didn’t know about it, you can shoot the main page a message and we will do our very best to include you into the action. Only main page messages, please — as Discord will be hard to keep track of.

3 — As always, the admins are only a message away should you have any questions.

Part 2 interactions are now open. Have fun!

[tortleofwar]

Valentine's Cherub Pt. 2

The noises from trucks clearing the road, I can sleep through that. Sunlight blaring through my eyelids, I can easily turn over. But the smoke of a cigarette catching in the back of my throat is something I can't ignore. I bolt upright pounding my chest as I cough up the carcinogens. Smoke stings my eyes as a fresh puff is directed towards me.

"Good morning my little warrior." She took another drag and blew away from my face this time. "I assume you aren't a smoker then?"

"You got me." Finally settled from my coughing fit I roll off the bed and walk to the bathroom. My bladder was close to bursting and a conversation was the last thing I wanted to have right now.

"I guess I can't call you little after your display last night." She let out a school girl giggle as she walked into the bathroom. The cigarette was absent from her hand. She reached a hand out and held me as I ejected my urine into the posh toilet. "Got some power behind this thing. Wish I could have exclusive access to this."

"Not gonna happen." I forced it out to get her hand off of me quickly. "Last night I was snowed in and my cards were all declined. I'm thankful for your help but what happened last night was a fluke."

I skipped the shower hoping to get away from her before something else was instigated. She turned it on and walked out behind me. Her hands wrapped around my waist to grab at my dick again. This time I stopped her and proceeded to my clothes.

"If you are going home you're gonna need a shower." She gave my ass a swift slap and licked her lips hungrily. "Besides, your bar tab hasn't been paid off yet. Last night was the release I needed after my recent dry spell. But that was only the tip. I bought your drinks and provided you a room."

My heart dropped at the realization that she was right. This hotel was top notch. Red carpet throughout the room, a bidet in the bathroom, and the thread count was higher than my monthly salary. I could end up indebted for a while. Sky wouldn't like it so I had to find a way out of this. I swiped to my bank app and checked the balance. My check cleared and $1850 was showing. It wasn't much but it would cover the rinks I had.

I turned to find her on her knees mouth open and eyes closed. The hormones and attraction couldn't be denied but this was wrong. At least last night could be blamed on the drinks and need for a place to stay besides out back by a dumpster. But now was entirely different. I could walk out right now and leave her on her knees as I shut the door.

"I don't normally offer this to anyone." As I was looking at the door her eyes looked up to me and it felt like my soul was ensnared. As she stood her hand trailed up my thigh to cup my balls and then get a firm hold of my hardening shaft. "We get dirty while getting cleaned up and then I will consider us square. No money, just sex."

My answer should have been hell no, all caps with about five exclamation marks behind it. However those eyes and that plump booty slowly walked me to the shower and I was stuck. My tears washed away by the shower as I surrendered to her once again. I could say it was to square the debt but I honestly wanted more.

As we kissed images of my wife flashed in my head. The good times, the bad, and the sex. True, experience was one hell of a teacher but my heart could never betray her. My mind arguing that this was just a release, purely physical. But the betrayal was there.

I dove into the deep end, pulling her closer and adding carnal passion to the kiss. I began to kiss down to her neck and she whispered into my ear.

"Use me. No limits just go crazy." Her voice husky with desire. "Please."

I'd pressed her against the wall and teased her with one hand while nibbling on her tit. The harder I bit the slicker she got. True to her words she didn't deny anything as I chomped down with force. Her yell turning into a muffled moan as she bit her bottom lip. My finger finding her inner folds while my thumb strummed her clit had her body trembling. This was something Sky relished and hated with a passion.

This woman welcomed the body trembling climax as I kissed my way down ignore the plea in her eyes. I scooped her up onto my shoulders giving full access of her lower extremities to my mouth. My goal was to keep it going as long as possible and possibly even give her another. Licking inside and out made her thighs squeeze as she pulled at my short dreads. Denying her the release of rolling my tongue along her clit until I felt her juices flowing down my chin.

An explosion went off in her body as I applied steady pressure to her clit. Her nails scratched at my scalp and her thighs blocked all sound as she locked them over my ears. As her climax came down she released her vice grip on me and breathed heavily. As I back away I flicked her clit one last time and felt her back away.

"Was that resistance?" A wicked smile spread across my face as she looked down sheepishly. I grabbed a towel from the rack and grabbed her hands. "I hope you can cover the damages."

I ripped the towel into several strips and soaked them with water and the hotel provided soap. With each one I would slowly slide them over another erogenous part of her body. I decided against the soap for the final strip. Opting instead to blindfold her with it. As I stood admiring this soapy piece of art I'd made her hands reached out for me. I sidestepped them and whispered into her ear.

"Not yet my pet."

She froze in place as the stream of water rained down on her. I quickly grabbed a cloth and bathed her body gently. Cleaning her from the neck down. She relaxed the longer this went on until she could no longer feel my touch. I watched as she tilted her head to listen for the faintest sound of me, searching for the smallest notion that I hadn't abandoned her.

As she reached for the blindfold I bound her hands and quietly shushed into her ears. These were the things I'd wanted to do with Sky but she didn't trust me to care for her this intimately. But here was this stranger willingly surrendering herself to me. Rubenesque body presented to me with no hesitation. I took her hands and placed them on my cock moving her hands to instruct her to stroke me.

I placed a hand on her shoulder and she instinctively went to her knees. Her face hovering inches away from me I pushed forward penetrating her lips. Her warm tongue swirling around my dick as I pushed in and out of her mouth.As her rhythm became steady I pulled back, forcing her to lean forward for me.

My deep chuckle was drowned out by the water. Her nose was pressed into my naval as she choked on my length. I forcefully pushed her off of me and watched as the water cleaned the spit and saliva from her face. I turned her around and pushed her onto all four. The water pounded on my back as I slowly eased inside of her. Building a steady motion and feeling her push back into me.

As I took over grabbing her hips and slamming into her the wet sounds echoed inside the bathroom. As much as I was enjoying this I needed to remember why I was doing it. I focused wholly on busting my nut and raising up out of here. Her clenching helped speed the process up and she could tell. She began to beg me not to pull out and I complied.

Exhausted I stayed in place as the water washed over me. I slowly pulled out cleaning my shaft as it shrank back to its flaccid state. I untied her and removed the blindfold. She eagerly fetched a washcloth to clean me up. I stood in place as she moved around me cleaning every inch. When she tried to get me hard again I swatted her hand away.

"That should square up our debt. And this hopefully remains a secret." I was rushing to get dressed and out of this blissful nightmare. "Please don't come looking for me."

"That's going to be hard considering how good pets are at finding their masters," she joked. "But I understand."

I winced at the nickname and bolted out of the door. With cleared street I cautiously steered to my home shaking my head at what I'd done. It couldn't be justified and I would be damned if she left me because of this. As I pulled into the parking garage a familiar powder blue Pontiac drove by me. The shirtless passenger was laughing as he turned to leave.

Shaking it off I walked through the halls of the apartment complex and fished out my keys to the door. Slow music could be heard through the door and the smell of fresh candles could be heard. I scrunched my brows in confusion because this was her post-coitus routine and I wasn't here last night. Then the realization hit me. He was here last night, snowed in with Sky, and we had just had our biggest fight ever.

My keys dropped to the floor as I slid down the opposite wall in dismay. I shook my head with doubt but the evidence was there. I couldn't accuse her after what I'd just done but for her to sleep with MY boss was a whole other level of betrayal. That smug bastard would probably be smiling every day just thinking about this. The rage took a hold of me as I forced myself up.

Shoving the key into the door I burst through it and saw her look of joy. It slowly faded as she saw the anger on my face. Her confused expression only made me feel worse.

"So I just saw Michael on his way out." Her realization didn't show as I began to explain. "He looked extremely happy considering he was snowed in 45 minutes away from his home. Any idea why that is?"

"He probably knows someone else who live nearby. I did tell you I saw him a few times in the neighborhood while I was out."

This brought up another realization in me. He was on lunch calls for two hours on those days. My apartment was 15 minutes away. Those lunch calls started when I got my promotion four months ago. She quit her job because I didn't want her to have to work again after she put me through college.

"I have all the addresses and contact information of all of his associates and sneaky links. None of them live near here. What was he doing HERE?"

Her face lost all expression as she shook her head. "You were gonna find out one way or another. Michael and I have been seeing each other and I think it's time you moved on as well."

There it was. The dagger through the heart I'd been waiting for. I clinched my fists as I paced through the front room. All the while she stood there with no expression or words. The tornado of thoughts going through my head landed on hurting her but I held it in. Looking back at her I could only ask one question.

"Why?"

"You're too nice to me. I need a man who can handle me, put me in my place and treat me how I want to be treated in private," She explained walking to the door. "He spoils me in public and uses me in private. Something a BOY like you wouldn't understand. And that's what I need in my life. Not someone who worships everything about me or is my every beckoning call."

"So I treated you like a queen and this is what you've wanted all along?" I slumped onto the chair shaking my head. The smile on my face scared me. "All this time and you said nothing."

"You're a great guy. And I'm sure someone out there would love to be with you." A bit of fear had entered her voice as she noticed the smile. "But I'm not the one you need. I'll be by to get my things later."

"So you hurt me and you're not even going to apologize?" I asked looking up at her.

"I'm pretty sure after last night we both knew this was where it was heading." She looked at me with a sly smile. "Although I may have broken you for the next poor girl."

The door closed behind her as I sat shaking my head. Her laughter should have done something to me, made me feel anything, but I could only think about the cougar. How I could use a stress reliever at this very moment. At that moment my phone buzzed. I sighed as I checked the notification.

An ad for therapy made me laugh to myself. After all of this I could do with some venting to help me get back to normal. I scrolled down and my jaw dropped. Dr. Clarice WIlliams had a picture of brunette hair flowing down to her shoulders and a pair of captivating green eyes hidden behind glasses. Was God sending me help or was the Devil tempting me? I shrugged and turned on my PS4 to play Paladins.

[chaoticneutralwriter]

Third Act: Patience

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. - 1 Corinthians 13:4-5

guardian demon!jimin x reader

genre: fluff, angst, supernatural, romance, comedy, slice of life

word count: 5.1k

Related works: see Masterlist under guardian demon!jimin

Continuation of the events following Jamais Vu + Interlude: Second Best

A/N: SOOO this is surprisingly quite shorter than I had planned because i was actually gonna put together two acts in this chapter but then i thought against it by the end because it would ruin my aesthetic of the story LOL PLUS more to read for these trying times. On that note, i hope you guys enjoy this nevertheless and that you’re all doing well, stay healthy and safe!

Tags! @cherryjiminiee @kokobaekkie @breathebangtan @itsadoozie @thatshylatinagirl @chiminieboi @azulamakesmeblank @sectumsemptae @awkwardwookie @aduky @poisonseashell @shortannoyingginger @caramelmac-chiato @sana-b @jiminstinct @beautifulparisiangirl​

The rest of the night was a blur in your memories. You vaguely remember exiting the arena in a daze, robotically moving with the flow of the crowd and ending up outside. The night air doesn’t shock you as much as it should from being in a stuffy place for so long, the reason being never really did leave your mind and it only makes you worry your bottom lip.

Eventually, Rosa finds you after blowing your phone up with all of her messages that weren’t able to get through from the weak signal; first crushing you into a hug and asking if you were okay, apologizing for having lost you when really, it was your fault and once you assured her that you were, proceeded to squeal with unbridled emotions while shaking you, still crushed against her.

It pulls a small smile out of you, wheezing a laugh before she finally puts you down. You’re happy to hear Rosa chat away so excitedly about the concert, the high of it all has yet to subside. You wish you could share the same enthusiasm as her, but you’re feeling more like you skipped straight into the post-concert depression stage, even though you literally just stepped out of the arena. Or at least, you tell Rosa that when she notices how strained your responses were.

It takes some time, but you make it back to your hotel. You remember trying to push yourself to keep up conversations with Rosa, guilty for raining on her parade a little and at times, you think it works as you two look over the footage she managed to get on her phone. However, unsurprisingly, it was short-lived; whenever you catch sight of Jimin despite knowing that it’s not your guardian, your mind automatically drifts to the fight you had in the back alley and your guilt takes on a completely different form — one much more stifling and overwhelming.

It continues to gnaw at you through the night and to the moment you step on the plane, ready to fly back home. It’s made you develop a habit of checking your phone every other minute, a small part of you hoping to see something, anything that might be from him.

By the time you’re back in your room late in the afternoon, you still hear nothing.

You discard your luggage and bags in a corner without much care before sagging onto your bed. Jaehee wasn’t home when you got in, but the note she’s stuck on your bedroom door told you that she was out doing a grocery run and would be back shortly to welcome you home properly with a home-cooked meal. You smile softly at the thought but it doesn’t stay for long as your attention drifts back to the phone clutched in your hand. You click to unlock it, finding no new messages or calls yet again, the sight further eating away at you.

A heavy sigh leaves you, eyes slipping shut and your head slumps down as you bring the phone up to your temple, hitting against it gently.

Why did you have to be so stubborn? Your mind recalls the memory with clarity; a movie scene being replayed before you and you cringe at how you acted, every word and action reminded you of a spoiled child. Looking back now, you knew he was only trying to look out for you, keep your best health in mind but you were too caught up in your emotions at the time, tunnel visioned so hard you didn’t see the bigger picture until you’ve already walked away.

Now you’re reaping what you sowed.

As if the weight on your shoulders became too much, you allow yourself to fall back onto your bed. Your arm automatically reaches out to the giant plush cat, dragging it until you have it flushed against you, the malleable toy bringing a little sense of comfort. You pull your phone up to your face again, unlocking it once more and unsurprisingly, not finding any new messages. You stare a little longer before almost unconsciously your finger taps onto the text thread and then they hover over the call icon — hesitating.

What would you say? Would he even want to hear from you?

The thought makes your chest ache, but what’s worse than that is never hearing from him again at all and this would be your last memories of each other. No, you don’t want that. So you take a fortifying breath, pushing away all of your self-doubting thoughts and finally —

The phone comes alive in your hand, the vibration and the ringtone combined making you jolt for a second with your hands fumbling the device. Once you get a grip, your eyes scan the screen and your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. Without a second thought, you slide to accept the call.

“Hello?” It comes out in a gasp, breathless from how fast you bolt up from your position, ramrod straight and the poor plush cat clutched against you like a lifeline.

“Y/N?”

“Y-Yeah, hey…” Your heart is racing like you’ve ran a marathon, so loud in your ears that you hope by some miracle he doesn’t pick it up through the line because lord knows you’re not doing a good job at hiding how nervous you are.

“…Hey…”

And the sound of his voice is not helping; husky and low, like rich velvet chocolate that has your heart stuttering and melting all at once. He’s so easily emptied your head of all the things you had wanted to say and he’s only said one word.

Wow, you’re really losing it huh?

“Y/N?”

“H-Huh?”

“I asked if you got home okay.”

Your cheeks heat, picking up on the breathy edge of his tone and already imagining the amused quirk of his full lips. “Yeah! I — Yeah, I just got in…. In my room, just… resting for now…”

“That’s good to hear….” You hear him trailing off, trying to keep the conversation light and casual as if there wasn’t a giant pink elephant between you. It does nothing but make you more aware of it, antsy in needing to come forward and own up to your mistake because he, of all people, deserves an apology for how poorly you acted. Swallowing, you take in a breath and just go for it before you can regret it.

“Jimin—“

“Y/N—“

You both pause, an awkward silence filling the space at not anticipating the other speaking the same time. Hurriedly, you try to cover up your social blunder, embarrassed.


“God, sorry you can—“


“Sorry, what were you—“

Again, you speak over each other, which ensues another awkward beat. It’s only broken when you can’t help but let out a short huff of a laugh, completely at a lost. Through the line however, you’re greeted with the pleasant sounds of his own chuckle joining your own and like a spell, you are at ease, the nerves dissipating slowly.

“Now I remember why I can’t do phone calls…” You groan, half-jokingly but also already burying your face halfway into the large toy you have that’s now acting as an emotional support. If only it could swallow you whole…

“It’s okay, I don’t mind — not like I’m doing any better.” He replies and you smile softly, the warmth of his voice so soothing to your ears. Any other time you probably would be satisfied in listening to him talk for hours through the phone, social awkwardness be damn but this is neither here nor there, so you shake yourself before you get too lost into the tempting idea, getting back on the matter at hand.

“How about you go first?”

“No, you go ahead.”

“Seriously, Jimin—“

“I insist, Y/N.” Jimin’s voice is still gentle yet firm, enough for you to sense that there’s no room for argument. “Please.”

So you sigh, giving in. “Okay….” You say that, but it takes you a moment to gather yourself, not knowing where to begin or how to put into words what you feel properly.

But he waits patiently, and the quiet assurance allows for you to take that first step, even if you might stumble.

“I’m sorry,” You blurt out before you catch yourself and think maybe you need a little bit more context. “The concert… When you saved me from passing out by taking me outside, I— I’m really grateful you did that. I think it would’ve been bad if you hadn’t so…. What I said afterwards, and how I acted afterwards, that was really shitty of me…. You were right; I was so careless —“

“Y/N....”

“No! I really wasn’t thinking! And it’s so unfair of me because you helped me and I just—!” You stop abruptly, your voice rising dangerously in pitch with frustration and take in a shaky breath, trying to reign in your emotions. There’s no way you’re going to turn this already mess of an apology into an even bigger mess by actually crying. He might not be able to see you but you still felt the need to walk away with some dignity; composed so that he won’t think you’re some pathetic wreck. After swallowing away the growing lump in your throat, you continue on quietly, “I was just….so mad at myself. Like, after everything I couldn’t even stay for the entire concert — like I completely wasted it all and I took it out on you. So if you’re mad at me, then I get it; just know that I’m really sorry, Jimin.”

You don’t know what to say after that, not sure if there’s anything else left that isn’t ‘I’m sorry’. So you wait with bated breath for him to say something. Forgiveness was a selfish want from you but you would understand if he chooses not to despite the thought of it alone leaves your chest aching. The mere minutes of silence drags on like an eternity for you until finally, you hear him sigh.

“Y/N, I’m not mad at you, I promise.” He says, sincerely. “And I should be the one apologizing; for…freaking out at you like that, it just made things worse. I know….I know how much they mean to you,” There’s a short pause, like there was suddenly something holding him back but he shakes it off just as quickly as it had came, “how much he means to you.”

The statement has you momentarily taken aback, not expecting it at all. For some reason, you didn’t like the way he said that, even when everything about it was true. Before you can think too much on it however, Jimin quickly switches the tone in conversation, redirecting your attention elsewhere. “I’m sorry that things didn’t work out but you know your safety is my priority, right?”


“Y-Yeah, I know….” You reply, a little flustered from having your thoughts derailed but pouting at being reminded of your deplorable behaviour, feeling much like a reprimanded child. “I promise I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“That’s my girl.” You grunt in acknowledgement, heated face sinking back into the soft confines of the bean-shaped cat still in your arms. “Listen, I have to go soon, so take care of yourself for me alright? Get something to eat and, please unpack and do your laundry.”

His playful gibe draws out an affronted gasp from you, “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

You only get a peal of laughter in response, making you further pout indignantly.


“I’ll talk to you later okay? Stay safe, cherub.”

“M-Mm, yeah okay. I’ll talk to you later then.”

When you hang up, you’re in a bit of daze. On one hand, you feel relieved that you both managed to resolve the fight that was weighing so heavily on your chest, honestly just glad to hear from your guardian again too but on the other hand, you can’t help also feeling like you’d been bulldozed a little. You want to say you’re simply over analyzing things, but your mind is constantly wandering back to what he said about how much BTS meant to you — more specifically, how much he, BTS’ Jimin, meant to you.

It almost sounded as if….

As if he believed you thought less about him in comparison.

You swear your heart drops to your stomach, frozen in a stunned silence like you can’t process this information, the idea preposterous and so close to outright denying it until you realize that… you never gave any indication otherwise. It really has always been BTS and their Jimin with you but now…

Now there’s Jimin….Your Jimin.

BTS are still important to you but your guardian has become someone irreplaceable to you, and through all the fond memories you can recall, he's there.

He's always been there.

The revelation triggers everything all at once; sweaty palms, palpitating heart, butterflies in the stomach — the whole shebang along with a whole Pandora’s box of emotions: elation, relief, disbelief, giddiness, uncertainty….

And crippling anxiety.

Oh boy, you think as a nervous laugh escapes you, I’m in danger.

-

Fuck.

He curses to himself for the umpteenth time as a particularly harsh wave of pain rolls over him, eyes squeezing shut to try and block it out but he thinks all he’s done successfully is make himself dizzy. It lasts for a second longer before finally it ebbs away and a long exhale escapes past his lips, relieved. The demon remains where he is slouched against the concrete ledge lining the rooftop he’s on a while longer, simply catching his breath and letting the gentle breeze cool his skin. Only once he feels the throbbing against his head die down does he let his eyes slip open again.

He’s greeted with the brilliant sight of the sunset sky, so vibrant it almost seems like he’s looking at a painting. The rich shades of orange bleed like wildfire, lighting the streaks of wispy clouds almost red before blending in to softer pinks and hints of lilacs, the blues deepening into a more indigo shade with the coming of night. The sun sits just a little above the horizon, its glow no more than a haze as it continues to make its descent and he watches on with an almost mocking indifference to the splendour of it all.

Jimin instead, idly thinks he’s gotten a good handle at dealing with the shockwave of pain that comes with completing a deed. He doesn’t feel as winded or sore from the muscle aches it usually leave behind — he wonders if he’ll eventually become numb to it or simply be too tired to care. Dark eyes wander down to his phone still clutched in his hand and the conversation he had not too long ago rushes back.

It went… surprisingly smoother than he had expected, despite the awkward start. When he had decided to call you, Jimin had finally swallowed his pride in that he owes you at least an apology for shouting at you the way he did. It was unnecessary and did more harm than good, evident when he had watched you withdraw in on yourself soon afterwards. He should’ve known better, but in that moment his emotions got in the way; those dark desires he's trying to keep locked away, only for them to become harder and harder to contain the longer time passes. And that’s what Jimin’s afraid of — that despite knowing how much the band and the singer means to you, he’ll disregard it all for petty, selfish reasons. Hell, he couldn’t even acknowledge the fact out loud just now without having to practically force it through his teeth and even then, the bitter aftertaste the words leave behind still lingers.

Like a reminder that all Jimin will ever have with you are fleeting moments, nothing more.

Jimin’s afraid that sooner or later, he’ll end up hurting you because he got too greedy.

A deep sigh leaves him and he runs a hand through his dark tresses out of stress, thoughts racing through his troubled mind until one sticks out above the rest. From the way things are going, Jimin thinks his best course of action would be to distance himself from you a bit more; see you less in person and maybe perhaps get your roommate Jaehee to check in on you every once in a while for him.

It’s not something he wants to do, but with it, it’s killing two birds with one stone — you won’t find out about his weakening condition and he won’t do anything that he’ll regret.

-

Before you know it, the week is nearly over with days passing by with you back on your routine again of going to work and occasionally hanging out with your friends. The world moves on as if nothing were amiss even though for you, it was anything but.

Sure, in the grand scheme of things (i.e. the universe), your problem is pretty minuscule and there’s no doubt that if your friends were clued in on everything, they would probably smack you, call you a dumb-dumb and tell you to quote, ‘get that ass!’ but it just had to be so much more complicated than that.

First and foremost, you were four days old when you found out that you’ve caught feelings for a demon who also happens to be your supernatural entity guardian.

That sentence alone is already chock full of all sorts of sacrilegious implications (not that you really cared but you can only imagine how it would sound like to an outsider).

Secondly, you don’t know if he feels the same way or if he just sees you as something else; a tolerable human being that’s entertaining? A friend you would hope at least. Or…. Simply an obligation.

That last one stung a little.

Worse is you haven’t forgotten that your guardian was only meant to stay temporarily, something that had already been troubling you in the back of your mind and though you had pushed it away continuously, you learn that all it did was grow until it began manifesting itself in ways you hadn’t realized. Both a good and a bad thing because in doing so, some things make much more sense now. But with you being aware of your feelings, the question of how or should you even let them be known becomes the cherry on top of this rapidly melting sundae.

You think you’ve worked through every possible scenario, dissecting them every way you can like a mad scientist, but the results all end up the same either way — things wouldn’t work out and you’ll just end up being heart broken.

An exasperated groan leaves you and your forehead nearly connects with the table below you before you caught yourself midway, thinking better because you don’t know what’s been on it. You don’t get time to continue your brooding however as a radio static voice cuts through the lunchroom.

“Hey Y/N, you back from your break yet?”

Glancing down at your phone, you note the time and inwardly curse, reaching up to press down on the mic reluctantly, “Yeah, I’m on my way out.”

“Okay, cool. Once you’re back up on cash, Stephanie can take her break then.”

You slouch back on your seat, intent on taking your time to get up (not like there was anyone here to clock you on your punctuality). You have two hours left on your shift but already you feel drained, both physically and mentally. Eventually, you muster the strength and willpower to finally get up and begin making your way back to the store floor, despite your mind being far from keeping the queue line clean and customers happy.

You sigh, hoping weakly that by some miracle, the remaining work would be enough to distract you from your troubling thoughts, if only for a short while.

When the two hours were done, it felt like you had been holding your breath the entire time and when you finally clocked out did you let yourself breathe. The weight of your thoughts stayed, but at least now you’re finally free to wallow in it once again without any interruptions. Probably not the greatest thing since it nearly made you miss your stop. You get through the door, catching Jaehee just as she’s making her way to the kitchen, changed in her lounge wear, fresh from a shower with her hair still damp and a towel draped around her shoulders.

“Jaehee, you’re home… kinda early?” You remark, taking a glance down at your phone to confirm that usually she wouldn’t be home for another hour and a half.

“Oh yeah, I asked to clock out early; wasn’t feeling too well.” She answers wryly with a half-hearted shrug. You blink at that, brows pinching a little in worry.

“Coming down with something?”

“Nah, nothing serious. Promise.” Jaehee smiles, assuring. “I’m gonna make lasagna tonight, sounds good?”

You nod, feeling your stomach rumble with anticipation. After washing up, you head out of your room, comfy in your pjs and already smelling the cheesy goodness of the lasagna baking. Peering into the kitchen, you see Jaehee busy with cutting up lettuce, most likely for a salad on the side for you to share.

“So how was your day?” Jaehee asks as you step in to take out some plates and utensils.

You respond with a noise; a straining, drawn out groan that borderlines on a mental breakdown but never quite reaches. It’s a response your roommate is familiar with, so much that any further context isn’t necessary for her to understand that work has been same old, same old; irritating but you do it for the money.

“Any dumb customers?” She laughs.

You pause to think but then answer, “Thankfully, no. Like, God decided to take pity on me for once. What about you? Has your manager been acting up lately, Ethan?”

At the mention, Jaehee lets out her own groan, shoulders dropping for a second as if the very thought’s weight had suddenly pushed down on her. You offer a sympathetic pat before slipping on oven mits to grab the now ready lasagna. Jaehee worked at an office in a junior position as a recruiter of sorts, a job she managed to get a little bit before graduating and thus, quitting her old retail job. What the company does specifically you’re still a little unsure of to this day but from what you’ve been hearing through Jaehee, you think that’s not the biggest issue to worry about.

Most of the stories Jaehee chooses to share with you were more or less what you would call ‘office horror stories’ — two-faced co-workers, that one guy who doesn’t know what personal space is, after work get togethers that, although is a nice idea, were often times far too forced to feel anything remotely ‘team bonding’, some handful shady department practices and of course, the unstable manager. Needless to say, it’s left you feeling concerned over the environment Jaehee has chosen to work in and although she expresses the same opinions as you whenever she vents, she’s always left feeling uncertain on what to do and then just brushes it off.

You don’t push on it further after that, only offering suggestions she could possibly consider but ultimately, leave it for her to decide whether she would actually take them or not. This is Jaehee’s job, not yours and you respect and trust Jaehee as a person who can make the right choices about her life.

And so dinner passes by in that same manner, the subject shifting quickly onto more casual things. Once or twice Jaehee would sneakily ask how things are going on with Jimin (or Julien as she knows him) of which like talks about her workplace, you skitter around on — as if you can explain your dilemma to her when you don’t even know where to begin yourself!

By the time you wash up and crash land onto your bed, you’re back to square one, caught up in your internal whirlwind of emotions with no hopes of trying to sort any of the mess out. Like Dorothy trapped in her little house that’s been sucked into the tornado, except you don’t even have a little dog to be your emotional support. You toss and you turn for a while, kept up by those thoughts until your self-promises of trying to go to sleep early is abandoned in favour of scrolling endlessly through your social media feeds. So much for trying to fix your awful sleep schedule.

You swear you blink once and it’s well past two in the morning already. You put your phone down with a sigh, bringing up a hand to rub your eyes and relieve them momentarily from the harsh glare of the screen. The thought that maybe you should give it a rest and attempt to sleep, even if it means just closing your eyes and hoping you lull off at some point crosses your mind but right when you’re about to part with your phone, a low buzz erupts from it along with a small chime. The vibration sends a shock from your chest before you lift up the device, the screen lit with a new incoming notification. When your eyes adjust to the brightness once more, you freeze.

Speak of the demon.

“Hey cherub,

I know it’s pretty late (though something tells me you’re still awake anyways)

But I just wanted to check up on you and see how you’re doing.”

You inwardly groan to yourself; it’s like the Lord is testing you right now. All the mixed feelings you’ve been having has you seeing things through new lenses. It’s annoying on every aspect — you hate how it has made you second guess yourself on everything that you’ll do or say, like you’re walking on eggshells while being smothered at the same time. But you can’t deny that your caution isn’t without reason. When it comes to matters of the heart, your approach is comparatively much more skeptical than to most people you know. Hence, you suppose, it would explain your sparse and short-lived dating history.

You weren’t a big risk taker or trusting enough to leave your heart in someone else’s hands; you feel like you have so much more to lose than to gain and you’d rather save the heartache for something a little bit more worthwhile. So to even think about shooting your shot with someone when the odds are so against you like this….

You chew on your lip, heart pounding and fingers hovering over the keyboard in limbo, caught between listening to your head or your heart. But Jimin…. Your dear guardian Jimin, always had this inexplicable effect on you. You don’t know whether it’s from his nature as a demon or something else, but it has only grown stronger over the time you’ve spent with him that you think no matter how hard you try to stay away, you’ll find yourself unconsciously searching for him again, like a moth drawn to a flame.

And so you find yourself tentatively typing out your response, backspacing when the doubt creeps in but ultimately, you reason, as long as you don’t give anything away, he can’t see through you… yet.

You hit send before you think too deeply on that.

“I don’t appreciate being called out like that >:(

But if you must know, I’m well (despite, you know, possibly losing out on precious sleep right now due to a certain demon).”

The bated breath you let out could be mistaken for accomplishing something excruciatingly nerve wracking, like skydiving for the first time. It’s comical really, if you weren’t the one going through it. Your head flops to the side momentarily in a defeated manner; why did you have to get smacked in the face with feelings when you can barely get a handle of what you want for dinner the following day? Maybe you shouldn’t have replied, but then you’d feel bad because Jimin hasn’t done anything to get ghosted. Oh god, maybe you should’ve just replied in the morning instead, why did you have to be so — ! A rumble pulls you out of your mental panicking and with jittery hands you bring up your phone again, hastily reading the reply.

“Don’t pout cherub, I’m just messing with you ~

I actually didn’t think you would reply but anyways, I’m glad to hear you’re doing okay at least so you should try to get some of that sleep.

I won’t keep you then.”

But you do pout regardless. In spite of sounding like you wanted to desperately hide away from ever talking to Jimin again in fear of acting like a fool, you can’t help feeling a little disappointed at how short the conversation was. Your fingers move on their own, typing out the first thoughts that comes to mind, only to erase them. It goes on like that until you finally stop on the sixth try, deflating as if all the night’s tumultuous emotions have finally worn you out to a sullen calm. What are you even trying to do? You feel like for the past minutes, you’ve done nothing but be so indecisive with yourself that you fear you don’t know what you want anymore. Perhaps this is your divine intervention that you should sleep on this, at least for tonight.

With a resigned sigh, you send off a short and simple message, not really expecting a reply as you finally place your phone down on your nightstand.

“I’ll go to sleep soon.

I hope you’re doing well too, staying out of trouble and such.

I can’t exactly guarantee you that I’ll be of much help if you do, so….don’t do it!

And thanks… for checking up on me.”

You go to settle down into your sheets when the familiar chime and rumble once again snags your attention and you can’t resist, reaching over. You read over his words, a smile tugging at your lips.

“I’m fine, don’t worry your pretty little head over me.

I won’t do anything that’ll stress you out….too much ;)

(the prick, always gotta keep you on your toes somehow but you suppose that’s why there’s never a dull moment with him)

It’s not a problem darling, so rest easy and …. sweet dreams.”

The smile lingers on your lips long after you drift off to a surprisingly peaceful slumber, mind put more at ease. You’ll figure this out, one way or another.

[hngrylikethewoolf]

London Calling || Errigan

IN WHICH...Errol and Ratigan have a discussion in the middle of a crowded London café. 

TRIGGER WARNINGS: None that I can think of

Backdated:  July 25, 2021

@professorofcrimeratigan

ERROL:

Errol was a werewolf. 

No, the irony of that statement was not lost on him. 

The first thing he'd done upon being bitten and treated was limp his way back to his hotel, blood burning in his veins, a fever hanging over him, and passing out in the rented room, clunky gauze and bandages catching the blood that sluggishly seeped from the closing wounds. He had been explicit when they worked on him, told them to wear proper gear, didn't care that he wasn't their boss, he took the pitch of Ratigan's voice and used it to his sluggish, half-advantage. He burned everything when he awoke, a new sense of being shifting around in his chest, a secondary something there that hadn't been before. 

He had been debriefed about Shifters, knew of them from his work overseas and from a former Army Ranger he'd befriended that had been bitten by a lone wolf during a mission, at least a decade ago now, maybe more. They still kept in contact, and he was the first person Errol had called, the beast shifting around in his chest, testing out the cage. They needed to learn how to work together while he figured out his next steps. 

The conversation he had with his friend helped, if anything, to calm the tidal wave of emotions he could feel tugging at him. The wolf was with him now. Panicking about it would make the transition all that more difficult. 

Errol had also just been shot, had a man digging around in the meat of his thigh to close an artery that would have killed him if not for the help of the bite. It was still there, still healing, but it wasn't deadly. He deserved a few days of recuperation, to wrap his head around it all. 

Pedram Ratigan was a werewolf. 

Somehow that information didn't surprise him as much as it should. It had saved his life, after all. The other information he had received that day was telling, but it made no difference to him at this moment. Pieces of things he'd observed, things that now made more sense, he would keep tucked away. Could examine later, once he had a more firm grasp on his wolf and the place they now had in the world. 

Errol had information to hand over, after all. He had no time to wonder, though he wanted to. He'd barely scratched the surface of who Ratigan could potentially be. He would focus on what he knew, what they both were now, and go from there. 

That started in a nondescript café at the heart of the city, surrounded by people in a way that created the perfect veil of anonymity. Errol had a feeling they would need it. 

RATIGAN: 

Clean up of the situation had been taken care of. Bodies disposed, blood mopped, evidence picked up. Had anyone entered the warehouse they would never have known of the violence that had taken place there. 

The ambulance had been left elsewhere, also cleansed of any evidence linking back to the three people who had been inside it last. 

One would think that was the worst part of it, the clean up. Having to make sure that nothing had been left behind for even the smallest chance of being caught. Ratigan had shared the same sentiment as soon as he realized he was now somewhere in the system. Back when he’d been nothing there had been no fear, no need to wipe his prints or panic when his blood had been left behind. There had been no way to find him, no place to follow his growing trail back to. 

It had been a flaw in the system and Ratigan had used it on his campaign to the head of the table. Anyone within his network would have access to cleaners. (They had quickly become, without a doubt, the biggest source of income.) 

But there were still loose threads to deal with— one of them being the sheriff. 

Ratigan had returned to a safe house and contacted Fidget who had not done as he was told. The sheriff had walked free and was roaming the streets of London. All that work and now he was having to rely on word alone that he would be given what he wanted. 

He met where the sheriff wanted but planned ahead— best not to leave anything to chance when he did not have to. He was already seated at a table when the sheriff arrived, a cup of tea sitting in front of him. His attention was on the crossword puzzle of the newspaper he was leaning over. It wasn’t until the other man was seated that he spoke. 

“Fine choice, this place.” His tone was light and conversational. It matched the tables around them along with the clinking spoons against the sides of mugs, fingers striking keyboards, creaking furniture as someone shifted in their seat. “Do you have the information you promised me?” 

ERROL: 

The fact Ratigan was already there when Errol showed up wasn't surprising. 

The sheriff took a second to reorient himself, eyes scanning the coffee shop as he unwound his scarf from his throat, considering all the exits and number of bodies in a matter of moments. All the noises and all the smells swirled around, heightened by the wolf. It was a tinge uncomfortable, having to adjust to it, but Errol barely let a flicker of it cross his face. A slight widening of the nostrils, a tilt to his head, but nothing more. 

He still had a job to do though and, now, a debt to repay. 

Errol sat casually, mindful of his leg, smiling like they were having a grand time, and nodded his head with a little laugh. "Mmm, aye. I do." An arm slung across the back of the chair beside him, and he shifted sideways, allowing himself to see the door in his peripheral vision. A gun sat, a heavy weight, just above his left hip. Where no one else but Ratigan could see; if he was looking--which he was,  Errol already knew--then he would catch it. Gauze and bandaging wrapped around his thigh beneath his clothes, unnoticeable but a necessary addition until his leg entirely healed. 

There were still people that were trying to kill the bastard, after all. And Errol never liked to leave anything to chance, especially when it came to someone's life, especially when it was someone that he knew. 

At this close a proximity to the other man, the scent of his cologne was sharp in Errol's nose, both familiar and foreign. It was distinctly Ratigan, and it made the wolf perk up its head, interested for the first time all morning. The sheriff bit the inside of his cheek, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as the beast stretched, waking. He breathed in deep to calm himself but it just pulled the scent further into his lungs. It made the wolf whine, and Errol grit his teeth, acknowledging it with a barely-there shift in his seat, a ploy to get more comfortable. 

See, they'd reached a bit of an understanding back in his hotel room, over these last three or so days. Errol knew he had him now and the wolf knew he was attached. They couldn't change it, could merely work around it, and they would. First, Errol just needed him to calm the fuck down about the person across from him. The pressure in his chest, now, was uncomfortable, a testing of bonds and an attempt to move closer. If Errol moved any closer, he'd be vaulting the table and sitting on the man. 

Just another werewolf, perhaps? Or the insane, but possible, notion that Pedram had been the one to bite him? 

Instead of saying any of that, Errol leaned down and pulled a folder from the old Army kit he'd slung to the floor upon arrival. He aligned it on the table, neat, straight corners, before pushing that and two others with it across the table. His smile turned crooked, almost amused. 

"'S t' extra I told ye about. It's all on the drive, too, but I wrote t' access information down. Figure ye'd want proof 'fore I jus' gave ye a drive." 

The wolf tested its bonds, found them to be solid, and Errol shifted in his seat again, ignoring the discomfort, focus never wavering from Ratigan's face. 

RATIGAN: 

He placed his pen down and leaned back in his chair, waiting. All of this was so tedious and annoying. He did not want to be there but of course there would have been such a great tantrum thrown had it not been him the information had been passed off to. At this point he knew that the sheriff did the things he did simply to spite Ratigan because, well, he must have nothing better to do being a police officer. It’s just what they did. 

The looming subject of what had taken place in the last moments of their previous encounter was ever present but Ratigan didn’t care whatsoever. It did not concern him whether the sheriff was taking well to his new normal or whatever (no doubt ridiculous) questions were at the ready to be asked should he give some sort of sign of acknowledgement. He refused. Whatever the sheriff was looking for he would not find it. 

“Thank you,” he said politely and even smiled. Finally. At least this massive headache will have been worth something in the end. Ratigan placed the files at the edge of the table. Seconds later the waitress passed by, picking them up. Neither acknowledged the other as she breezed by. 

“Well, now that that’s out of the way, we should address the elephant in the room, shall we?” He reached for the cup of tea to take a sip. There was no rush in his movements, he was the picture of leisure. “I fully intend to return to Swynlake and continue my life there. You’ve proven yourself to be— puerile when it comes to some of your choices in how you go about things. I implore you, sheriff, to not continue this trend as far as your knowledge of me goes. You are only alive now because I allowed it. I can just as easily change my mind should you get the idea that I am someone you can ruin.” 

He shrugged. “But then, where would the fun in that be? If you attempt to take away what is important to me then rest assured I shall do the same to you. The only difference being that I will be able to rebuild— the same cannot be said for you. Or your family.” 

ERROL: 

Ratigan was smiling. Wasn't that a terrifying thought, given the circumstances? It was a nice one, though. Errol couldn't help but glance toward it, a brow ticking upward just as the edge of his mouth curled, rueful. 

It wasn't pleasant, but he thought it could be. Ratigan had a nice smile. 

Errol dipped his head in acknowledgement, eyes following the waitress for a moment as she tucked the folders beneath an arm. The Irishman snorted, amused. Of course Ratigan had people here. Errol would have too, if he could. He settled in to listen instead, head tilting to the side in curiosity. 

A bark of laughter escaped when Ratigan started threatening, a delighted little sound that curled around his eyes and lit up his smile. He knew the man was deadly serious, and something dark and dangerous and ugly flickered in the sheriff's gaze once his family was mentioned, but the amusement still clung to him, a shroud. 

"Ah, luv, ye dunne 'ave tah worry. Ye might fink 'm stupid, but I ain't. 'Ve got no reason tah say shite. What hurts ye, hurts me. 'S cute ye fink I might, though. Threatin' a diff'rent man's family might nah've ended yer way, but I like ye." He leaned forward, wide, sharp smile on his face, studying Ratigan's own. "So 'm jus' gonna tell ye once. They're mine. Leave 'em be."

He doubted the man took him seriously, but he should. Errol saw in him much of what had driven himself, still did. 

Ratigan was right about one thing, though. Errol was only alive because he'd allowed it, because he had needed the information Errol had. A moment later, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat, drawing out a flash drive. He tsked, tongue clicking against the backs of his front teeth as the wolf squirmed, pushing the drive close across the table. "That'd be t' rest. It's got t' information fer everyone 'at came tah t' extraction an' yer mutineers." 

Errol grinned, sweet as pie. He had a copy of all the information. 

RATIGAN: 

He sighed, an eyebrow raising because no, he did not think this man was stupid, he knew this man was stupid. The evidence stacked against him was substantial and nothing he said would prove otherwise.

The laughter almost made him want to do something more to prove his point, that nothing about this was funny or amusing or some sort of game the sheriff seemed to believe the world was. 

“Please, sheriff, no pet names. We are in public and I think we are past the need to make me blush.” And perhaps that may have sounded different to the average eavesdropper but here it was another threat. This, above all else, irked Ratigan more than anything else— it was as if the man thought there was some sort of rapport between them, like he was allowed to address him as anything other than his name. Even the wolf recoiled against it, his emotions so heavy that it was pulled away from the excitement of the newcomer in order to protect what was important above all else. 

He gave a nod of understanding, as if he understood the concept of family on a personal level instead of just an observational one. “I do think that’s rather the point. They’re your family, and if you want them off the table then I suggest you do not partake in this game.” 

Ratigan reached for the flashdrive, placing it in his own pocket. 

“I will give you the opportunity to leave it be. This is no longer your concern, and to be honest it never was. If I were you, I would forget any of this has happened and return to your life as it was.” His fingers laced together, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “This is more than I would ever give someone of your—” His eyes flickered over the man, disgust coming and going over his expression but never leaving his voice, “—profession. Do not be ungrateful.” 

ERROL: 

Ratigan sighed and raised a brow and Errol followed the movement, mirroring it with one of his own. He'd leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed across the other at the knee, arm slack across the back of the chair beside him, a picture of repose. 

See, what no one else understood, Ratigan included, was that Errol had no reason to be afraid of him, not personally. Yes, he threatened his family, and the sheriff believed him when he said that he'd harm them if he thought it necessary, but Errol never had any intention of making it so. He knew the professor thought he was stupid, he claimed he did. 

But, then, that begged the question of why he had been used in the first place. Errol almost wanted to ask, except he knew it would do him no good. 

He focused on the droll looking the other man gave him when he asked not to be called by a pet name, that they were 'past the need to make him blush.' A few choice thoughts skittered across his mind, then, each of them worse than the last. Mirth colored his eyes for a second before it disappeared. As he had before, Errol dipped his head in a nod of acknowledgement. 

"Noted, sir." There, should stroke his ego well enough. He dutifully kept away from the always-endearing moniker of "professor." While that was equally as neutral territory, it gave something away. The former did not. If he could hedge a bet, however, Ratigan wouldn't like that one, either. 

Refraining from saying anything smart or rolling his eyes at the heavy-handed threat, Errol reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet and a pocket knife, the latter of which he showed to the other man before setting it on the table, engraving up. He continued to exude nonchalance as he thumbed through a few bills, the Elvira winking up at him from the table. 

Perhaps such threats worked on his underlings, but Errol had dealt with people at Ratigan's caliber, and worse, for two decades. Granted, they were far less intelligent, but they were no less driven or full of themselves. 

This wasn't a game, even if Ratigan thought he believed it to be.

The quip about his profession did earn a grin and another nod. He understood. Hell, Errol often felt the same. It was why he'd clawed his way to the top in such a short time. If anyone could call a decade or so short. He didn't like being forced to take orders, orders he would disobey or orders that might not be entirely ethical in the sense of the job (his own personal ethics notwithstanding) so it'd made sense to become what he had. 

If you could become the head, you didn't have to cut yourself off at the neck. Had people who could protect you if someone tried.

Cocking his head to the side, Errol's eyes assessed Ratigan's face, his voice suddenly, deathly serious. "It was never a game. What I did 'fore all o' this...ye say anyfin' an' yer dead. 'S t' same fing 'ere, more or less." 

He flicked the pocket knife toward the other man, then, and nodded at it. 

"'Ere's yer promise. Type 'at intah t' military database an' ye get yerself a bit o' an easier access tah me redacted files." 

RATIGAN: 

Ratigan’s temper was running thin. This man had no idea what he was talking about— he had only had eyes on this for so long. Ratigan had been at this for years. This was not even a scratch at the surface, it was barely a brush of a finger against it. There was nothing that could be said here that would be able to convince Ratigan that this man, the same one who had gone into a situation with no back up, no plan, and every intention of dying with the way he had been trying to fight his way out of the corner he had basically walked himself into and sat there, waiting to see what would happen and then continued to press his back against the walls as he was attacked, knew what he was talking about. 

He gave the knife a brief glance as that was all it was good for. 

“That’s very generous of you, sheriff,  but if you think that I don’t already know everything that the government has on you then I think that says enough about your role here.” 

It had taken longer than Ratigan had been happy with, but he had been able to find the files the sheriff thought were protected. The government may have had the best in the business, recruiting those from criminal backgrounds in order to fight back against those wanting their information, but Ratigan had better. 

All that to say, Ratigan was not very impressed by what he had seen. Again, his dog’s record outshone him. If anything, it irked Ratigan all the more. Police were bad but the military was worse, in his opinion. 

“Enough of— whatever this was supposed to be.” He gestured to the knife with a flippant hand, eyes widening briefly with perfectly placed annoyance. “What is it that you want?”

Because surely he must have wanted something. Everyone did. Otherwise he would not have shown up. (Even if it was something as simple as to sate his naïve curiosity.) 

ERROL: 

Errol's grin was triumphant this time, self-satisfaction evident. He'd managed to get the confirmation he wanted. It did not surprise him. As he had quickly started to learn, Ratigan was well-prepared for everything. He didn't take things at face value, yet he tried to make it seem like he did. He was contradictory yet made it seem like all his ducks were in a row. 

It was fascinating and strange and something that Errol wanted to poke and prod at and toe the line of until he found it all out, even now. Saddled with a new burden and threatened, nearly killed. He had been truthful before when he said he liked the other man. For all his prickly, sharp outer edges, Errol did like him. 

A small sigh escaped and Errol tapped his knuckles against the tabletop, chewing on his lip, trying to think of a way to get the other man to understand. He didn't know if he ever could, to explain why the knife was important. Why it meant something, the one sliver of a show of loyalty, of acknowledgement that he could give. 

Maybe it was playing with fire, but Errol had never minded being burned. With the way things were shaping up now, he was very aware of the fact he couldn't stay in the job he was in, had already begun to spin the yarn that would allow him to leave it behind. It had been something he had been considering but this last nail had formed his coffin, driving the point home. 

Errol heard the annoyance and flicked his gaze up to Ratigan's face, brows lifting toward his hairline, a silent question. Does this bug you so much, just having a conversation?

Even if the conversation was layered, laced with threat and code and whatever other secrecy he could pack in then bubble wrap it from the outside world, it was still, to Errol at least, a decent one. He had always been comfortable in hostile situations, though. 

He didn't turn his smile charming, like he would with anyone else. Didn't try to coat his words with honeyed pleasantries or spin a yarn. No, Ratigan was too direct, so Errol needed to be, too. 

"Wanted tah talk tah ye. Wasna lyin' when I said I liked ye, before." Threats and all, actually, but that was neither here nor there, and something Errol could keep tucked very, very far away. "An' if ye fink I was givin' information about yer life tah someone else, ye woulda been wrong. 'S why I insisted, 'cause 'S important." To me, to you, whomever you want to believe. "Fer what 'S worth, anyway." 

He still hadn't figured out how to explain the knife. It sat in the middle of the table, heavy. Errol wasn't going to take it back now, though. He knew Ratigan didn't think he was smart. Knew he believed he had gone into that alleyway and warehouse without a plan, backup, or a care. Except he had been wrong. Though he hadn't been one hundred percent certain, Errol had known the person he needed the information would have kept track of him, possibly would have followed him, and he had been right.

Sometimes he forgot he wasn't a soldier anymore, that he couldn't just waltz into a hostile zone and expect to make it out mostly alive because people had his six. He wasn't that man, not entirely, not anymore, but he could also never make it go away. He'd done it for too long. 

"An' I wanted tah know how long ye've dealt wif --" he paused, wasn't going to say it. Errol was very aware of the secret they were both hiding now, what it did to people. But he was curious about the way the wolf was acting, curious to know if it was because Ratigan was another wolf or because they somehow knew. "I figure ye ain't gonna say anyfin', ain't gonna 'elp, an' I ain't askin'. Jus' that. No details, I don't wanna know how it 'appened or why or where, jus' that." 

Errol could say more, could mention wolfsbane or ask about shifts, but he knew no answers would come. Yet, this asking, it was easier, somehow. It wasn't curiosity (though it almost certainly was, he'd already shown more than enough of his hand, but that had been a calculated risk). His body language was calm, nothing defensive about it, all of himself open, head tilting to show neck, even, but a stare that was unwavering. 

RATIGAN: 

Curiosity it was then. 

Well, wasn’t that rather disappointing? Unsurprising, but with the display he had given so far Ratigan had thought that maybe— but no. He was just like all the rest.

And just like all the rest, he was going to try to appeal to what humanity he may have thought was within Ratigan. Perhaps he thought this because he had seen Ratigan as the university professor and the volunteer theater director and the everyday, normal citizen who lived in Swynlake. That was only a part that he played, the cover he had been giving the most time to. (There were countless others, but this was the one he lived most every day dedicated to.) Whoever the sheriff deemed to like was not real, only a costume he wore to fit in among the rest of them. He wanted to speak to him as if he was still that man, he could see it in his body language, showing Ratigan his vulnerability in the hopes he would be rewarded with the same.

The problem with this approach was that Ratigan did not have any humanity left to communicate with. There was no empathy or sympathy or emotion that could be tugged upon to be given any sort of opening. All of that had been purged from his person until he had become what the family had needed him to be. A weapon— unperfect but efficient. His brain, built to learn quickly and at the whole, had taken this in after it had been taught what would happen should it disobey and there the lessons had stayed through the years as it had led to his survival thus far.

Everyone always wanted something, and this man thought he was owed the answer to a personal question. Simple as it was, as easy as Ratigan could have lied, he didn’t want to put in the effort of it. As much as this man may have been truthful in his word to keep from asking any more questions Ratigan knew better. If he was curious enough to ask this question, one that had an inherent selfish wish behind it, then an answer may embolden him to ask another, may lead him to believe that Ratigan wanted to converse. He did not. He did not want this man to know anything about himself that could potentially help him in the future nor did he care to hear about whatever it was the sheriff wanted to say. People had a tendency to spit out the things they wanted people to listen to instead of what Ratigan wanted to hear. It was easier to find that information elsewhere so that he did not have to endure the torture of conversation.

“That is worth nothing to me.” He didn’t care for favors or pity or the like and that is what that seemed the sheriff was presenting, acting as if Ratigan should be so flattered at a gift like that. He didn’t need it. Even if the sheriff had been feeding information neither Ratigan or the network needed the help of someone like him. “And you would be correct. I promised you your life and you have it. You can expect nothing more from me— you may consider it a birthday gift.” 

He lifted his cup of tea to his mouth to drain the remainder of it. The ceramic touched back down against the table top before he pushed his chair back from the table, turning in it as he prepared to stand. “Thank you for wasting my time, sheriff, as always.”

Ratigan smiled and did stand then, buttoning his suit’s jacket. Before he left he reached over to pick his pen back up but left the newspaper behind, the crossword finished. True to his word, he offered nothing more to the sheriff and left the cafe. There was still work to be done. 

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

Could I request yandere Trish with a stand user bodygaurd making them share a bed with her for "" protection""

It’s been a long day.

A change of clothes later, and you’re still finding blood in odd and random places--soaked in the lining of your shoes, staining your arms at the elbow, droplets caked in the roots of your hair—really, you’ll need a shower to completely purge the memory of the bloodbath you enacted.  Your Stand was powerful, but it was messy in a way that laid bare your savagery and made it impossible to get anyone else to work with you.  Every time the Don sent you and his precious daughter on a mission, you were required to act as protector and attack dog both, with Trish as your civilizing force.  When you called upon the brutal power of your Stand, it terrorized everyone who survived seeing it in action…and impressed them just as greatly, when they saw the ease with which Trish reigned you in.

At first, you didn’t understand why someone with power as vulgar as yours had been assigned to protect her, but now you could appreciate the twisted logic of it all—each mission hardened the little princess’ stomach that much more, made her more willing to put you to work as her own personal executioner.  She had a throne waiting for her, after all, and the steps leading to it were drenched in blood.

Blood…yes, blood.  The stench of it doesn’t dominate the air anymore, now that you were in the cushy hotel suite and the only red in your surroundings was the velvet trim and flowers in the wallpaper, but there are lingering traces of it all the same, and for the life of you you can’t figure out where they’re coming from.

The door next to you opens, interrupting your thoughts.  Trish walks out in a haze of steam as she towels her hair dry, the lack of makeup and expensive suits making her seem strange in a way you can’t put your finger on.

It’s not until she finishes changing into her nightwear—with you pointedly looking away, of course, you’re not that much of a beast—that you realize what it is: she actually looks her age.  It’s an occurrence that’s becoming rarer and rarer the longer you’re with her.

Trish turns to look up at you and immediately wrinkles her nose.

“I thought that might be you.  You stink,” she says.  You smile indulgently in return.

“All in a day’s work, Miss Una.  Was there anything else you needed me for?”  You can already feel it.  The hot blast of water soothing the ache from your muscles, the strong soap you’ll use to scrub every inch of you clean, and when you slide between your sheets you’ll be as clean and blameless as anyone else in this city.  You’ve become a crane-wife in reverse, threading feathers through your skin to become a beast only to tear them out again at the end of the day.  You can’t wait to be a person again, your humanity tucked out of sight before it can be mistaken for weakness.  

Except that Trish is still looking at you, head cocked in that way you’ve learned to recognize from watching her stare at little trays full of treats.  Want, naked and hungry, but it would break decorum to simply reach out and grab, and she needs a moment to work out the way to phrase her request.

“Leaving me here?”  She asks, “by myself?  You’re an awful bodyguard.  What about protection?  How am I supposed to have that if you’re gone?”

You raise an eyebrow at her.  The lie is barely worth humoring—there are no Stand users in this city, not anymore, the two of you had made sure of that this very afternoon.  Who would dare try to touch her, after all that?  Who would dare try to touch her at all?

Your master has spoken.  You ignore the ache deep in the bones of your feet, renewing their protests as your body realizes it won’t be resting anytime soon, and you move to sit in the plush armchair near the door.

A hand yanks around your arm, pulling you back.  You’re not taken off balance—you’re too disciplined—but you do hesitate, looking down at her in obvious confusion.  

“I didn’t say you weren’t resting,” she says slowly, as if it was patently obvious and you were missing the point to be obstinate, “you just have to stay with me.  For protection.”

“For…protection,” you repeat dully, trying not to imagine what would happen to you if anyone found out about this, “but of course.  Then I’ll—“

“Undress?  Yes, I’d hope so.  You’re not coming to bed wearing all that.” she finishes for you.

You stare, and then you try very hard not to imagine what would happen to you if anyone found out about this.  If a blush is heating your cheeks, Trish is polite enough not to point it out.

It was okay, right?  If she was the one who told you to do it, and you were just following orders…it wasn’t wrong to obey her, right?  You weren’t allowed to do anything else.

Your hands fumble at the buttons of your suit, shrugging the jacket off and then undoing each button one by one.  Trish rolls her eyes again and pointedly turns her head away, a courtesy you can’t help but thank her for, even though she could easily choose to not make you do this at all.  You hesitate again at the waistband of your pants, and look helplessly to her as if to ask: is this enough?  

No such answer is forthcoming: she simply huffs, clearly impatient to go to bed.  You shed your slacks, step out of your shoes and socks, and hesitate yet again at the edge of the bed.  If you weren’t terrified, you’d laugh at the absurdity of the situation—only months ago did you rankle at being beckoned to and fro like a dog, and now someone’s bed felt too much like forbidden territory to intrude upon.  You’d almost rather sleep on the floor.

She sighs, yet again, but there’s a strange emotion to it this time, one that’s difficult to place.  Trish runs her hands up your forearms, brushing against your skin, and then finally takes both your upper arms in her grip, pulling you over embroidered sheets and fluffy pillows until you’re nestled next to her.  

If you’re going to die of a heart attack, you’d better do it now.  Her skin is warm and smooth and very, very bare, and she’s entangled your legs in hers, and her head is resting against your breast, where she can hear the frantic thrum of your heart.  You’ve held her closer than this before, but that was with both of you fully clothed and in the heat of battle, so.  Totally different.  The difference of course being that nobody would argue that you weren’t doing your job then; nobody would argue that you were doing your job now.  

You needed to stop thinking about this.  Fortunately, Trish picked this moment to be a supremely unhelpful distraction, tracing patterns around the dip of her clavicle with one hand.  You focused on the motion, if only so you would stop focusing on the softness of something else pressed against your ribs.

“Say a bunch of men with guns kick down that door, right now, and attacked you,” she murmurs suddenly, almost lightly, “what would you do?”

The scenario is absolutely ridiculous.  Nobody would make it this close to her with guns alone—simply fighting their way up to you would give you more than enough time to get dressed and get out.  You humor her, though, because that’s what you do.

“I’d shield you with my body and move you to cover, where I would then escort you to the exit point.”  The answer is mechanical and practiced.  You could give it in your sleep, and you’re pretty sure you have.

She giggles.  “Liar.  You’d tear them apart where they stood.  And then you’d go back and kill the rest of my detail, for letting them up.”

A laugh huffs out of you, lightening the moment.  “Alright.  Yes.  But that’s not really the right answer.”

“Everyone knows it’s what you’d do.”  She grins, still tracing circles along the light blue webbing of your veins.  “But okay.  What if…what if I attacked you?  What would you do then?”

That one took a little more thought.  “It would depend on whether it was a reprimand, or if you were actually trying to kill me” you say at last.  “I think I can safely assume that you wouldn’t try to kill me unless you were being controlled by something.”

She pulls a little closer into you, pressing a little harder on the skin over your heart.  “You’re right,” she says at last, “I’d never do that to you.”

Her finger dips lower still, tracing circles around the pocked scars of bullet wounds across your chest and the spot where your heart beats strongest.  At last, she speaks.

“What if I told you to kill Daddy for me?”  This isn’t a hypothetical.  There’s a tremor in her voice, as if she’s almost dreading your answer, as if something very real is riding on what you say next.  “What would you do, then?”  

Your heart jumps into your throat.  Your breath, traitorously, stutters as you consider the question.  Is this some kind of test?  You try to anticipate the kind of answer she must be looking for—the earnest truth?  The calculated, political answer?  The passionate defense?  The helpless trust?—but eventually, what comes out of your mouth is:

“Are you afraid of your father, Trish?”

Her nails dig into the skin of your chest, painfully now, and belatedly you realize that the hammering of a frantic heartbeat you’d been hearing wasn’t yours—it was hers.  You stutter out a follow-up, perhaps trying to recant, to reassure her that you’re on her side without explicitly speaking against your employer.  

“M—Trish.  I know he can be brutal and cruel to everyone else, but he’s leaving his legacy to you.  There’s no reason for you to think—he wouldn’t want you to—“

Trish’s body twists and shifts, and suddenly there’s weight on top of you, making you sink into the plush bedsheets.  She’s on top of you, straddling your waist, hands over your shoulders as her eyes glare into yours, looking for something but not finding it.  Her jaw works, chewing up the words she was about to say.

“I—“ you begin, but she cuts you off.

“I don’t care what he wants,” she whispers, and you have to strain to catch every word, “Not about you.  He doesn’t care about you.  Don’t you get it?  He just wants to use you to keep me safe, and he’ll take you away from me if he thinks he needs to—once he decides you’re too broken to be with me anymore, or just a bad influence, and then he’ll give me another bodyguard and say they’re just as good.”

Her grip on you tightens, painful now, as if you’ll disappear if she doesn’t cling to you hard enough.

“It doesn’t matter what I want!”  her voice is choked now, horrible and raw in a way that makes you instinctively want to soothe her, but you can’t—not when you’re the source of her pain.  “Not when it’s you!  You’re supposed to be mine!”

She’s going to hurt herself if she clutches at you any harder.  You gently rest your hands on her white knuckles, shaking her grip loose and pulling her hands away from the crescent shaped cuts she’s left on your skin.

“I am yours, Trish,” you murmur, even though it’s clearly not really your decision to make, “Remember? Until you’re ready to let me go.”

Her burst of manic energy has run its course, because she’s slumping now, not only out of relief but also because of renewed fatigue.    

“I won’t ever do that,” she promises you, drowsily, as she nestles back in beside you.  “Not ever.”  And she means it—she’d tear down everything her father built with her own hands, if it meant she could hold onto you.

You can still feel where her fingernails cut into you.  

[mor-beck-more-problems]

New Year, New Tears || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: December 30, 2020

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan and Deirdre need to talk before they can start the new year fresh. 

Say that you'll hold me forever Say that the wind won't change on us Say that we'll stay with each other And it will always be like this

CONTAINS: brief, non-specific references to past abuse, negative self-talk

Morgan had made sure they arrived in New York in time for checking in and knocking off the first few items on the itinerary she’d devised. Initially, Morgan had organized the activities mix-and-match style according to how many hours they had at their disposal and how much time they wanted to spend in bed. In the fall, she had imagined a lot of New York would pass by behind drawn curtains while they had as many kinds of sex as they could think of and they would content themselves with only so many big things and so many little things into their three and a half days away from Maine. Today, it went like this: they dropped their bags off in their suite (in the first room, Morgan insisted they could work it out later), walked to a gourmet bakery, and took what Deirdre didn’t eat at the place up to Central Park. Then came a taxi to a cluster of rare and second-hand bookshops, and just enough time to change before catching the evening showing of Hadestown. Morgan left the theater with her arms tight around Deirdre’s waist, singing her favorite song with careless delight.

Paris had been good to them, a testament just how easy things could be. The days after stung a little, because Morgan felt weird about their bedroom, didn’t want to stay in the hotel long term, didn’t have the tiny house Deirdre had offered to help her assemble in the back yard yet, and feared latching on too hard and destabilizing herself all over again if she dove in ‘business almost as usual’ style. Because she did latch. Her heart’s freedom and her Yuletide warmth had stayed with her, sending tingles up her skin and reaching out to Deirdre to share and spread the relief between them. Touch was intuitive again, smiles came more easily--but where was the line between happiness and impending danger? She hadn’t been able to tell the difference before; would the universe guide her steps and show her now? And so every day ended a little different. Every coming and going hit a different note, some off key, some resonant with hope. But tonight, in a world so iconic and strange it seemed like something she’d dreamed, Morgan couldn’t find any of her old apprehensions. She couldn’t imagine doing anything but staying next to her love until the sun rose out their window. She tumbled into their hotel room, still singing, and kicked off her heels and jumped up for a heavy kiss. “So, you really liked it? I’ve been wanting to ask, but I couldn’t really hear in the street: which song was your favorite--no, which part in the story? I wanna know everything you’re thinking about.” She parted just to shove their suitcases off the bed and flop onto it, evening dress and all.

Human stories delighted Deirdre in a way that often felt forbidden. The fae stories focused far more on mischief and chaos and humans dying, and while those were fine, they were nothing like the stories Morgan had shown her. The kind she had come to enjoy greatly. When Morgan told her they’d watch a musical, she thought of all the ones she was familiar with; Waitress, The Sound of Music, that one about the pies with human meat, and if those Disney movies counted, then those too. But what she watched was nothing of the sort, and New York, as exciting as it had already been, seemed brighter, warmer, livelier. Was this what it was like to be human; uncomplicated and free? Could they eat baked goods, watching the sun set, going to bookstores, absorbing stories finely crafted by strangers? Could they be so....normal? Deirdre’s smile faltered for a moment as she watched Morgan flop on the hotel bed. For the duration of their trip, she kept a watchful eye over her happiness; she had been trained well in the ways it needed to be contained. And her hands, that wanted Morgan then and wanted Morgan now, needed to be reined in. They couldn’t be so normal, not yet. Normal them would have been making love by now, evening dresses crumpled on the floor. And that question would have been asked breathless, in her arms, just as Morgan remembered she never heard the answer, and had gotten distracted along the way. Normal them would have slept like that, woke up like that, went about their days exactly like that. Normal them didn’t need to worry about tamping down happiness, they simply were. But normal them was wrong, somehow, as Morgan had said it and as Deirdre struggled to understand. And normal them was gone, and present them needed to work on building a good future them so they wouldn’t break again.

But holding each other was ‘free’, and so whatever compunctions Deirdre had about intimacy now, that wasn’t one. And she fell into bed beside Morgan, pulling her love into her arms until they were tangled together the way they fit best. “You mean you couldn’t hear me over your singing,” Deirdre teased with a laugh, delighted in equal parts by memory of the show and Morgan’s glee. If she’d thought Morgan’s squealing in the snow in Paris was the happiest she might see Morgan for the year, she only wished she could go back and tell herself not to be so sure. “And you’re sure no one saw me crying in the theater, right? Because I don’t--” She cut herself off with a chuckle, “well, I don’t know. Maybe you should sing through the tracklist again so I can figure out my favorite.” With a grin, she pressed her lips to Morgan’s quickly, mumbling rough against them. “It’s better, coming from you. Oh and--” Deirdre drew back. “I have some complaints about story choices here. You said this was based on something? Why did he turn around? That’s just--” She pouted. “It was mean. You didn’t tell me it would be a sad story.” Admittedly, not Deirdre’s favorite kind of story--tragedies left her heart with a strange, unnamed, kind of heaviness. A feeling that she hadn’t yet picked apart and dissected meaning from, a feeling she had been long since afraid to try with. “I did like it.”

Morgan sighed with delight as Deirdre joined her on the bed and tangled them up like normal. The fluffy tulle under her skirt bunched up around her thighs and the simple boning around her bodice made it hard to curl up as snug as she really wanted, but Morgan was too happy to mind any of it past fiddling with her zipper and tugging it down a few centimeters. She cradled Deirdre’s face and kissed it several times over as her banshee gave her answer, lingering and nipping here and there as it pleased her.

“It was also loud with the cars going by us too,” Morgan protested, though she couldn’t keep a straight face. “Because you don’t what, babe? It’s okay, you know, right? I cried too, and the lady in front of us was crying much harder than either of us. The story’s supposed to make you feel something. That’s the magic in it. You don’t have to feel weird about any of that.” There was more to say, but Morgan leaned in and drew out another kiss, long and enthusiastic and tender when she remembered the exact look that had shown in her love’s face in the dark theater.

“I am sorry the ending hurt you by surprise,” she said, threading more kisses around Deirdre’s jaw. “It’s a very old human story, actually, from Greek antiquity. I never liked it before, because it doesn’t explain why he did it, so I always thought—yeesh, dude, you had one job! How much did you really love her anyway? But the way this version tells it…” Morgan sighed and settled her face in the crook of her love’s neck. “He held onto so much hope for so long, even when the disappointment started to break him. And then having to keep going without her, when they’d barely even touched since they’d found each other, having to believe she wouldn’t leave again, that he was really worth all this trouble— I think anyone would at least think about turning to be sure. And it was just a second, you know? Just a quick, desperate mistake. And I think it’s so sad because their love was so much bigger than that one mistake, it’s not fair for them to lose it. But the universe is brutal sometimes, and that’s why hope is so hard and special in the first place…” Morgan’s hand slid down to Deirdre’s chest and started tracing shapes over her heart, occasionally skirting along the hem of her own bodice where it kissed the swell of her breasts. “I am glad you liked it,” she murmured. “Even if I would rather hear your favorite song from you.”

Though Deirdre hummed under each touch—leaning closer to Morgan, urging more—her hands remained stiff and chaste around her, despite the twitch that radiated from her fingers. The bright grin that claimed her mouth was evidence enough that she wanted this, and wanted more, but she couldn’t have it. Her body stiffened as her voice remained light. “But this is different from crying over those cartoons in our—“ Deirdre swallowed. “The house; in private. This is different.” As Morgan kissed her, her twitching fingers curled into a claw at Morgan’s back, bunching tight fabric and digging into skin under her harsh grip. As much as she wanted to move, she did not. As Morgan continued to explain Orpheus’s plight, Deirdre thought about her own restraint. If that were her, she wouldn’t have turned around at all. She wasn’t even doing it now, as much as she twitched and stiffened and clawed for it—she was being good, dutiful, devoted. And yet, for all her carefulness, she’d let curiosity slip between her carefully crafted walls. “Is that how you felt?” She blinked, “is this…’turning around’?” She shook her head, wincing at the question—coated in metaphor as it was, even if Morgan could pick apart what she meant, it wasn’t the point. She already knew their love was bigger than their mistakes, but she suddenly understood the nature of doubt in a chilling way. She knew the truth, and yet….well, perhaps she shouldn’t have been so sure of her powers of self-control. Maybe she wasn’t any better than Orpheus after all.

Deirdre turned her gaze to the window, mumbling her requests for Morgan to forget she’d said anything. “I like ‘All I’ve Ever Known’ best, for now.” It was night, not that it was any easier to tell over the lights of New York. It was her body that told her first, in the yawn that erupted from her, before her eyes could even settle on the inky sky. “It’s getting late,” she commented. Her arms slackened. It was time for her to leave, probably. As it usually went, at least. And if she really wanted to try to be better than a fictional Greek myth, she ought to listen to the rules laid about before her. Morgan never shared a bed with her anymore, and she slept holding a pillow tight to her chest in the lonely privacy of her office. When she woke, the sight of an empty wall greeted her. If she was lucky, it would be one of the three cats instead. If she was really, really lucky, it was two of them. She could only hope the hotel pillows were close enough to the Morgan-replacement one she normally held; if she could’ve stuffed it into her suitcase, she would’ve. “I’ll take my things into the other room.”

“No, stay.” The words burst out of Morgan before she could think better of them, even just to have a better follow up argument besides, “Please.” She winced, and would have flushed if she had any blood flow in her face. She moved her arms around her love’s neck and pleaded with her eyes. A moment ago, Deirdre had been giving her so many green lights and their touch and their bodies all struck the right chord, harmonizing with such rich, perfect clarity, Morgan didn’t want the feeling to fade out.

“First of all, it is our house. Or it kind of is, or I want it to be. And second, I don’t want to forget what you said. It matters to me.” She caressed her face tenderly, hoping to convey her earnestness, her confidence. “You did...it did feel like you left me and ran away. All the note said was you weren’t dead, I didn’t know if that meant wait for me or don’t follow me, and by the end of that week, I was starting to wonder if…” Morgan shrugged, trying to keep the leftover hurt far away from her in a box at the bottom of her heart. “...if you still wanted me at all. I didn’t know how to believe you were still with me and so I turned around then, yeah. And in those days before Yule, I did kind of want to know how worth it you thought I was. Some of the ways I did that weren’t fair or kind to you. I was just…” She shrugged. “Clinging to some leftover revenge bullshit, maybe. It seemed so important that you really, really understand how it felt. None of the words I had felt good enough. And maybe if you’d take it, it would mean you would stay, or if you understood, you wouldn’t do it again. But I buried all that in Strawford, babe. I don’t need or want that. I didn’t excise the hurt completely, but I took enough out of me that I can be close to you without getting a complex about it. Enough that I can be-- stars, so incredibly happy with you. And I’ve missed that feeling so much, I don’t want to let it go right now. Haven’t you felt...lighter today? Freer? I know it’s just for a little bit, but everything’s been so hard, I don’t see the point in denying ourselves a few good nights together. I literally can’t think of anything I want more immediately than to stay here with you all night. And this isn’t even the first night I’ve felt that way, it just feels so much more silly not to follow through with the feeling when we’re away from everything else in a beautiful city plastered over a hundred movies.”

Morgan kissed Deirdre then, firm with determination. “For me, the place we’re at right now is us walking together. It’s not the way we came and I don’t know what’s next, I’m just believing as hard as I can that we’re gonna make it after coming this far. I looked, and you were there, and we’re lucky enough that we can keep walking after. That’s what I feel like this is, babe.” Her fingers idled around Deirdre’s shoulders, the ends of her hair, the gentle curve of her neck. She knew this was all dependent on what her girlfriend thought, that though they were walking, maybe they weren’t in exactly the same place yet. Her smile faltered with worry, but she held tight to her nerve and kept herself steady, though her voice was soft. “What is this for you? What do you think about...what I’m suggesting, for how we spend the nights this trip? Tell me what you think, huh…?”

Deirdre’s face softened instantaneously, her hands moved around Morgan to hold her, comfort her. It was a reaction of the body more than it was the mind, and her body wanted to yield to Morgan. To say that she would stay, that she could, that she wanted to and that she’d work out every bead of pain in Morgan’s body until her fingers bled. But the usual enthusiastic yes, yes, was replaced with lips pulled thin, brows furrowed. Her mind was a little more cautious, as it always had been. She shook her head; she hadn’t felt exactly freer or lighter. Her dutifulness was a devious prison, and it caged the rest of her well. Morgan wanted space, and Deirdre had worked it into her mind that she would provide. Every smile died miserably with guilt. And every touch withered with worry. It seemed so important to Morgan that they didn’t sleep together, Deirdre respected the choice as well as she could respect anything she didn’t want. She had thought it was so strange to deny it to themselves days ago. Weeks ago. But it was important to Morgan. And now it...wasn’t? Deirdre shook her head again as they parted. “What do you want me to do, Morgan?” Her shoulders sagged, her face contorted with confusion and hurt. The dark circles around her eyes must have been more clear then, even under the makeup, or at least she felt like they were. The nights of restless sleep without Morgan took their toll, and chilling fatigue coiled around her bones again as the mind remembered what the body could never forget. “I love laying with you; before I met you sleep was just a means to an end for me and now it...it feels like rest. Good rest. But you said you wanted your space, and I am trying my best to respect that. You set the rules Morgan, but you can’t just—“ Deirdre swallowed, turning her gaze away.

This was stupid. Any sane person would have just given in and cuddled up; her insides begged her to. She was so tired and so desperate for Morgan that she’d take just about any scrap offered. But her stomach lurched and her head throbbed; it wasn’t right. “Don’t make me into some thing you use for comfort and then leave again. Don’t just, ask for me to stay and then make me sleep alone again. I can’t—“ She closed her eyes, finding her breathing (In. Hold. Out) without Morgan’s usual prompting.

When Deirdre turned back, she was calmer, though no less pained. “You want space. That isn’t space. And I don’t want your progress to be hindered by these moments of permissibility. But more than that, I need rules. I can’t do this without rules. I need something to follow and tell me I’m doing this right. I need something, my love.” She sighed, shoulders slumped again, victim to Morgan’s touch. She hated herself so completely sometimes; how terrible and idiotic it was that her mind couldn’t just accept this. She wanted it more than anything else. “It doesn’t feel like we’re walking together, Morgan. I’ve told you that already. I’m just trying to do what’s right, but I can’t even tell what that is.” How could it possibly be walking together when she didn’t want space at all? Was it ‘walking together’ when they weren’t yet a couple? Or was that just Morgan, waiting? Wasn’t this just her, waiting?

“I’m sorry,” Morgan murmured. “I just...it just felt so good today, and I’ve felt lighter and so much better since last week and I just thought--” She squeezed Deirdre close, pressing her into a comforting grip. “You’re not a thing, that’s not what I meant. I’m so sorry you’ve felt like I don’t value you or that I’m doing this casually or anything else like--” Morgan grimaced and told the rest of her apologies with kisses through Deirdre’s hair. “I’m just sorry,” she whispered after a while.

She shifted back, just enough to see Deirdre’s as she guided it up to meet her own. “I’ve never been great with rules. It’s not intuitive for me. I’m not used to having that kind of structure in the first place, or anything staying steady enough for too many rules to work, and anytime I feel good, it’s usually so rare I don’t really think to question it or hold back anymore, especially with you. So I-I don’t mean to mess up and confuse you and hurt you like this. That’s not what I want. I want you so very much, my love, but I want your peace of mind and your comfort too.”

Morgan pressed a tender kiss to Deirdre’s forehead, whispering another apology against her skin before sitting back again. “I love you. Always, I love you, Deirdre. And I want to do better. I want to give you what you need. But I also…” She winced, her face twisting with worry. “I just don’t want to get so set in one set of rules that we don’t ever come back together all the way. I don’t want to stay so apart from you. Whatever we come up with, I want it to be something we can change later, somehow, in a way that doesn’t hurt. Maybe at a regular interval, once a week, maybe? Or we can ask? Either way, I’d like to write some new ones for us. Starting with working out a different sleeping arrangement system, if, you know…if that’s okay?” She reached slowly behind her for the hotel stationary pad, taut as a spring with hope. Wherever they really were in this metaphor, she knew she wanted to be moving forward.

Deirdre slumped, sinking further into the plush mattress. A sense of defeat rolled over her, washing her body with its cold tide. You couldn’t just let Morgan be happy? Deirdre’s grip on the sheets tightened. “No, I-I’m sorry this is…” Stupid, she’d wanted to say. They were happy, and fine, and what did it matter to her if she just let them cuddle for a few days? Why did it matter? Her mind had projected itself far enough into the future that she could feel the sting of lonely nights fresh again, after the bliss of restful sleep. Her body, once enthusiastic about giving in, recoiled in fear. She couldn’t understand what created such a challenge for her, and she didn’t possess the words to explain it. “I’m tired,” she said, unable to think of anything else. Fatigue drowned her; sad eyes morphed to tired-red, and her face sank. “I like rules.” Which was strange for a fae to say, but her life had been dominated by them, and under their command, she knew what was right and what was wrong.

She hadn’t known what was right and what was wrong for some time now. Rules would be nice, thank you, she opened her mouth and pictured the words coming out. No, actually, just forget it, I’m too tired to care now, and even that wouldn’t leave in anything more than a whimper. I just want us to be better; I hate sleeping apart from you, I hate not knowing what’s wrong, the truth of it made Deirdre’s eyes water. She hated the “space”. She hated the stupid studio, which only served to churn her insides with melancholy every time she looked out their back window. She hated that she couldn’t understand what to do--the books had told her to “not take it personally” but how exactly was she supposed to not take her girlfriend wanted an entire living space outside of their home in any other way but personal? She hated the self-help books, and their confusing language and messages. And she hated herself, for being so angry. Morgan wanted space, and though Deirdre struggled to rationalize the why, she wanted to give that to her. And she was trying, except her trying seemed to be flawed. So she had to try a different way, but that was flawed too. And now she was making her girlfriend make a list, even though she said she didn’t like rules, and was afraid of what they might do. The word “compromise” came to mind, and then her mother telling her that compromise was something idiots did when they were either too cowardly to rend open and offer themselves out or too weak to get their way. What was it, but Morgan having to suffer more on Deirdre’s behalf?

The banshee shifted. When she spoke finally, her voice was barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to. You didn’t appreciate it much when I asked you for rules the first time around. And I don’t want to put you through that again. Just...tell me what I’m supposed to do. If you want me to stay, I can stay.”

Morgan let Deirdre fall away, feeling her body tense. “Hey…” she cooed. She hesitated to scoop Deirdre up, knowing that it was just as likely that she was punishing herself as it was that she didn’t want to be touched. In the end, she split the difference by finger-combing her hair, taking out each of the little pins she ran into and setting them neatly aside. “Don’t be sorry, my love. I’m proud of you, for telling me what you need. And yeah, it’s weird and hard, not having our instincts aligned when it comes to us, but I think we can compromise. No one has to hurt so much or feel completely out of her depth. I think that’s how we’re gonna get through this.” She slid down beside her banshee and kissed her hair. “You’re right, I had a really hard time with the rules the first time we made them, but I was also in a really low place, and I was really lost and hadn’t figured out much of anything about what to do with myself. But I think they weren’t such a terrible idea after all, especially then. And I'm in a different, better spot now. And I want to do this. I’m offering. And as long as we can revisit these and change them so we can keep moving closer together, I’ll make the rules as detailed as you need them to be.”

But Deirdre’s pain was more than that. The ache in her went deeper than a worry that Morgan didn’t really want to go along with her idea. Morgan didn’t think that would be enough to make her love cry on its own. Slowly, she reached over and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “If you’re tired, we can just come up with a few rules for tonight and do the rest in the morning. But I think sooner is better than later, because...it just seems like we both want to be closer, more intimate, than we have been, and if we both want that, it seems awful to keep ourselves from it. We just have to make sure we’re doing it in a way that doesn’t hurt so much, you know?” She wiped another one of Deirdre’s tears. “...Babe,” she said, lowering her voice, just above a whisper. “Can you tell me what it is that’s bothering you so much right now? What it is that’s so sad or stressful… I need you to talk to me, babe. Right now, I need that very much. It doesn’t even have to make much of any sense. I just don’t want to do the thing where you hurt in silence and I’m on the outside trying to figure out what to do on my own.”  She let her fingers slide down Deirdre’s cheek, tracing the gentle lines of it. “I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to, babe. I’m here, and I think we can figure out how to get to ‘okay.’ We just have to do it together.”

Deirdre’s mind coursed with the same words pulsing in numbing repetition: dumb, stupid, idiotic, dumb, stupid-- She hissed as Morgan’s fingers pushed through her hair, not from the contact, which was gentle by all accounts, but from the uncanny ability they possessed to make Deirdre feel raw. It was medically impossible, but she thought Morgan could feel her thoughts through her scalp, that she could pick each one out word by word. Don’t look, don’t look. Deirdre closed her eyes. Was she more embarrassed that her mind had dissolved to such negative prattle or that she knew Morgan wouldn’t like it anymore than Deirdre would enjoy Morgan beating herself up? But her habit of self-flagellation was one Morgan knew well, and had never responded with cruelty to before. Morgan was kind, and Morgan was gentle, and Morgan loved her. Yet for all she understood, all she could think about was how terrible she must be, wasting Morgan’s time and energy like this. Morgan should’ve been taking care of herself, and instead, here she was. Dumb, stupid, idiotic, dumb, stupid… “No,” she croaked, “no, you really don’t have to do that. I know it’s hard for--you need space. You wanted to...think about yourself. Figure that out. And you said you don’t like rules and I...can manage. I can do that for you.” Her heart clenched, her face twisted with pain. Her body was so tired; she had nothing left to give of herself. Please stop, please stop. But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. “Together…” she rolled the word around against her tongue. To-geth-er; foregin, by an unnameable metric, but an idea she could latch her words to. The good words. “Not together.” Well, the mediocre words. “Not--you need--you said--you--” She swallowed. “The books, I don’t understand them. And the studio it--” She closed her eyes again. Stop, stop, stop. “Roots grow big, and long, and they take from the soil. And the other plants dry, but that’s okay, because you need it now. You need it.” Deirdre opened her eyes, shaking her head. “That’s the only thing I understand about this. I think the books are trying to say that the other plants shouldn’t dry for each other, but does that mean you have to be transplanted into a new bed so you can grow, and what does that mean for--” Deirdre hissed. “This garden metaphor is dumb. I just mean, I don’t even understand what was wrong in the first place. And maybe it’s stupid of me but I thought we were fine, but we weren’t, and now what? And I know it’s idiotic, but I don’t get it.”

Morgan listened, burning with aches as she saw Deirdre nearly writhing with pain. It was like looking into a cruel, double sided mirror. Here was her pain during all those grief days, her desperation, now with Deirdre’s face. Here was every reason to go into that therapist’s office as soon as they could get in. They couldn’t stay trapped in these patterns, they couldn’t sink into this much hurt for each other so easily, not if they wanted to last for centuries. Morgan adjusted herself so one of her arms could drape around Deirdre and take her hand while the other twisted up on the pillow and worked tenderly at the tension in her love’s scalp.

“It’s not idiotic or stupid or dumb, Deirdre. None of those things. And I got what you were saying with the garden metaphor, even if it has its limits.” Close as she was to Deirdre now, her lips brushed against her ear and neck as she spoke, and it was nothing at all to press a kiss to the nape and remember its tender, sweaty feel. “You know, for a while, I couldn’t put words to it either, but I was looking over my notebooks and this letter draft I had. I think it was the last one I wrote when I was still alive. I said something like, before you I had this little world inside me...” She let go of Deirdre’s hand to make a little sphere with her own. “And it wasn’t perfect, but it was whole and it was good. And then I found you, and you loved me, and we started making a life together, and suddenly there was more.” She took her sphere hand and stuck it on Deirdre’s trying to mould it into some expanded, hybrid shape. “And I guess once you start looking at the whole thing as space, it sort of becomes like a building. I had, let’s say, three walls holding me up. And then you came and then I had four walls. I was even bigger and stronger and had so much more possibilities. But then I died. And when I lost my senses, my magic, my life….those were my walls and they all collapsed.” She crumpled and flattened her hand to illustrate her point. “And if it wasn’t for you reminding me that you, my newest support, were still standing, I would’ve just stayed collapsed. But you did. And I finally had one whole thing to balance and fill myself with. I could finally get off the ground, and maybe our therapist will have some thoughts about that, but I can’t see that as anything but a good thing, as you saving me. The problem is, after that…” Morgan sighed, wincing. She still didn’t know when she could’ve done anything different, what opportunity she could have realistically taken to build herself better and spared them this. Maybe if she had just magically known what she knew now, if her mind hadn’t been so scrambled by death that the thoughts wouldn’t seem so hard to get to...but that wasn’t how it had been.

“I wish I could figure out another way for it to have gone, besides me just listening to you and staying alive, but I can’t. We did the only things we could think of, so it can’t be anyone’s fault, but...the problem is after that, there was still a whole me. A whole world, a whole building, and only one support to carry me. And before, when I had three, you could come and go and we could separate for those awful times, and it would hurt, but I was still upright. But with only one support for my whole self...every time you left, or seemed to leave, every time I was afraid you just might, or afraid you’d even be angry with me, I would collapse again.” She put her hand through the motions, growing to only a fraction of the old size and collapsing, like a heart losing the will to beat. “I mean, remember that first time you needed to go away for the night and I wrecked the house and you found me on the floor? There’s just so much of me, I can’t be held up with only one piece, no matter what it is. It’s just absurd to build anything that way, much less me, right? There’s not enough to hold up everything that was, much less everything and more.” She sniffled, blinking back a tear. “And it took me having to go without you, to fear the absolute worst for you for so many awful days, to realize that. But, when I did, I felt like the only way I could figure out what else to build myself up with is to keep going without, with intention. And I found another wall to hold me up in Strawford, when I gave my hurt to the earth and my heart to the universe. And I’ve found another in my arts and crafts work. Housing those new supports in the studio right now help remind me that these are separate and sturdy and mine. I’ve been a lot less insecure about wanting you now that I have that space, if you haven’t noticed.” She pressed another kiss to Deirdre’s neck. “I can just picture that place and know those supports are there. And I’ll be working again soon, and Leah said I could help with the library, and Remmy gave me the keys to the supernatural sanctuary, and I just know, because I know I belong here and the universe is holding me in my own place and my body is more than just a walking death--I know I have all the supports I need even if they aren’t firmly set into the ground yet. And so I feel confident in letting myself be so much closer to you now than I did before. I’m not so fragile anymore. You are my only and dearest love, and you are still one of my supports. You just help me have more, and not just the bare minimum. It should be like that, shouldn’t it? Us making the world wider and brighter than before…?”

There was a measure of anger to feel how easily her fears buckled once reassured by Morgan. It was childish, Deirdre thought, that her feelings could be so sensitive. Her sensitivity was something she had fought to hide away, bury deep and forget about. And yet— The stiffness in Deirdre’s body caved, and she reached for her girlfriend, curling fingers around the fabric of her dress. Her gaze followed down to the demonstration unfolding in her hand. She could see the little house Morgan was talking about, that happy, stable life. Then she could see it crumble, and become a fraction of what it once was. Morgan built her supports again, she was still building them. Some of this rang with familiarity; she knew this. But the ease of the metaphor gave Deirdre a chance to reflect on something she never had: her own life, and its supports. She had her house too, or she did. And then she had Morgan, and her house wasn’t so much a house as it turned out to be a cave. But she’d only managed just the one support, afraid of anything else—confused, lost. She missed the routine of her cave, but that had crumbled now. Deirdre drew her hand back with a frown, making and un-making a fist. It made sense, and with the sense, a terrible hollowness. There was something wrong with her and no amount of fixation on fixing Morgan and their relationship would suddenly give her any of that purpose she wanted.

Morgan had explained this in some words before, but Deirdre hadn’t made much sense of it then. Hearing it again, the picture was more clear. Deirdre sighed. “I suppose.” She unfurled her hand and stared at the wrinkles in her palm. She drew her other hand back from where it had fastened on to the front of Morgan’s dress, trying to draw her own house connecting the wrinkles. Morgan had done fine on her journey to stability, but Deirdre hadn’t moved an inch; she didn’t want to move. Her mother often admonished the predictability of humans, the creatures of comfort that they were, but Deirdre felt herself no different. She missed the cave. “I don’t think my world is very wide or bright, Morgan.” She spoke mostly to her palm, which had yet to yield a usable house. “But I think I get what you mean now.” Giving up her quest, she bundled her hands together and looked up. “Thank you. I think I understand it now. Truly. Properly.”

“No, I guess it’s not,” Morgan admitted with a sorrowful whisper. She had urged Deirdre, even when things were good, to find more than just her to sustain herself on. But her love, in all her fear and bewilderment, hadn’t found the courage yet. Then again, she was afraid of picking out the color of the furniture, so things had to come in small steps. “But I have every belief that it will be. And you’re welcome. Any time, my love.” She bundled Deirdre into her arms and threaded kisses along her forehead. “Can you tell me what you need right now, or what you want? I want to stay close with you tonight and take a couple hours in the other room sometime tomorrow morning to meditate alone. But I don’t want you to hurt, or be afraid. So just tell me, okay? We’ll find a way to make the pieces fit.”

“But it wasn’t supposed to be. It’s not supposed to—“ Deirdre slammed her mouth shut, hissing down a sob. This was a rhetoric that she had touted since the day she met Morgan, and she knew Morgan hadn’t grown any fonder for it. “I just want to sleep.” She sighed, humming her way into a more comfortable position in Morgan’s arms. She bundled her face into the crook of her neck, tangling her long legs into Morgan’s. The pieces of their bodies already fit, the rest they’d just have to figure out. “Can I sleep here? Can you hold me? Can I just...rest?”

Morgan crooned contentedly as Deirdre wriggled in and their bodies made a home with each other. “Oh, is that all, just sleep?” She teased softly, her voice lilting with comforting warmth. “No back rub? No helping out of your dress? No ambient lullabies or kisses?” She caressed Deirdre as she spoke, giving her a squeeze that she hoped expressed that she had no objections if this was how they would lay for the night, petticoats and stockings and all. It had been so very long since they’d been like this, their stillness harmonizing just right, together and apart, whole and connected. “Yes, my love. I will hold you right here, happily, and you can rest.”

“I’d have to move to get out of this dress.” Deirdre laughed against Morgan’s skin. Moving sounded like just about the worst thing she could think of. A truly dreadful thing to ask for. “Just sleep.” She smiled, eased in the arms of her love. It felt a little more like walking together then, and less like blind stumbling. Maybe she’d apologize in the morning for being so dense about it, but that was a morning problem. All she wanted now was the peace of Morgan’s embrace; she’d missed it more every second she had to do without it, and she relinquished herself to the feeling. With anguish alleviated from her mind, if not in permanence then just long enough to humor the night, she was sure this trip would be good to them. 

For the first time in weeks, a gentle sleep greeted her. And beyond it, the flicker of hope, illuminated under New York City lights: tomorrow, a day as gentle as the night, spent in museums and cemeteries and— with little coaxing— a bakery. They’d watch the ball drop through their hotel window. They’d hold each other, kiss and dance and laugh as Deirdre expressed her disappointment in the lack of big apples. Then she’d sleep again, restful as the day before. And hope would grow, and love would remind her that they carved their own good into the world; walking together sounded like just about the best thing she’d ever heard. And it made everything possible.

Even a brand new year, better than the last.

[let-it-raines]

another kind of green (1/?)

Emma Swan spends her days in pretty white dresses and heavy layers of makeup. Day after day and dress after dress, she poses for pictures and acts like she’s in love and having the happiest day of her life with the man standing next to her.

It’s not. This is all a gig, and at the end of the day, she’s no longer the girl in the pretty dress who’s faking getting married for a magazine cover or a wedding convention. Instead, she’s the girl who probably never wants to get married.

Little does she know, she already is.

Rating: Mature

a/n: Everybody remember that Accidentally Married + Forgotten First Meeting prompt @mayquita​ gave me? Well, @xemmaloveskillianx​ requested it as part of my Fic Giveaway, and here we are! I hope that you enjoy this, lovely! I promised myself I’d get the first part up in February because I’ve been promising you this forever. Hopefully the next parts will come soon💚

Thanks to @resident-of-storybrooke​ for reading over this for me!

Found on AO3 | Here |

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed, no biggie either way) @xemmaloveskillianx​ @stahlop @shardminds @carpedzem @captainsjedi  @galaxyzxstark @thejollyroger-writer @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @xellewoods @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @shireness-says @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @ultimiflos @jamif @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke  @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @spartanguard @snowbellewells

-/- 

“So, what am I doing?”

“It’s a wedding convention,” Mary Margaret explains as she pulls the threads to button Emma into her dress, “and part of it is having wedding vendors watch a fake wedding so they can see what to do and what not to do and how a wedding should flow.”

“That’s a real thing? And you signed me up to work it?”

“It’s a real thing. Did you not read the package I sent you when I emailed you your contract?”

“Marg, you’ve been my agent for five years. I usually just trust what you say.” The dress squeezes Emma, and her breath stutters. Damn this dress is tight. How is she supposed to stay in this all day? How do actual women do this? And pay money to do this? The whole wedding industry is some kind of hoax. “Plus, this pays, like, three thousand dollars with a free trip to Vegas. I saw that and didn’t really care what exactly I had to do for it.”

Emma knows that Mary Margaret it probably rolling her eyes and that she has a lecture on the tip of her tongue about Emma reading her contracts, but it’s nothing Emma hasn’t heard before. It’s the former teacher in Mary Margaret, but this is why Emma has her in the first place. She takes care of all things business, and all Emma does is show up for fittings – usually wedding dresses but occasionally regular clothes for boutiques to put on their websites or Instagram pages – and photoshoots. It’s a good arrangement that Emma doesn’t plan on changing until she has to, but that’s not going to be anytime soon. This is good money, and she’s not stupid enough to pass up on a good thing when those have been all too rare in her life.

“We’ve got an hour until you have to be in the ballroom downstairs. I’ll read the guidelines to you as you get your hair pinned back because you’re going to need to know the flow of the wedding since you’re supposed to stay in character as a loving bride for the entire day. I do mean loving, Emma. You have to smile nearly the entire time. You’re going to have to kiss this man too, okay?”

“Wait, what?”

Mary Margaret’s sigh is the loudest Emma has ever heard it.

-/-

It turns out that Emma definitely needed to read the packet (at least more than an hour before the job) detailing what exactly her job today was going to be, and she swears to herself that she’ll do it next time she’s not doing a simple photoshoot.

(She won’t, but she really should.)

There are lines that Emma has to say, and there’s a minute-by-minute schedule of where she’s supposed to be standing and what she’s supposed to be doing. It’s basically an acting job, and while that isn’t really Emma’s thing, she can do it. She’s always been able to easily memorize things, a habit she picked up growing up not knowing how long she’d be allowed to use the computer or have a book in whatever shitty foster home she was in, and she’s almost got this fake wedding thing down.

Fake pictures with bridesmaids.

Fake wedding ceremony.

Fake pictures with her fake husband.

Fake reception.

Fake everything.

She doesn’t have enough friends to be going to actual weddings every other weekend, which is good for her bank account, but she’s been working in the wedding industry for long enough and seen one too many romantic comedies to know how most of this works. Pretending to be a bride for more than an hour or two might be a different story since she apparently has to keep her smile the entire time.

God, her jaw hurts just thinking about it.  

Mary Margaret hands her off to the director for the day, some peppy woman with red hair and the brightest smile she’s ever seen, and Emma is quickly shuffled to a back room where she’s given directions that should take an hour to give in under a minute. Damn that woman can talk.

She’s also introduced to her husband for the day.

He’s standing in the opposite corner of the room, dressed in a perfectly fitted blue tuxedo with a matching bowtie, and she sees his biceps flex when he crosses his arms over his chest. He’s got a sharp jawline that’s covered in black scruff that’s a lighter shade than the hair on his head that’s swooped to the side, and he’s got the bluest eyes Emma has ever seen.

Damn.

Basically, he’s a model like all of the other models she works with on a regular basis, and as attractive as he is, she’s used to it. She’s definitely never going to see the guy again because while they’re in Vegas for the convention, she lives in Boston, and from the deep timber of his possibly British accent, she imagines he is based out of London or New York or something.

Killian is his name. He mentions his last name, but then the director, Anna, Emma thinks, is tugging them away to different places to start the wedding so that she doesn’t hear it well enough to remember it.

Oh, well, she’s got a fake wedding to attend.

-/-

Being a fake bride is a damn good time.

Remembering her lines and her cues is more difficult than she thought it would be, if only because she learned it all at the last minute, but once the actual ceremony is finished and they get to move onto the reception, everything is great. There’s drinking and dancing (her fake groom is a damn good dancer, and while she expected them to sway back and forth for the first dance, she thinks it might have been an actual dance like the waltz or something) and more drinking. Emma doesn’t even really like champagne, but when she’s given free champagne on the job, she’s going to take it.

She’d be dumb to pass that up, right?

Right.

“Swan,” Killian calls out, walking up to her at their head table where she’s snagging one of the appetizers off the plate, “they want us back out dancing.”

“Are you serious?” she mumbles, mouth full of a crab cake.

“Apparently none of these vendors have seen a couple dancing at a wedding.”

Emma huffs and grabs another crab cake. “Well, take me away sailor.”

Killian grabs her hand, warm and rough fingers so unlike most guys in the industry pressing into her skin, and tugs her along into the small group of people who are moving to the music. Emma’s not sure if they’re also models or actors or whatever or if they’re legitimately just the wedding vendors attending the event, but she doesn’t really care. So she wraps her arms around Killian’s neck as he puts his hands on her hips and tugs her closer until their bodies are completely pressed together as the music continues to play over the speakers.

But then the music is changing to something a bit faster, and Emma is pulling back from him while still staying close, making sure that their bodies are continuously pressed together. She’s not in a club or a bar, and she’s not nearly drunk enough to be grinding down on someone she doesn’t know, but she’s in a wedding dress at her fake wedding. When else is she going to get a chance to do this?

(Almost every other day at her job, but that’s decidedly beside the point.)

(And she’s usually not dancing. Just wearing a wedding dress.)

(Her life is too much and too strange if she takes the time to think about it.)

Besides, Killian is hot. In her mind, she can’t think of any other way to describe him, especially when his hands are pressing against her waist and he’s rolling his hips into her ass and his breath is hot in her ear as he laughs and keeps speaking words that seem to roll into each other as the conversation keeps flowing. She could listen to his accent forever.

It’s not going to be forever, though, because when they’re told that they’re finished with their job and stripped out of the expensive dress and tailored tux and put back into the clothes they showed up in this morning, the night seems to be winding down to its natural end.

Until, that is, Killian takes her hand once more, asks her if she’d like to go up to his room for another drink, and Emma says yes, thinking to herself that it’s definitely going to be a one-time thing. She’ll never see him again, never have to look into his eyes or hear his voice, and nothing is going to keep her from sleeping with the hot guy she’s spent all day pretending to be in love with.

She’s not in love, though, but that doesn’t keep her from hotly pressing her mouth to his as they walk through the hotel’s hallway, the both of them stopping in their tracks to take a few moments to press each other up against a wall on the way to his hotel room. She doesn’t know how long it takes to get there, especially since they seem to keep getting distracted and wander into new places, but Emma doesn’t care. She doesn’t care because his scruff feels deliciously perfect brushing up against her thigh, and she doesn’t care because he’s warm and thick, stretching her and filling her, when he slides in and presses down on top of her. She doesn’t care because even though she knows they’re both only doing this as a way to scratch an itch, this is a damn good night.

Her fake husband is going to make some other woman very lucky on their real wedding night, but for now, that’s not something she’s going to think about.

For now, this pleasure is all hers.

His too, if his words are any real indication.

(They definitely are.)

-/-

“What am I doing today?”

“You have dress fittings for the summer catalog of dresses.”

“How? It’s literally August. How can it be time for the summer catalog of dresses again?”

Mary Margaret sighs on the other end of the phone. One day she’s most definitely going to drop Emma as a client and a friend and return to teaching because Emma can never quite seem to get her shit together on how the wedding industry works. She’s already prepping herself for the same lecture that she’s heard at least twenty times by now.

“People plan their weddings months to years in advance, Emma. This is actually a late photoshoot. I think they want the pictures up on the website by next month, so you cannot miss this appointment.”

“Have I ever missed an appointment, Marg?”

“Yes, remember when – ”

“That was one time,” Emma interrupts, rolling over on her mattress and getting out of bed. If she doesn’t do it now, she never will. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s at ten, okay? Ask for Ashely.”

“Are you not coming?”

“I’ve got a shoot with Ruby. I figured you can handle a fitting by yourself.” There’s a short pause. “You can handle a fitting by yourself, can’t you?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

“Then stop acting like such a mom.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Yeah, well, when you don’t have a mom…”

“Emma.”

“Sorry,” Emma spits out, wanting to change the conversation as quickly as possible. “So ask for Ashley?”

“Ask for Ashley, and don’t drink all of the complimentary champagne.”

Emma groans. “I can’t even think about champagne. I think I’m still recovering from that hangover from two weeks ago. I mean, who goes to Vegas and gets drunk on champagne?”

“People who work in the wedding industry. It’s basically our water. Bye, Emma. I’ve got to go.”

“Bye, Marg. Tell David he still owes me from losing that poker game.”

“I’m sure he’ll love to hear that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” After Mary Margaret hangs up the phone, Emma quickly walks into her bathroom, brushing her hair out and pulling it up into a ponytail before washing her face and rubbing moisturizer into her skin. She used to curl her hair and do a full face of makeup every time she had a fitting, but she doesn’t do that anymore. There’s no point. They’ll put makeup on her when they need it.

Fifteen minutes later she’s drinking her second cup of coffee for the day, lacing up her sneakers so she can go to the gym after the fitting, and then she’s grabbing her phone and her keys only for there to be a knock at the door. She almost ignores it, figuring it’s someone trying to sell her a new knife set or something else ridiculous like that, but when she looks through her peephole, there’s something oddly familiar about the guy. But she meets a lot of people, so that’s not all that uncommon.

Sighing, she undoes the chain on her door and opens it the slightest bit so she can talk to the guy and see what he wants.

“Who are you?”

He smiles, lips curling up into a smirk while his blue eyes glint under the florescent lights. “Your husband, love.”

[dayseternal-blog]

Summary: Naruto and Hinata join the Twelve Guardian Ninja of the Land of Fire’s Daimyo.  (But not really.)  Their mission is to smoke out the rat among them who’s selling political secrets to insurgents, while making sure the other Guardians don’t figure them out.

Neither can tell when their acting became so convincing.

A fake relationship canon-divergent AU.  Rated E for eventual shameless smut.

Written for NH2020 March - Bodyguard Theme

Read Chapter 1 and Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Kiss Him Again

They left for Kumogakure ten days in advance for the joint Chunin Exams.

Ten days of constant vigilance, watching for bandits or other criminals intent on attacking the daimyo’s entourage.

Once they all entered the foggy village high among the mountaintops, they could relax a little.

The Raikage has his shinobi posted in high-traffic areas, at the fanciest hotels where the daimyo are staying, and surrounding the meeting halls.

But for Naruto and Hinata, they both know they can’t let their guards down now.

Visitors from many different nations crowd the streets.  Opportunities for a possible traitor to sneak away are high now that they are taking on 2-person shifts throughout their stay in Kumo.

At the top of their suspect list: Taiyou, a genjutsu-user who came from the same poverty-stricken village as one of the caught informants.  Lightning-style user Tacchi, who never told anyone that his younger sister was currently a missing person.  And Ryuu, an earth and water-style user who apparently caught the informants first.

They also chose Eizan, though his story held true.  His parents were killed in the Third Shinobi War.  He was then adopted outside of Konoha by old farmers, who have already passed.  Naruto and Hinata discussed that Eizan, the unofficial leader among the Guardians, would be good at keeping the group together, making it more obvious if someone wants to do something else.

Naruto knows he’ll need to sleep with one eye open in case someone tries to leave in the middle of the night.

Except he finds himself knocking on the door of Hinata’s room, his own belongings in hand, trying to ignore the flip-flopping in his gut.

“Oh, Naruto, you’re not gonna keep your stuff with Hinata-chan?"  "You guys got in a fight or something?”

...He had to awkwardly blame it on habit, grin really widely, and scooch himself out of the room.

This isn’t weird at all, he assures himself.  He’s slept beside Hinata on missions before.  With her teammates.  Outside.  Many times.

She answers the door.  “Naruto-kun?”

“Uh, I kinda need to stay with you.”

She blinks once, realization hurtling into her.  “O-oh, yes, come in.”

He enters her room silently and puts his stuff down.

They both stand there, eyes darting to the only bed in the room.

He panics for only half a second.  He has the overnight shift, so he won’t be here anyway.  “We can take turns?” he wonders aloud.  “So while I’m on duty, you can sleep on the bed if you want.”

She nods a little too hard.  “And while I’m on duty, you can sleep on the bed.”

They’re nodding to each other, glad that they easily came to a solution.

She inwardly takes a deep breath, trying to stay as calm as possible, trying to get some sense of how she normally is.  “Naruto-kun, please go ahead and use the shower,” she invites.

He glances at the bathroom, where the light is already on.  She was in the middle of getting ready before he interrupted her.  “No, no, I’ll go after.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, knowing it’s customary for the men to go first.

“Yeah, I’m fine for now.”

She decides not to push it.  “Thank you,” she says, probably a little bit too quietly.  She grabs her whole bag and retreats to the bathroom as quickly as she can.

She stares at herself in the mirror.  For some reason, she didn’t foresee any of this happening.  But she needs to act like it’s not a problem.  Otherwise, Naruto will feel like he’s troubling her when he’s not.  She needs to act as unbothered as possible.

She can do this.

She can act as she normally does.

So she makes sure to wash up as best she can, without going too fast or too slow.  Too fast, and he’ll think he’s bothering her.  Too slow, and he’ll wonder what’s taking so long.

She just has to act normal.

She quickly moisturizes, dresses, spreads a towel over her shoulders, and grabs the hairdryer to finish outside.  “Naruto-kun?” she calls, opening the bathroom door.  “I’m sorry to make you wait.”

“Oh, no.”  He looks up at her from his seated position where he was tracking the movements of the other Guardians.

He tries to keep himself from staring.

He’s known for a long time now that Hinata turns pink easily due to her fair complexion, but he still wasn’t prepared for how shiny and rosy she would look.  He stands to gather his things, averting his eyes, feeling like he saw something he’s not supposed to know.  “I was just watching the others.  It seems like they’re all just relaxing like us.  I don’t think we have to worry about anything right now since we all just got here.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“I’ll go in now, then?”

“Mhm.  I’m done.”

“Thanks.”

He steps in to the bathroom, taking notice of Hinata’s used towelette, a small tub of cream, and the hotel’s soaps.  He idly remembers that she gave him some stuff like that at his own Chunin Exams.

Hinata’s been a good friend to him for a long time.  Really since the Chunin Exams, she’s been a good friend.  Maybe that’s why he chose 8 years?  Maybe his subconscious just summed up the important years of their friendship.

He washes up, glad to be finally free of the grime of travel, thankful that he wasn’t on the first shift to watch the daimyo.

When he leaves the bathroom, patting off the humidity with a towel, the room’s noisy.

And her long hair is billowing out behind her.

A tool that he recognizes must be a hairdryer is in her right hand.  Her other hand glides through her dark strands like they’re nothing more than water.

He puts his old clothes away, watching mesmerized.

Hinata realizes he’s staring.  She shuts the machine off.  “I’m sorry, it’s really loud.”

“Uh, no.”  He notices that the top of her head is dry but the ends aren't.  “It’s not bothering me at all!”

“Oh, then, I only have a little more to do.  I’ll be done soon,” she says apologetically.

“Take your time!” he assures.  “Really!”

“Okay, thank you, it won’t take long.”  She turns back around, clicking the hairdryer on.

He guesses she must do this every time after she takes a bath.  He’s never used a hairdryer in his life, never seen anyone use one for that matter.

But it’s something that she does.  For her long hair.

...It seems unnecessary.  Plain air can do the same thing.

But...it’s apparently something she likes to do.

Maybe all girls do it to be pretty like this.

He gets the feeling again that he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to know, but Hinata doesn’t really seem bothered by his presence.

She glances over at him and sees that he’s sitting on the bed now, still watching her.  Not knowing what to think, nerves starting to rise, she decides to stop and let the air do the rest.  “I checked the other room just a moment ago.  Taiyou-san and Eizan-san are still there.”

He completely forgot about that for a second.  Good thing Hinata’s a reliable mission partner.  “Thanks.  I think when we all go out to get dinner, that’s when we’ll have to be more observant.”

She nods.  Their mission is only just getting started.

They head out with Taiyou and Eizan to a nearby bar.  It’s not the kind of environment Hinata is used to at all, since she’s still underage in the Land of Fire.

But here in the Land of Lightning, she isn’t.

“Hinata-chan, you’re 19 right?” Eizan calls, sliding the drink menu across the table to her.  “How about ordering a drink since you can.”

“Umm…”  She will still have to be alert for tonight.  “Maybe not this time.  This is a work trip after all.”

“You Konoha shinobi are so uptight,” Taiyou observes aloud, looking at both her and Naruto, who hasn’t touched the drink menu either.

“Yeah,” Eizan agrees.  “You guys don’t know since it’s your first work trip, but these are the most lax jobs for us.  We just have to be on our game during the transitions and traveling.  Especially in a village like Kumogakure, the shinobi here are good.  They’re tough.  We don’t have to worry.”

Taiyou nods in agreement.  “Kumo is one of our favorites to travel to these days, even though in the past they did all kinds of shady things against Konoha.”

“Ahh, ah, that was you, wasn’t it!!” Eizan says, eyes wide in realization, staring at Hinata.

She doesn’t give any reaction because it wasn’t a question.

Naruto looks between them, not knowing what Eizan's accusing her of.

Eizan looks at Naruto, pointing a finger at him.  “And...your mom, the previous jinchuuriki, got almost kidnapped, too.”

Naruto’s mind races to catch up.  “I knew that my mom….”  He looks back at Hinata, trying to connect the threads.  “You got kidnapped?”

“I was really young,” she offers in affirmation.  It’s an event she’d rather not talk about.  Or, more like, she just can’t talk about it.

“You didn’t know?” Taiyou asks him.

And he’s speechless.  No, he didn’t know.

“I-it’s okay, Naruto-kun, I don’t really like to talk about it.  It happened a long time ago.”

Taiyou and Eizan look down at the food menus.

“Eight years together.”  And he didn’t know until now?  Hell, even if they weren’t in a relationship (which they aren’t), but even so, just as friends, why didn’t he know?

He considers her as one of his most important friends.  She knows so much about his past...and he can’t say the same for her…  He looks at Hinata, trying to form appropriate words, trying to push past his clamoring feelings of inadequacy.  

“Excuse me, waiter!” Eizan calls loudly.  His voice dominates the table as he orders drinks and food for everyone.  “The drinks are on me,” he assures with a wink.  “The two of you have some talking to do later on, and maybe some alcohol can loosen you guys up!”

Hinata and Naruto are pulled back to the present.  To their secret mission.  But their senpai in the group just bought drinks for them, and social code obligates them to at least humor him a little.

“Don’t worry about the guard duties for now,” Taiyou says.

Naruto looks at Hinata.

“I think I’ll be fine with just a little,” she murmurs to him.

“Relax!  Enjoy this trip!” Eizan says meaningfully.  “And with the international peace, the chances of something happening to our daimyo is very low.  Both of you are always so uptight.  It’s okay to prioritize your relationship once in a while.”

Naruto’s never been described as “uptight” in his life.  Now, Taiyou and Eizan both described him that way.  He doesn’t know what to make of it.  He guesses he hasn’t been as silly as he usually is, being on an undercover mission and, most of all, being that his partner is Hinata, he just needs to be better than he usually acts...  He ducks down to Hinata, whispering, “Yeah, it’s okay.  I’m on duty later tonight, so you don’t have to worry…” and you can sleep if you need to.  He can just keep watch over the other Guardians at the same time.  He hopes his thoughts somehow translated to her.

She nods, giving him a little smile as thanks.  She turns back.  “Thank you, Eizan-san.  We’ll talk about it later.”

He grins at them.  “Just trying to help.  You two make a cute couple.”

She ducks her face, hiding her silly blush.  She squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself to calm down, telling herself that this is all for the mission.

She peeks up at Naruto, who’s shyly watching her.

Meeting her eyes, he grins despite the pinching in his gut.  “We work well together.  Yeah, Hinata?”

She nods, caught up in his gentle warmth, wondering if he’s ever thought of them as being anything more than friends.  Even if he hasn’t, she hopes that when she finally confesses, he’ll consider her seriously.  Until that day, she’ll enjoy the effortless trust between them.  She thinks, she hopes, that even if he rejects her, they won’t lose the friendship they have.

Eizan has the next shift with him, but Naruto notes that both Taiyou and Eizan aren’t exactly holding back.  Getting drunk doesn’t rule them out from being traitors, but it does tell him they aren’t going to be able to act especially sneaky for the next couple of hours.

He keeps an eye on Hinata, too, who despite how careful she’s been in her own consumption, her usually fair cheeks have ruddied and a permanent little smile is stuck on her face.  She’s still quiet compared to anyone else, but if anything, she seems more cheerful.  And the other change is...she’s been looking up at him a lot.

So he’s compelled to look back down at her each time, to meet her happy gaze with a bemused one of his own, left wondering what she’s thinking about, or if she’s thinking about anything at all.  He can feel the alcohol, too, fizzing under his skin, thumping in his chest, but concern for the mission and a rising sense of responsibility for her keep him somewhat tethered.  “You okay?” he murmurs.

“Mhm.”  She looks into his eyes, marveling at seeing her own reflection there.  

“She’s feeling it!” observes Taiyou with a laugh.  “Is this your first time drinking, Hinata-chan?”

She shakes her head, still smiling.  “I’ve had sake on special occasions before with my family, but not out like this.”

“Ahh,” Eizan voices, looking thoughtful.  “Today’s a special occasion, too, then!  First time drinking legally!”

“Mhm,” Hinata agrees easily.

“It’s good that you’re a smiler,” Taiyou laughs.  “I have a friend back home, whenever she drinks, she starts crying.  We try not to let her drink at all.”

“That’s like our friend!” Naruto adds.  “Except whenever he drinks, even just the tiniest sip, he picks a fight with anyone.  What’s worse is he’s literally impossible to beat.  You can’t let him get anywhere near alcohol, otherwise he’ll bust the whole place down, no joke.”

She knows Rock Lee is infamous for his drunk behavior, but what she will always think about first is his constant encouragement to anyone, including even Neji when he was at his most unfriendly.  She’s thankful Neji had a teammate like Lee.  “Well, when he’s sober, he’s the best kind of guy you could ever meet.”

For a split-second, he thinks to agree, but, “Wait, I’m not the best guy you’ve ever met?”

Eizan and Taiyou burst out in raucous laughter.

His stupidly thoughtless question rings in his ears.  He wants so badly to take it back when he sees Hinata turn to him, her eyes as wide as pearlescent saucers, her mouth fallen open.

“Oh Naruto-kun, you are!” she assures, emotion welling up in panic.

“Uh, no, I know I’m not-”

“No!  You are the best guy I’ve ever met!  Really!” she presses, trying to get him to meet her gaze.

“I really didn’t mean it-”

“Naruto-kun,” she begs in a whisper.  She can’t fathom how she could let him doubt himself for even a moment.  Her hand rises on its own volition, cupping his cheek, trying to encourage him to face her.

But he feels sickeningly embarrassed.  His eyes meet hers for a beat only to dart away.  “H-hinata,” he stutters.  “It’s okay, I was just kidding-”

“He’s so hurt!” Taiyou howls in laughter.

“Better kiss him to make him feel better!!” Eizan teases, hand slapping his own face in his mirth.

Naruto looks mortified with himself, an uncertain expression she’s never seen on him before.

Doesn’t he know how special he is to her, far, far beyond anyone else?...  She realizes, in horror, that he really doesn’t.  And she can’t think of any solution that would better convey her sincerity.  She grips his arm, pulling herself up slightly, tilting his head toward her, the burn over his birthmarks meeting her lips.

She closes her eyes, letting herself linger.

Naruto feels like all the air got sucked out of the room.  Pure shock has him turning his face, only to see her shift down, only to feel her soft lips again, lightly caress, then gently press right above his jawline, warm and so close to the corner of his mouth.

She settles back, trying to gauge whether it worked or not.

He stares at her, at her lips that were just on him, lungs suddenly malfunctioning in uneven, struggling breaths.

She thinks it’s good that at least now he’s looking at her.

She blinks once.

Twice.

I just kissed him.  On his face I just kissed him on his cheek, on his cheek twice on his face-

I kissed him.

Realization has her speechless; she stares back at him with an increasingly gaping expression.  She opens her mouth to apologize when Taiyou’s and Eizan’s cheers about how cute they are barge into her panicked mind, and she realizes like another clap of thunder over the rapidly brewing storm in her soul that she can’t apologize with them watching, she has to somehow act like she meant it all to happen because as his “girlfriend,” she was initially just trying to-

“N-naruto...kun?” she tests in a whisper, unsure of what worse could possibly happen to her now.  “Y-you’re the...best guy-”  Her voice is so small she can barely tell the difference between her words and her breath, and she doesn’t think she can possibly go on…

But his piercingly blue eyes are fixed on her like he’s not registering anything else in the bar.

And her heart stutters harder than her childhood speech disorder, yet she manages, “-I’ve ever met…”  She wants to curl up into herself and die.

“DAMN IT!”  Taiyou pounds the table, making both of them jump out of their skins.  He stands and points at them.  “You fucking cute couple!  I’m going to get laid.”  He hurriedly throws money down on the table as Eizan bemoans the fact that he has to work tonight, and starts to head out of the restaurant.

“Yeah,” Eizan drawls.  “We better get going.”  He starts taking out his money as he calls for the waiter.

Hinata watches Taiyou disappear from sight, and anxiety grips her.

She looks to Naruto, the alarm in her expression hopefully enough to pull him out of his shock, though she really can’t blame how out-of-sorts he is after what she just did.

When he doesn’t seem to register the current circumstances, her mind races for any excuse that would let her follow the Guardian who escaped their sight.  “...Eizan-san, please go ahead.  I think we’re not ready to leave.”

“Hm?  Oh, right, right, you guys need to talk about stuff.”  He drops some money on the table.  “Oi, Naruto-”

He manages to turn his attention to Eizan.

“Don’t be late, got it?”

Naruto nods out of habit.

Eizan starts heading out of the restaurant.

Byakugan.  She activates her kekkei genkai, frantically sorting through the crowds, finally zeroing in on Taiyou meandering down the street.

Naruto blinks himself into awareness, realizing that they have no idea where the suspects of their mission went.  “Hinata,” he calls, half of him seriously worried about the situation, the other half tipping back toward delirium.

“I have a lock on Taiyou-san,” she starts.  “I’ll follow him.  Naruto-kun, please follow Eizan-san.”

“Yeah,” he responds, unable to control how stupidly breathless he sounds.

She knows he’s probably waiting for some kind of apology or explanation, but the longer they linger in the bar, the farther the others get.  And, honestly, she knows that she can’t possibly handle a rejection from him right now.

Her heart’s not prepared at all.

She fumbles out enough money for their share of food, and they scooch out of the booth.

They part ways at the door, tracking their targets in opposite directions.

He follows Eizan back to the hotel, where he heads straight to his room.

So Naruto heads back to his own room, settling on watching Eizan, Taiyou, and Hinata from afar, trying to calm an adrenaline rush unlike anything he’s ever had before.

Like he’s constantly trying to breathe around the sweetest words he’s ever heard.

Like he’s repeatedly swallowing down a swollen pressure gripping his heart.

His body yearns for a gentle weight against him.

His cheek tickles with an otherworldly touch, one that’s soft, hot, intended for him.

He keeps falling out of Sage Mode, again and again.

It’s only when he realizes Taiyou is in close proximity to someone with a very weak chakra signature does he really try to force himself to pay attention.

Hinata is unmoving in his mind’s eye.  She’s obviously observing the two.

Imagining her breaks up his concentration.

He can’t be like this.

He can’t work like this.

And he needs to get to his shift.

He pushes himself into motion, trying to focus just on Taiyou.  This could be an exchange of information for all that he knows, and he needs to be ready to help at any moment should Hinata need him.

While he’s on his shift, standing guard near the daimyo’s room with Eizan, he notices Taiyou’s chakra fluctuating a bit, like a streetlight about to go out.

Hinata remains in her same spot as before.  She hasn’t moved at all.

Taiyou’s chakra suddenly surges wildly like a detonated flash bomb, then just as suddenly, quiets down to normal.

Hinata remains completely still, but she's fine.

His brows furrow, trying to make sense of it.

“What’s up,” Eizan asks, his guard raised.

He doesn’t know if he should tell him.  “Nothing, there’s no threat.”

Eizan lowers his guard.  “You look like you sensed something.”

He’ll just fudge the truth a little.  “Taiyou’s not in your guys’ room.”

“Yeah.  He said he was gonna go get laid.”

He frowns, realizing exactly what he was just focusing on.

Meaning Hinata was, too.  Watching.  With her Byakugan.  That whole time.

Heat rises to his face, and he hopes that Eizan can’t tell.

“What, you noticed him fucking?” Eizan asks, voice quiet but full of amusement.

“I didn’t mean to!” Naruto defends awkwardly.  “I just didn’t know where he went at this time of night.”  And accidentally peeping on Taiyou is honestly not what has him hot under the collar.

Eizan silently laughs.  “Damn Naruto, you sure act innocent sometimes.”

Naruto shakes his head, opting to answer with silence because Eizan is far from the truth.

The truth being that he's always been just another guy who laughs at lewd humor, who enjoys looking at a curvy body, and has imagined doing more despite having so little experience.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to be able to look at Hinata during the shift change.  He doesn’t think he’ll even be able to handle being next to her during their joint off-shift, he doesn’t know what he’ll say, how he’ll act.

If he’ll even be able to get intelligible words out!

If he’ll even be able to look at anything but her lips!...

He can't even think about her, really, because he keeps thinking about...

There’s no way he can do this mission without acting like a fool.

But he has to.

He has to act like he has himself together.

He has to be reliable and confident.

He has to…

He has to get her to kiss him again.

She can’t sleep.

Even though the other Guardians are dead-asleep, their pulses and energy too even to possibly be faked, she can’t relax.

If she had to rank nights according to terrible-ness, this one is up there in the top.

Practically confessing her feelings about Naruto in front of Eizan and Taiyou in a bar.

Kissing Naruto in public for her first time.  She can’t live with herself.

And then to top it all off, she wants to claw her eyes out for seeing too much information about Taiyou.

She didn’t even watch the entire time, but she had to check for Are they done, yet?  Oh, no.

Minutes later, check again.  Are they done now?  No??

She thought drunk hook-ups were supposed to be quick, messy affairs, but she ended up sitting outside on a distant enough rooftop for nearly an hour with just her self-loathing to pass the time.

And here she is in bed, awake, as if she didn’t already scold herself enough.

She doesn’t know how she can face Naruto in the morning, what she’ll tell him, how they’ll continue working together from here on out.

What if he starts acting distant toward her?

What if he’s creeped out by her?

She wants to take it all back.

Take it all back…

She can remember his skin on her lips.  His golden tan, warm and giving.

His handsome face and solid arm in her hands.

His scent, not so much a smell, but a calming aura that filled her senses.

It’s what she always dreamed of.

It was everything, he was everything, better than she ever imagined.

But.

Not anything close to in the way she wanted.

And now she wishes that none of it happened.

She shoves tight fists against her face, frustration and regret creating an unbearable turmoil that makes her grit her teeth, her skin burn up with shame.

She wants to scream!

Yet she keeps it bottled up inside, the pressure making her rattle until she lets it all out in one horrid breath, her fists pounding into the bed with an audible thump.

Unshed tears bead hot around her eyes even though she knows she doesn’t deserve to feel sorry for herself.

What has she done?  Why did she do that?

What could Naruto possibly be thinking?

...It’s not fair at all.

Not fair at all.

[lu-undy]

Chapter 11 - SBT

Here it is!

The Frenchman hit the hotel after his lunch with Victoria. He left the car to the parking valet and shot to the lift where he found Bastian.

“Which floor, Sir?”

“Cinquième.”

[Fifth.]

“Right, Sir.” The young man felt it. His client felt under the weather somehow. He wasn’t his same confident self. Of course, Bastian stayed away from questioning it or trying anything. He kept to his job and politely obliged.

When the lift stopped and the bell rang, the doors opening wide, Lucien resolutely exited without adding a word. As the doors closed again, Bastian put his hands in his pockets. 

“Oh?”

When his hand emerged out of it, a few coins shone in the palm of his white gloved hand. He smiled.

Meanwhile, Lucien had slammed the door shut as he entered his suite. He went straight to his bathroom. He opened the taps fully and let the water flow in a violent and loud stream. He removed his expensive shoes, put them out next to the front door and started stripping naked in front of the bathtub. His eyes were riveted on the water, the chaotic stream creating and destroying bubbles. 

His tie, jacket and vest flew out of the way quickly and he stayed bare-chested, crouched down, his chin and his arms on the edge of the bathtub, staring emptily at the water level rise. He couldn't hear his own thoughts if he had wanted to, the bath was too loud. Perfect, that was absolutely the point. Lucien wanted to smother and drown the voices in his head which repeated what Victoria had said. 

Bullshit! It's impossible to not feel lonely!

He frowned. Of course it was! That was how he had managed to survive! He had managed to embrace his loneliness and accept it! Victoria was young… Oui, too young to understand, no doubt. And of course such a sacrifice comes at a price! It is far from easy! But he had made it, he had succeeded in ridding himself of that feeling, the impression of a vacancy in his heart where a human should be...

The Frenchman sighed and stopped the water from running. The bath was full. He looked at the bottles standing at the edge of it and found some bubbling gel. He poured some in and mixed it until a thick foam formed at the surface. Lucien finished stripping naked and slipped in.

He let himself sink in slowly, until his back rested against the bathtub. He laid his head back and let his eyelids fall on his eyes. 

"Mon Dieu…" 

[My God…]

His lips hardly moved and the words slipped between them in a thin thread of air. 

Now what?

Well, now there was no loud water to deafen the voices in his head, no walking hard and fast to escape them either. Non, he had to face it all.

Fine.

Oui. Victoria was right, but only partly. Only very partly. There were a few times where he could still feel it, feel that he missed someone. Who? Well, that woman obviously, who else? Well…

Lucien frowned, his eyes still closed. 

Now if he was being honest, he was over her. He had put her in that tin box that was under the ground in a parisian park. She didn’t exist anymore. She was long gone. But he couldn’t help it. Each time he felt that feeling of emptiness creep up on him, he would think of her. It wasn’t because he missed her per se, but rather because he had no one to think about and associate that longing to.

Longing.

Oui, sometimes, very rarely though, the Frenchman longed for someone. Someone to hold, or to be held by. Someone to share his days with, someone to make sure his dreams were peaceful.

"Mon Dieu…"

His jaw relaxed. 

He thought back of these countless times he had someone to warm his bed. Those were surely happier times. But for some reason, he did not miss those the most, even though they did bring some kind of satisfaction… 

"Pfff…" 

He sighed. Enough for the bath. He felt himself spiralling down to useless thoughts. The Frenchman washed himself and exited his bathroom, wearing his bathrobe. In his bedroom, he chose a shirt and trousers and put them on. Lucien went to face the tall mirror next to the entrance to fix his cuffs and tie. 

He stared at himself, his hair disorganised and still damp. He hated his grey, lifeless eyes and frowned, focusing on the tie.

"Bien…" 

[Well…]

He punctuated, as if to turn the page of his mind. He thought back on his mission. 

"The target makes himself rare in public, hm? So be it, but I hope I will be able to at least catch a glimpse of him at The Queen Victoria. To that end, I need Richard's suit… I hope he will be fast. The sooner I go to that place, the better. Actually, maybe I can work on its layout first….? Oui, I shall ask Maurice for a map of the building and maybe a list of frequent clients."

He finished with his tie and went to grab his file. The Frenchman then put everything on the coffee table and sat down on the black leather sofa in front of it. He raised his head to see if there were any clocks on the wall to see the time when-

"Oh…" 

He hadn't realised it but his living room was massive. It was much more spacious than what he had caught a glimpse of as he had entered his suite the first time. Moreover, one side of it was entirely windowed and he could see a good part of the city from it. The view cut his breath short for a moment. But that wasn't what caught his attention first and foremost. Non. 

He stood up and walked to what had caught his eye. 

"Very nice…"

He let the tips of his finger delicately brush the black varnished wood before pulling the stool and sitting down. He opened the long black varnished lid and set his fingers on the keys. 

A piano was sitting in the middle of his living room and he hadn't noticed it for days… 

He looked at his fingers on the white keys. Last time he had seen them like that, the skin was smoother and he could see everything but the age on them. Now of course, it was much different.

What should he play? 

What key to press? What hammer should hit the strings of silence? 

He knew. And started playing.

{To the reader: Listen to Bard by Brad Meldhau on Youtube!}

The first few notes were shy, he didn't dare push the silence away too hard. He just wanted to fill the void, have the melody and the slightly dissonant harmonies talk to him in a way that words couldn't, even in his mother tongue. 

For there are ideas that simply cannot be put into words, they can't be molded into letters and put together into a string like the pearls of a necklace that passes from one to the next. Non. Some ideas cannot be expressed in words but…

But tones, sounds, melodies, harmonies. Those could render those invisible colours of the soul. Non. Music was the only vehicle to take these emotions from within himself and gently blow them out, like he would a fluffy dandelion. Music was the only one who could guide those wordless primitive waves of his insides into the air. 

And at what cost did it all come? As usual and as they say in French 'La fin justifie les moyens' : the end justifies the means. 

Lucien did not care that he would probably sit there for hours on end, he did not care that the sky went from blue, to pink, to orange, to dark as he still sat there, hunched over the ivory keys that hit him repeatedly. Neither did he mind that his back would not forgive him for this. The strain that he put onto his shoulders and his spine, he ignored. Those could wait and be cured easily with some aspirin. For the pain he was easing now with all this, there was no prescription. 

He played relentlessly and it lasted for hours until he could barely see the keys in the darkness of the night. He raised his nose off the keyboard and saw the night city, the buildings standing like black silhouettes only punctuated by yellow-lit windows here and there. 

Lucien took a deep breath and sighed before straightening his back and stretching his shoulders. Now he could feel the back pain. But at least his mind and spirit were empty. He could face life again. So he decided on a late night coffee. He would go on foot too, no need to get the Panthera out for that. 

The Frenchman took his jacket and exited his dark suite.  On his way out he met with Bastian. He signaled him to get closer. 

"Va voir Maurice et demande-lui les plans complets de l'intérieur du Queen Victoria pour moi s'il te plaît." 

[Tell Maurice I need the complete plans of the layout for the Queen Victoria, please.]

The young man nodded. 

"Sure, Sir."

"Thanks."

As he walked out of the hotel, Lucien realised that the city was still pretty busy. Nightclubbers and young people were the faces that he mostly saw as the night was rarely for families with children. 

He stopped at a crossway and lit a cigarette, waiting for the cars to stop passing and let him through. 

He crossed the road and continued, a cigarette between his lips. His feet were choosing the path, he was merely following until he found himself in front of a shop. The neon light at the entrance was blinking in blue and pink. 

Joe's

He pushed the door and the jingle of a bell rang. Lucien could hear the static noise of a radio further in the narrow shop but it wasn't music, no, the background noise covering the voice was too loud for it. It was sports, some match or competition of some sort.

"Look, who it is, eh? Came back for another map?" 

Joe emerged from nowhere. 

"Ah, good evening. Non, I am just…"

Lucien had no idea what he was doing. 

"Just havin' a look, eh? It's fine, take yer time, I'll just be at the radio, we're playin' New Zealand, see?" 

Joe turned his slender silhouette and started walking away. 

"Wait."

He stopped. 

"Can I ask you something, Joe?" 

"O'course, son. What d'you need?" 

"We can go at the counter if you'd prefer to have a seat." Lucien suggested. 

"Oh, long story time, eh? Roight, follow me." 

Given how small the shop was, it only took them a few seconds to arrive at their destination. Joe walked behind the counter and hopped on his tall stool. 

"So, tell me." 

"I would like to ask you what Victoria likes." 

Joe's bushy eyebrows jumped. 

"What?" 

"Does she have any passions? Is there anything she likes to do outside of her working hours?" 

Joe lowered the volume on his radio until it was but a whisper, and pointed an accusative finger at the Frenchman. 

"Oi there, listen. You don't touch my little girl Vicky, alroight?"

"Pardon?" Lucien asked in his native language. 

"Ya heard me alroight. You lay a finger on her hair and I'll find ya! By God, she's half your age, son! You could be her dad! Go find yerself someone who’s really for you!”

“Joe, non, you misunderstood me, I - oh mon Dieu! I hope she isn’t under that impression too… I just… Argh.."

Lucien sighed and put a hand on his brow. 

"Vicky's a good girl."

"I know." The Frenchman answered. "Which is why I am asking you this. I might have offended her and I want to make it up to her."

"What did you do?" 

"She said something that was too true for me to hear. So I left her without adding a word."

"Not exactly well mannered comin' from a posh fellow like you, eh?"

He nodded. 

"Alroight. Tell you what. She's got a collection of comics that she likes. Here's the next issue." 

Joe put a magazine on the counter. 

"Get that to her and apologise."

"Merci."

"T's'alright."

"How much do I owe you?" Lucien asked. 

"Not a cent. You're doin' it for her, which is enough for me. Now go and I hope she'll forgive you."

Lucien took the comics book and raised an eyebrow to Joe. 

"Why?" He asked. 

"'Cause she likes you, the poor thing. She's never had friends to have lunch with before, y'know."

"How do you know about our lunch?" 

"She came here before you did. Brought me me pills. And she talked. But she's back home now. If you wanna see her, you'll have to wait for tomorrow."

"I see. Many thanks, Joe."

"See ya." 

And with the same jingle of the bells, the Frenchman went through the door. On his way back to the hotel, he looked through the window of the restaurant where Victoria worked. The lights were off and it was lifeless. Only the jukebox still shone in a corner of the room.

Lucien went on until he found himself back in the hotel. 

"Evening, Sir." 

He turned and saw Bastian. 

"Bonsoir, Bastien." He answered. 

[Good evening Bastian.]

The young man went to the lift and entered right before the Frenchman slipped in.

"Fifth floor, Sir?" 

"Oui, s'il te plaît."

[Yes, please.]

The doors of the lift slowly slid shut and they both felt it take off the ground floor. 

"Bastien?"

"Yes, Sir?" 

"You can call me just L." 

"Ah, alright, thanks L."

"Tell me, is there anyone who has the rooms around my own?" 

The young man raised an eyebrow at the weird question. 

"I don't think so. And in any case, suite 504 is one of the biggest that we have. It occupies almost a third of the floor. The other rooms are much smaller." 

"I see. Could you double check for me please?" 

"Of course, Sir." 

"Merci bien." 

[Thank you very much.]

The doors of the lift slid open and the Frenchman stepped off.

"I will be waiting for your answer in my room."

"Alright L, I'll just be a minute."

The Frenchman nodded and followed the corridor to his suite. He entered and removed his jacket and shoes. He flipped one of the switches just to have barely enough light to see. He headed straight to the bar where he found a bottle of what looked like wine. He opened it and poured himself a glass.

Ha, wine. 

You can’t call it wine when the cap is a plastic lid that you have to unscrew. Non. Proper wine came in a glass bottle too dark to see the subtle beverage, like black tights on a woman’s slim legs. Barely enough to see its content but more than enough to see its shapes. He drank it and it stung the back of his throat. 

He coughed a few times. He hadn’t expected it to be that acidic. What château was that?! Ah, yes, a local cheap one.  

There was a knock at the door. Lucien went and opened it.

“Ah, Bastien, alors?”

[Ah, Bastian, so?]

“They are all empty and the house will keep them so for you.”

“Parfait. Thank you very much.”

[Perfect.]

“You’re welcome, Sir.”

“Oh, and Bastien?”

“Yes?”

The Frenchman took a step forward, stepping out of his suite, his feet in direct contact with the carpet of the corridor. He adjusted the young man’s tie and his hat.

“There. That is better. If you want to make it, you have to pay attention to the details, mon petit.”

[My little one.]

“Oh, uh, thank you very much, Sir.”

“L.” Lucien corrected him.

“Ah yes, L.”

“Now, good night.”

“G’night, L!”

Lucien watched as the young man walked as light as a feather back to the lift. He smiled to himself and got back inside his suite. 

Without a second thought, he grabbed his glass of wi--whatever that dark, acidic beverage was and went to the piano again. He brought an ashtray and lit a cigarette. 

The Frenchman didn't feel like sleeping despite the late hour of the night. Instead, he repeated some pieces that he knew again and again. And now that he knew he had no neighbours, he didn't hold back his fingers. 

He loosened his tie and gulping down more of the bitter wine, he drummed his fingers on the ivory keys more aggressively, more passionately. 

Non, he wasn't going to sleep that night and God had given him a finely tuned piano. He wasn't going to waste the opportunity. 

His fingers slithered, glided and slammed rhythmically as his bare foot crushed the pedal repeatedly. 

Soon he closed his eyes. He had tamed the keys, they would come under his fingers when he needed them without him even having to ask in any way or another. He shook his head left and right, his cigarette between his lips. 

He had spent minutes that transformed into hours playing. The tie had been thrown away and the shirt had three buttons open as the sweat beaded and rolled down his brow, his eyes still screwed shut. His hair flew after him as his shoulders were jumping in sync with the tempo. The grey and black, wet locks now stuck to his brow or slammed it repeatedly. 

And he didn't know it but the sun was rising and the birds were chirping. 

Lucien rolled the sleeve of his left arm as it was still playing and then did the same to his right hand. 

The sun was rising but his eyes were still closed. The Frenchman would start his day only when his ears and soul would have been nourished enough.

[feargender]

what have i done with my heart on the floor

written for @jupeterweek day 3: AU

read here on ao3 

Peter hasn’t pulled off a job in months. He’s had multiple opportunities, of course, he’s heard tappings and gotten tips from contacts. But his heart just isn’t in it, he finds it exceedingly difficult to don the mask. His fingers slip on his lockpicks, grip clumsy in a way it hasn’t been in decades. 

He can’t help but blame himself for his misfortune. If he had just turned his back on Hyperion City, the entirety of Mars, like he had sworn to himself he would, this wouldn’t be happening. But Martian elections are always frightful things and he couldn’t help but feel… concern. Juno always manages to land himself directly in the middle of frightful situations and Peter knew that if he kept his ear to the ground long enough he’d hear the detective’s name. And he had. 

Following whatever it was that occurred in Old Town Hyperion following the landslide election, Mars was plastered on every news stream for a week. 

Peter remembers the sound his comms had made when he threw it against the wall of his hotel room. The screen cracked, but the report continued out of the tinny speakers. “This election week was not without its casualties, however,” the news reporter said. “Former Mayor Pilot Pereyra has been reported missing and presumed dead somewhere in the Martian desert, along with Private Detective Juno Steel, local investigator in Hyperion City.” The comms shattered easily under Peter’s sharp heel, but the words still rang in his ears. 

His stomach dropped straight into the floor, and kept plummeting. It’s been almost half a year, but he can still feel his heart ache with the pain of it. A keen sense of loss he hasn’t experienced in twenty years. He doesn’t remember it hurting this much, the hollowness inside. A genuine, physical pain he can’t break free from. His hands shake most of the time, these days, and his words escape him. He finds himself stumbling over the details of his aliases, even when alone, never mind what might happen if he was actually in the middle of a job and needed to remember the information. 

One does not have a lucrative career as a master thief without ferreting some savings away, however, so Peter is not rendered immediately destitute. However, the well is running a little dry, so when he is put into contact with a group of thieves looking to expand their number, he’s hardly going to say no. Especially not to Buddy Aurinko, living legend that she is. She seems to know that he hasn’t taken a job in quite some time, but isn’t bothered by it, if he can assume by her voice over the comms. But he assumes very little about her, so it’s hard to be sure. 

She made contact with one of his more broad aliases, Adrian King, more of a placeholder name than anything. He has to have something of a professional reputation, but cannot use his own name, so Adrian was born. He’s very similar to Peter in most aspects, mainly in that he doesn’t share much personal information, so it will be a simple enough guise. And, if Peter is being honest with himself, he could use the company. Perhaps in working with a group he’ll regain whatever it is he lost along with Juno. 

He comforts himself with this thought as he follows the broad back of Jet Sikuliaq across the bustling Venusian spaceport. This, in and of itself, is a bit disconcerting. He’s never met Sikuliaq directly, but when the RUBY7 went missing right out from under his own nose a few weeks after his and Juno’s… departure from one another, he had assumed it had been the original owner come to reclaim her. 

Jet is not a talkative man, which suits Peter just fine. The fifteen minute walk to the rather unassuming ship is silent, save for the moment that Jet pointed the ship out to Peter. The gate to the cargo bay is open, hanging open like the bottom jaw of a great yawning mouth, and Peter can see several figures standing around just within it. 

He slaps an easy smile on his face and affects casual posture, hauling his rolling luggage behind him. His eyes take in the distinctive red hair of Buddy Aurinko and a narrower, green haired woman standing next to her, like a shadow with teeth. The RUBY7 gleams a slightly sickly shade of lime in the harsh lights of the spaceport, but this is not what makes Peter stumble over his own feet. 

The lady leaning against the car is short, and stout. His hair is dark and in tightly coiled curls, a bit longer than Peter remembers. His face, too, has more scars, particularly around his right eye, which is made of glass. But his tan trench coat is the same, Peter is sure of it. He can see the tear in the left lapel that was there the last time he saw it. 

Juno’s mouth quirks into a slightly surprised smile. “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asks, jokingly. But his eyebrows are pulled down worriedly, and Peter distantly knows that he must look like the universe’s biggest fool. In that moment, whatever disguise he had managed to cloak himself in slips away, leaving him utterly exposed, visible to the naked eye. 

“Juno,” he chokes out, mounting the ramp up to the ship and dropping his luggage, throwing his arms around Juno tightly enough that he almost topples them both over. But Juno catches them on the side of the car and then wraps his arms around Peter, who has his coat held fast in two tight fists. “I thought you were dead,” Peter hisses into the side of Juno’s head, face nestled against his temple. 

The part of Peter that is a thief more than he is even human knows that they’re being watched, but he doesn’t care. If he lets go of Juno now he might die, or worse, he’ll cry. The only thing keeping him grounded, and the tears from flowing, is the feel of Juno’s hands on his back, one of them shifting a little as if to comfort. 

Juno shifts his face so his mouth his hidden from view and says, “I’m fine, Nureyev.” At that, Peter pulls away far enough to look at him, really look at him. He looks healthier than Peter has ever seen him. The dark bags and deep lines under his eyes are absent, like he’s been resting, and the shoulders under Peter’s hands are stronger, a bit more packed with muscle. For once, he isn’t injured. No scrapes, no bloody bandages, no broken bones. 

Peter sniffs, trying to regain a bit of dignity. “So you are.” 

“I didn’t know you knew Adrian, Juno,” Buddy says, eyebrow arched. Peter feels hot embarrassment flood him, but she only looks curious, and a little sympathetic. 

Juno deflects that, saying only, “I didn’t know how to get in touch with him after Hyperion,” to explain away Peter’s reaction. Buddy’s mouth quirks, and Peter knows she noticed, but she only nods. 

“I take it you can handle the tour, then,” she says, already taking the hand of the green haired woman and walking away. Jet claps Peter on the shoulder hard enough that he nearly topples, and follows, leaving them alone in the cargo bay. After a moment, the great yawning door closes, the silence ringing. 

Peter is at a complete loss of words, simply staring at Juno, waiting for him to disappear. Juno takes Peter’s luggage in one hand, and Peter’s hand in the other, leading him out of the cargo bay. His skin is warm and calloused, and Peter revels in the contact. Juno begins talking, rambling about the ship as he leads them on a rather stunted tour before heading to Peter’s assigned room. “It’s small, but it locks. Rita can override the lock, obviously, but you know,” Juno stops in the doorway, shrugging. “Uh, you’ll have to get creative about storage.” 

Peter nods dumbly, following Juno inside, sitting on the bed when Juno indicates it to him. Juno sits beside him, the door hissing closed behind them. “I’m… I’m really sorry, Nureyev. I would have told you, if I could,” Juno finally whispers. Peter suspects this is an apology for more than one thing, but what happened between them is a conversation for later. 

“I saw on the news that you died,” Peter says hoarsely. 

“Yeah. A lot of stuff happened with Hyperion, more than anyone really knows. It was too much, I decided I needed to disappear. Before Mars killed me for real,” Juno says, shrugging again. 

“I missed you so much,” Peter says, and it feels ridiculous and childish to say aloud, but it’s the truest thing he can think of. Every day since he saw that news stream, he had missed Juno. As if the very universe was darker and more bleak without his presence somewhere within it. “It was horrible, I. It’s been horrible, Juno.” Now, it seems, Peter’s body has finally rebelled against him completely, the first hot tears leaking from his eyes. 

Juno reaches over and gathers Peter against him, holding onto him tightly. Peter mashes his face into the side of Juno’s neck. 

“I’m sorry,” Juno says again and again, until they lapse into silence. Then, once Peter looks up at him, bleary eyed and face wet with tears, he smiles. “You changed your cologne.” 

Peter gives a wet laugh. “And you kept this stupid coat,” he plucks at a loose thread in Juno’s sleeve. 

“It’s comfortable,” Juno protests. 

“It’s hideous,” Peter replies, voice rough. 

“I’m so sorry. For everything,” Juno says. 

Peter shakes his head, wiping his face before settling again into Juno’s side. “Can we not do that conversation now? I think I need some time.” 

“Of course, Nureyev. Whatever you need,” Juno agrees quickly. Peter kicks off his shoes, leaning more firmly into Juno until he shifts and they both lay back on the rather narrow bed, folded against each other.

Juno sheds his own shoes and goes to take off his coat, but Peter grips him tighter. Juno smirks. “I thought you said you didn’t like it.” 

“I said it’s hideous. There’s a difference,” Peter disagrees. 

Juno laughs softly. “I really missed you, too, you know,” he says quietly, leaning his cheek against the crown of Peter’s head. Peter sighs, scooting a bit closer, clinging in a way that will no doubt be slightly mortifying in hindsight, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t want to help it, even. He wants to hold Juno so tightly, until his poor heart has a chance to put itself back together again. Until the pervasive ache in his stomach eases. Once he has that, he’ll consider letting go. 

[eddycurrents]

For the week of 2 September 2019

Quick Bits:

Agents of Atlas #2 again seems to focus more on Amadeus Cho and his perspective than the rest of the team, but it’s still very entertaining. Greg Pak, Nico Leon, Pop Mhan, Federico Blee, and Joe Sabino continue to weave together intrigue, superhero action, and romance with a very interesting mystery evolving. 

| Published by Marvel

Animosity #23 is part one of “Rites of Passage” from Marguerite Bennett, Elton Thomasi, Roberto De Latorre, Rob Schwager, and Taylor Esposito. While Jesse and her caravan continue to try to make it out west, her animal friends attempt to plan for her upcoming 13th birthday. Wonderful character moments here and further insight into the horrors that the animals have seen.

| Published by AfterShock

Battlepug #1 brings the web comic to regular monthly print comics from Mike Norton, Allen Passalaqua, and Crank! While it does help to have read the previous adventures, you can pick up and enjoy this humorous take on sword and sorcery fairly easily. Some very nice humour in the “Covfefe” puppet.

| Published by Image

Berserker Unbound #2 is another wonderful issue from Jeff Lemire, Mike Deodato Jr., Frank Martin, and Steve Wands. The art alone from Deodato and Martin is wonderful, deftly mixing the modern and the archaic. It’s also very interesting to see the barbarian trying to navigate our strange modern world and the fact that he can’t understand anything that anyone is saying.

| Published by Dark Horse

Birthright #39 gives us the confrontation with Mastema. Learning that she’s pretty much thoroughly insane and that the entire two worlds are screwed. At least, from her perspective. The colour work here from Adriano Lucas is positively brilliant.

| Published by Image / Skybound

Breaklands #1 is a Comixology digital original from Justin Jordan, Tyasseta, Sarah Stern, and Rachel Deering. It’s different, bloody, and intriguing as to what’s going on. The opening suggests a kind of weird cult, the past gives the impression of post-apocalyptic tribes or gangs. 

| Published by Justin Jordan

Buffy the Vampire Slayer #8 is a prelude to the “Hellmouth” crossover event with Angel, but I’ll say that it is essential to the overall storyline. This issue basically sets up the entire thing, even while still doing prologuey things. Great art from David López and Raúl Angulo. And, despite what Angel (at least that’s who I assume is in that devil mask) and Xander say, the “bat” costume is great, even if it doesn’t make sense.

| Published by BOOM! Studios

Conan the Barbarian #9 takes us on a trip through Conan’s hallucinations of monsters he felled in battle as he tries to lead a group of people caught underground in the lair of the Undergod. Incredibly impressive artwork from Mahmud Asrar and Matthew Wilson. As we get a bit of reminiscence here, it feels as though we’re approaching the end of this arc.

| Published by Marvel

Crowded #9 is pretty intense as Vita and Charlie breach a hotel and try to get the information on who set up the Reapr campaign from one of Charlie’s old “friends”. It goes about as well as you’d expect. Christopher Sebela, Ro Stein, Ted Brandt, Tríona Farrell, and Cardinal Rae continue to keep this story on its toes, speeding along as fast as it can.

| Published by Image

Dark Red #6 begins the next arc from Tim Seeley, Corin Howell, Mark Englert, and Carlos Mangual. It tosses more complications into Chip’s life in the form of a “cleaner” enthralled to another vampire and a family of were-jaguars fleeing from an El Salvadoran gang.

| Published by AfterShock

DCeased: A Good Day to Die #1 expands the story a bit further with this one shot featuring a reunion of some of the Bwa-Ha-Ha era of the Justice League and a few other guests. Great art from Laura Braga, Darick Robertson, Richard Friend, Trevor Scott, and Rain Beredo.

| Published by DC Comics

Deathstroke #47 continues “Deathstroke RIP” and it’s going to do your head in a bit. A banged, bruised, beaten-up, and confused Slade shows up with a bad attitude and we’re unsure how he’s back from the dead and acting fairly un-Slade-like. Also, Jericho gets his Doctor Manhattan moment. Priest, Fernando Pasarin, Carlo Pagulayan, Jason Paz, Cam Smith, Wade von Grawbadger, Jeromy Cox, and Willie Schubert are definitely continuing to keep this interesting.

| Published by DC Comics

Die #7 catches up with the other half of the party in Isabelle and Chuck and, well, Chuck is an asshole. Kieron Gillen, Stephanie Hans, and Clayton Cowles manage to out-bleak the previous issue, but in a way that doesn’t elicit sympathy this time. It’s interesting as to how they build up Chuck, elaborate on his backstory, and make him even more thoroughly unlikeable.

| Published by Image

Doom Patrol: Weight of the Worlds #3 is fairly impressive, with Gerard Way, Jeremy Lambert, Steve Orlando, Doc Shaner, Tamra Bonvillain, and Simon Bowland managing to become even more inventive with the narrative for an already incredibly inventive series. This one takes the convention of a flashforward and presents it as an issue of Doom Patrol in the future, weaving in some hard-boiled narration through a series of novels. Great work here all around.

| Published by DC Comics / Young Animal

Everything #1 is weird. Very weird. This first issue from Christopher Cantwell, INJ Culbard, and Steve Wands feels like it’s mostly about setting up the atmosphere and briefly introducing many of the characters as the new Everything Store opens up in Michigan. Love the art from Culbard.

| Published by Dark Horse / Berger Books

Fallen World #5 concludes what has been an excellent series setting up the next stage of the 4002 AD time period of the Valiant universe from Dan Abnett, Adam Pollina, Ulises Arreola, and Jeff Powell. The art from Pollina and Arreola is gorgeous, really leaning hard into the weird and wonderful of the future.

| Published by Valiant

Fantastic Four #14 kicks off “Point of Origin” celebrating the initial launch of the Fantastic Four’s expedition that turned them into the Fantastic Four. The shifting timeline makes this feel weird, but it’s still an interesting premise. Great art from Paco Medina and Jesus Aburtov.

| Published by Marvel

Future Foundation #2 is more fun from Jeremy Whitley, Will Robson, Paco Diaz, Daniele Orlandini, Greg Menzie, Chris O’Halloran, and Joe Caramagna. Why exactly the kids would mistake a younger looking Maker as their own Reed Richards is anyone’s guess, but this is still an entertaining prison break story building upon loose threads from Secret Wars.

| Published by Marvel

Ghost Spider Annual #1 continues the “Acts of Evil” theme running through this year’s annuals as Gwen takes on Arcade and a host of Spider-Man’s villains and allies. It’s a good story from Vita Ayala, Pere Pérez, Rachelle Rosenberg, and Clayton Cowles that helps Gwen get a sense of place when it comes to some of the differences between Earths-65 and -616/

| Published by Marvel

Giant Days #54 is the end to the series, but there’s one more issue in the story in the Giant Days: As Time Goes By special. Still, John Allison, Max Sarin, Whitney Cogar, and Jim Campbell gives us one last hurrah as Daisy, Esther, and Susan spend the summer together before graduation, tying up some loose ends, before saying goodbye to one another. It’s an emotional end, full of the eccentricities and humour that have been a hallmark of the series.

| Published by Boom Entertainment / BOOM! Box

The Green Lantern #11 continues the multiversal adventure. This is really some of the fun, eccentric science fiction-y superheroics that Grant Morrison really excels at along with gorgeous artwork from Liam Sharp and Steve Oliff. I quite like Sharp’s Neal Adams-esque Batman GL and it’s neat to see the Green Lantern oath’s differences across multiple universes.

| Published by DC Comics

Harley Quinn #65 kind of does an end run around the “Year of the Villain” content, incorporating it as a couple pages of the comic within the comic, while the rest of the issue is devoted to Harley dealing with the grief of the loss of her mother. By kind of ignoring it. Escaping to the Coney Island Volcano Island and getting a bit...rustic. Sam Humphries, Sami Basri, Hi-Fi, and Dave Sharpe also keep Harley’s trials going along nicely.

| Published by DC Comics

Harley Quinn & Poison Ivy #1 follows up on Poison Ivy’s new status after regrowing herself from the death sustained in Heroes in Crisis. Now, I can’t say I exactly liked that series or what happened, but I do think that Jody Houser, Adriano Melo, Mark Morales, Hi-Fi, and Gabriela Downie make the most of it and turn it around into an entertaining start to this new story. Also, a nice pick up on both the broader “Year of the Villain” event (even though there’s no event banner) and on the new developments in Justice League Dark about the Parliament of Flowers and the Floronic Man.

| Published by DC Comics

Immortal Hulk #23 brings the fight to Fortean. It’s absolutely brutal on both sides. Joe Bennett, Ruy José, Belardino Brabo, Paul Mounts, and Matt Milla really do an incredible job with the action here. And the end is stuff of nightmares.

| Published by Marvel

Justice League #31 continues the “Justice/Doom War”. It’s very, very nice to see the Justice Society back in the mainline DC universe. Combined with the Legion of Super-Heroes back, it’s a wonderful time to see these two teams back. Feels good. It also helps that Scott Snyder, James Tynion IV, Jorge Jimenez, Alejandro Sanchez, and Tom Napolitano have JSA nestled within a great story, flinging the Justice League through the past and future.

| Published by DC Comics

Lois Lane #3 is worth it for the art from Mike Perkins and Paul Mounts by itself. The fight between the two Questions is incredible, beautiful flow of action and energy all through the exchange. Also, we get some follow up on Superman protecting Lois adding complications. There could be an argument made that this story is unfolding at roughly a snail’s pace, but that would overlook the wonderful character moments occurring, the atmosphere, and epic action sequences. 

| Published by DC Comics

Midnight Vista #1 is a wonderful start to this story from Eliot Rahal, Clara Meath, Mark Englert, and Taylor Esposito. It’s an alien abduction story told pretty much straight and its intriguing as to how the disbelievers in this tale are going to deal with, even amid the very real kidnapping and lost time that occurs. I love Meath’s line art here.

| Published by AfterShock

No One Left to Fight #3 hits hard a couple times, first in Winda’s decidedly horrible way of handling rejection and jealousy and then in the Hierophant’s temptation of rebuilding Valé, fixing what ails him. More great work from Aubrey Sitterson, Fico Ossio, Raciel Avila, and Taylor Esposito. This book is a feast.

| Published by Dark Horse

Pretty Deadly: The Rat #1 is a very welcome return of this series, shifting time frame again to ‘30s Los Angeles and adopting a noir style. The artwork from Emma Rios and Jordie Bellaire is drop dead gorgeous, seemingly coming up with new styles and approaches to storytelling. The film stills in particular are very impressive.

| Published by Image

Savage Avengers #5 brings a bloody and brutal “end” to the first arc from Gerry Duggan, Mike Deodato Jr., Frank Martin, and Travis Lanham. It’s not so much a conclusion as a chapter break, ending the bit with the Marrow God, but transitioning into whatever will come next in the war against Kulan Gath.

| Published by Marvel

Sea of Stars #3 is another showcase for Stephen Green and Rico Renzi to just illustrate the hell out of some really cool stuff. This one shifts primary focus back to Kadyn and his interstellar entourage and it’s hilarious. The kid does kid things that drive his space monkey and space whale friends insane. Especially taunting a quarkshark.

| Published by Image

Something is Killing the Children #1 begins a rather disquieting horror series from James Tynion IV, Werther Dell’Edera, Miquel Muerto, and AndWorld Design. It’s brutal, bloody, and filled with all of the terror that you get from a frightened kid who just watched his friends get butchered. This is a visceral horror that punches you right in the gut. Very well done.

| Published by BOOM! Studios

Spawn #300 is not a bad anniversary issue, a fairly hefty book featuring a lead “chapter” with gorgeous artwork from returning long term Spawn line artist Greg Capullo, kicking off with something disturbing, then leading into a combination of the story threads that Todd McFarlane has been weaving for some time now. While there is a foundation on the old, this one also sets up a fair amount of what’s coming. Great art throughout from Todd McFarlane, Greg Capullo, J. Scott Campbell, Jason Shawn Alexander, Jerome Opeña, Jonathan Glapion, FCO Plascencia, Brian Haberlin, Peter Steigerwald, and Matt Hollingsworth.

| Published by Image

Star Wars: Jedi Fallen Order - Dark Temple #1 is a tie in to the forthcoming video game from Electronic Arts by Matthew Rosenberg, Paolo Villanelli, Arif Prianto, and Joe Sabino. It centres around a padawan who somehow managed to escape Order 66 on a recently-joined Republic world of Ontotho and the mystery of a temple that she was sent to investigate.

| Published by Marvel

Supergirl #33 concludes Kara’s quest and “The House of El: United”, giving her perspective on the founding of the United Planets in Superman #14. It’s a decent end here, opening up new possibilities for what we’ll see next.

| Published by DC Comics

Triage #1 is a very impressive debut from Phillip Sevy and Frank Cvetkovic. Interesting set up of variations on the same woman, Evie, across multiple worlds, and a mystery as to what’s going on. Sevy’s art here is gorgeous.

| Published by Dark Horse

Usagi Yojimbo #4 begins a new two-part arc in “The Hero” as Usagi agrees to escort an author caught in a controlling, loveless marriage to her father. There’s a really nice opening sequence in this one with zombies.

| Published by IDW

Vampirella/Red Sonja #1 is a pretty good start to this series from Jordie Bellaire, Drew Moss, Rebecca Nalty, and Becca Carey. It’s set in 1969 and built around the Dyatlov Pass Incident, which sends Vampirella out there to investigate to potentially find a “friend”. Beautiful art from Moss and Nalty. 

| Published by Dynamite

Web of Black Widow #1 is wonderful. Stephen Mooney was born to draw espionage thrillers, having done so incredibly on his own Half Past Danger as well as The Dead Hand and James Bond 007. He has a style that reminds me of Dave Stevens and it just works perfectly for this kind of story. Add to that Jody Houser, Tríona Farrell, and Cory Petit, throw in a mystery born out of Natasha’s past and continued questioning her own status as her since she was brought back from death, and you’ve got a recipe for a near perfect storm of a debut.

| Published by Marvel

Wyrd #4 concludes what has been an intriguing series from Curt Pires, Antonio Fuso, Stefano Simeone, and Micah Myers.  This has been a rather interesting story of superpowers seemingly gone wrong and it ties up with a Superman analogue as a child going homicidal. It’s dark, but it feels real.

| Published by Dark Horse

Other Highlights: Absolute Carnage: Scream #2, Absolute Carnage: Symbiote Spider-Man #1, Alpha Flight: True North #1, Amazing Spider-Man: Going Big #1, Archie #707, Batman/TMNT III #5, Champions #9, Charlie’s Angels vs. Bionic Woman #3, Curse Words #24, The Death-Defying Devil #2, Descendent #5, The Dreaming #13, The Goon #6, House of X #4, Legion of Super-Heroes: Millennium #1, Marvel Action: Spider-Man #8, Nuclear Winter - Volume 3, Old Man Quill #9, The Punisher #15, Redneck #23, Rick and Morty Present Flesh Curtains #1, Section Zero #6, Space Bandits #3, Star Trek: Discovery - Aftermath #1, Star Wars #71, Superman: Up in the Sky #3, Transformers/Ghostbusters #4, Turok #5, The Wicked + The Divine #45

Recommended Collections: Age of X-Man: Prisoner X, Black Badge - Volume 2, Catwoman - Volume 2: Far From Gotham, Hellboy and the BPRD: 1956, Immortal Hulk - Volume 4: Abomination, Infinite Dark - Volume 2, Outcast - Volume 7, Spider-Gwen: Ghost Spider - Volume 2: Impossible Year, Superb - Volume 4: The Kids aren’t Alright, War of the Realms: New Agents of Atlas, X-Force - Volume 2: Counterfeit King

d. emerson eddy is currently suffering the effects of a very gassy pug.

[bravemccalll]

your blood in my veins

| ao3 |

chapter one – a day of birthdays and odd encounters

 Hajime wakes up on the morning of his 20th birthday with the heavy sound of a bass thrumming through his apartment.

Now, Hajime may only get paid minimum wage at his part-time job at the small café around the corner from the university he attends, but god damnit if he is not going to write a strongly worded complaint to the owner of his building about his neighbour’s need to blast their club music at 7am.

He gets up and decides that’s just going to get dressed as quickly as possible for his lecture at midday and just find a bench to read on to waste time, but he can feel vibrations rumbling beneath his feet while he’s brushing his teeth and he can’t take it.

He jerks open his front door and knocks on his neighbour’s door, one shoe on and tied, the other still back by his bed, his shirt untucked at the back and unbelievably tired because life has dealt him a shit hand, but he refuses to have ‘inconsiderate neighbours’ be one of his cards, god damnit –

A man opens the door and Hajime opens his mouth to ask him to turn down the music when he realises that there is no music and the landing he’s standing on his silent except for the loud judgement that is emanating from the man in front of him.

“I,” Hajime starts. “Sorry, I thought, uh. Nevermind.”

He turns and goes back into his apartment where only a few minutes ago he could’ve sworn the wooden flooring had a pulse with the way it shook beneath him.

He shakes his head, grabs his other shoe, tucks his shirt in and chalks it up to lack of sleep and heads out for the day.

Not the best start to his birthday but he’s had worse.

(Across the country, Peko exits the club, her pay-check tucked into the pocket of her leather jacket. She checks the time and almost laughs. It’s been her birthday for a whole seven hours and she hadn’t noticed. Figures.

She hums ‘Happy Birthday’ to herself as she walks home, her key tucked between her fingers, just above her knuckles. It’s bright out and she doesn’t think anyone would try anything with the sun’s harsh glare beating down on them, but she doesn’t want to chance it.

She wonders if her mother has anything for her at home and speeds up.)

//

 Chiaki taps her finger on the edge of her laptop and stares at her computer screen. Various windows, all with different codes, stare back at her.

She checks the time. 9:00am. She checks the date. 15th of August. It’s her 20th birthday. And it’s too early to call her grandparents.

She wonders what they’ll do today – her, her grandmother and grandfather. Last year they went to the park and had a picnic while her gran fussed over the bags under her eyes and her grandpa excitedly explained every dish he had made.

They might have a ball this year. She hopes not. The last ball they had for her birthday was when she was eight and she distinctly remembers tripping over the hem of her dress and falling into a punch bowl. Never again.

She sighs and starts to shut down her laptop, saving and double-saving her work before closing the lid. She rises off the cosy armchair she was gifted when she first bought her house and makes a note to get a glass of water before she starts to get ready for the day while she grabs her laptop case.

Just as Chiaki turns to the kitchen, she’s hit with a blind pain, the kind that makes you see white for a moment. She looks down and there are her hands, usually pale with her nails round and smooth, now stained red with her knuckles bust open. One of the bones at the base of her middle finger on her right hand has pierced the skin and she feels the urge to vomit.

She runs to the sink and shoves her hands under the tap, looking around frantically for her phone to get an ambulance over because dear lord bones aren’t meant to do that, are they?

She turns back to the sink just as she remembers her phone is on the armchair and the sink that was once splattered with pink water is now pristine and there are her hands, unblemished if a bit wet.

She blinks and wonders how she could’ve imagined something like that.

Not a great start to her big day. She resolves to not tell her grandparents about this, no matter how much she’d love to get their opinion on it. They’d just worry.

(South of Chiaki’s quiet house, Fuyuhiko on the bed in his dingy hotel room, his belt clenched between his teeth, his right hand a bloody mess but he can’t tell what’s his blood and what’s his associate’s. Associate being a loose term to describe the sneaky asshole who stole fifty grand from his father.

There’s a med kit that’s got bloody finger prints alone the front. A needle and some thread are missing, easily found in Fuyuhiko’s shaky left hand.

The fucker just had to break his right hand, huh.

He takes a deep breath and gets to work. Happy birthday indeed.)

 //

 “Hey,” Kazuichi says. “Happy birthday.”

Hajime smiles and lifts a hand to rest on Kazuichi’s shoulder. “Thanks, Kaz. So, did you build a robot to sleep for me?”

“No.”

“You’re a terrible friend and I hate you.”

Kazuichi snorts. “I did buy you a coffee though,” he adds, bringing a hot cup out from where he’d been hiding it behind his back.

“You’re the love of my life,” Hajime replies, very seriously.

Kazuichi wrinkles his nose. “Gross.”

Hajime looks at him, offended. “Excuse you.” He lifts the cup to his mouth and is instantly grateful for the heat. At this point he’s ninety percent sure his bloodstream is entirely made up of caffeine.

“So how was your history lecture?” Kazuichi asks, hopping up to sit on the wall next to him, his legs swinging. Hajime doesn’t know how Kaz is able to make his jeans look as though they’re meant to have those holes in the knees, but he doesn’t question it.

“Fine, I guess. Learned some more about Mary, Queen of Scots but I already knew most of the information.”

“Nerd,” Kazuichi says. Hajime elbows him in the ribs.

“What about you?” Hajime asks in return. He lifts his cup to his mouth as he waits for an answer and almost spits out the liquid because that was definitely not coffee. It tasted like herbal tea which Hajime has sworn off because of an incident involving spilling some of it down his front before his high school prom.

“What?” Kazuichi exclaims, leaning away from Hajime’s disgusted expression.

Hajime forces it down his throat only because there is a nice old lady standing just in front of him, waiting on the same bus as them, and he doesn’t think she’d appreciate being spit on. Besides, they’d need to share a bus together and really, he’s looking out for Future-Hajime who would have to bear the aftermath of that particular action.

“That wasn’t coffee,” Hajime chokes out. “That was herbal tea.”

“What, like from prom?” Kazuichi reaches over and takes the cup from Hajime’s hand and takes a swig himself. “No, that’s coffee. And very strong coffee, just like you need it in order to function.” Kazuichi frowns at him. “Are you ok?”

Hajime takes the cup back and drinks from it again. Coffee. He shakes his head to clear it and forces a smile. “Yeah, I’m just tired. Don’t worry about it.”

(Elsewhere, Fuyuhiko takes a sip of his herbal tea and spit it out a mouthful of what tastes like someone dumped lightly watered coffee beans into his mouth. It goes all over his new book and jolts his broken knuckle.

He is having a lousy fucking day. But now he has a weird urge to re-read his worn book on Scottish History, which is very odd considering he just read it but that’s life he supposes. Broken knuckles, tea that tastes like coffee and re-reading old books.)

 //

 Later that night, Peko sits beside her mother’s bed. She has fallen asleep, but she shivers weakly every so often despite the two blankets Peko has laid over her. Her mother is ill, and she feels useless, just as she does every time she comes home, and her mother has been unable to leave her bed on her own the entire time she was gone. It’s bearable when she has night shifts at least, so there are small mercies.

Peko sighs and grinds the heels of her palms into her eyes until there are little black spots in her vision when she pulls them away. She has been up for almost twenty-four hours and her body is starting to feel it. She glances at her mother again. They say it’s a motor neuron disorder, a disorder which leaves her muscles weak and sore. The doctor had told her that there wasn’t a cure and she had put her fist through a wall.

She stands and goes to get another blanket because her mum is cold because the bloody heating is broken, and her piece of shit landlord won’t let it get fixed until Monday when suddenly she isn’t in her small apartment, she’s in a ball room.

There are people milling around her, carrying flutes of champagne, some wearing sweeping gowns that swish and swirl and others are wearing inky black suits with crisp white shirts underneath them.

She looks down and she’s wearing a dress of her own, all baby pink and cute. She feels shorter than usual, even though she lifts the skirt of her dress and she’s wearing high heels.

Someone touches her arm and she jumps but when she turns, she sees a kind face peering down at her. “Are you alright, dear? I did try to tell your grandmother to tone it down a bit, but you know what she’s like,” the old gentleman says, chuckling slightly.

She opens her mouth to reply but she’s back in her mother’s bedroom, all the blankets in her home piled on top of her mother who has stopped shivering. Peko could cry from relief.

(Back at the gala, Chiaki excuses herself and sits on the patio and cries because that sick woman had looked just like her mother had and suddenly she isn’t Chiaki Nanami, 20-year-old coding genius, with her own house and a good career, she’s just nine again, crying under her duvet because her mother is sick and isn’t going to get better, no matter how many stars she wishes on.)

 //

 Fuyuhiko lies on his bed and stares at his alarm clock. In two minutes, his birthday will be over, over until next year. He wonders if his father remembers or even cared enough in the first place to make a note of it. Sometimes he likes to think that his mother would have cared but she died too young for him to actually make an informed guess on what their relationship could have been.

He shifts around, trying to find a comfortable position, turns to face away from his clock and comes face to face with a woman.

A very pretty woman. Her eyes are crimson and though he hates the colour, too much of it has stained his skin for him to find a liking for it, he can see the appeal of it now. Her hair is silver and curls lightly over pyjamas which have little Disney logos on them – adorable, he almost snorts.

The woman in his bed is very beautiful. The woman in his bed is cute. There is a woman in his bed.

He jerks back, off his bed and goes to grab the gun under his pillow, wondering if this is some sick joke his uncle is playing on him or if this is going to be the assassination attempt that will finally work because he got distracted by a pretty face but when he aims his gun, he’s pointing it at empty sheets.

He blinks a few times, checks under his bed and in the bathroom but she’s gone. He rubs a hand down his face and begins to pack up all his stuff. He’ll find somewhere else to sleep – someone knew he’s here and already the itch of paranoia ticks inside his skull. Maybe he can steal some of the sheets, the streets would be a lot comfier with them.

(Peko holds her heart and breathes deeply. There had been a man in her bed. A nice-looking man. A dangerous man if the scar above his eye meant anything. And he had been shirtless. Peko feels her face flush and hides the colouring by shoving her face into her pillow. It’s too late at night to be thinking of such things, now is the time for sleep.

(She doesn’t get to sleep for hours, the cold somehow much worse, as though she were outside instead of in her bedroom.))

 //

 Hajime climbs into bed after he finally finishes his assessment and submits it, and he checks the time and realises his birthday has been over for a few minutes now.

He rolls out of bed because he forgot to brush his teeth but just as he has the toothpaste on his brush, he sticks it in his mouth and looks into the mirror and a pale girl peers back at him.

She’s very lovely, with blonde hair that brushes the top of her shoulders and pale eyes that blink rapidly if a bit sleepily.

She reaches forward and touches the mirror with her hand. He does the same.

She stares at him and leans forward and mouths, “Who are you?”

Hajime smiles and thinks that this is one of the more entertaining dreams he’s had in a while. “I don’t know,” he mouths back because he doesn’t want to be Hajime right now. He wants to be someone else, someone who looks into his mirror and sees pretty girls instead of his own sorry reflection.

She huffs and looks adorable with her cheeks puffed out. “Shut up,” she says out loud and ducks out of sight just to end their conversation, all because of Hajime’s ability to always be a little shit.

His own reflection returns, and he sighs and finishes brushing his teeth and heads to bed, for real this time.

(Chiaki stands back up, but the boy is gone. He had looked tired but good-looking with olive skin and dark, fluffy hair.

It was as good an end to her birthday that she’s ever gotten, and she falls asleep with a smile on her face that no one sees.)