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johobi · 5 years ago

Text

When You Least Expect It | 12

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader x Taehyung

Word count: 8.2k

Warnings: angst, angsty-angst, dramaTIC ANGST, anxiety, depression, fear of going mad. i swear it’s not all that bad though!!!!

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16732419/navigate

A/N: thanks, as ever, for all your encouragement, love and patience. i truly treasure you.

Next: 13 ASAP! || WYLEI Masterlist

You’re in love with your childhood friend, Taehyung. The problem is, you treasure your friendship with him far too much to ever risk losing it. Oh, and he’s quite the Casanova. At your wits’ end with feelings you can no longer hide as diligently as you once did, you ask him to set you up with someone, anyone, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid a heartbreaking conversation.

"Need to get my⁠—mmm⁠—keys."

Taehyung's argument was solid, but your lip-lock took precedence. "Nuh-uh," you murmured to his saliva-slick lips, eager to taste from them again. "Do it blind."

Your lover fished futilely for his keys, eyes closed for kissing. His body angled away when you only wanted it flush. Selfishly you clung to him, arms fast around his neck, compelling him closer. Oh, but you needed more. Needed his touch. It was painfully absent. Taehyung’s long-fingered hands trawled the depths of his pockets when they should have been defiling you.

He snorted through the meagre space between your faces. "I can't find⁠—mmgh⁠—find them."

"Here," you offered in devilish whisper, plunging a hand into the pocket of his jeans. Shamelessly grasping a little too close to his left-leaning dick.

"Ah⁠—"

Your fingertips grazed metal. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"It will be."

It was your turn to scoff. Right into his hot, nasty mouth.

Despite Taehyung's ineptitude at locating his own keys, it was spellcraft how easily he unlocked the door, with his back to it and his tongue thrust far past your lips. As the lock gave way, you threw yourself into his freshly-freed arms, urging he embrace your touch-starved body. But Taehyung was already around you, on you, fondling the breadth of your thinly-clothed ass. He broke away to whine: “God, you drive me crazy.”

“You love it.”

“Fuck yeah, I do.”

You stumbled into his apartment as a mass of roving hands. "You’re gonna get it again, noona," Taehyung hummed around your earlobe. Tugged it between his teeth. Whispered obscenities while his hard cock pressed close. “You feel that, babe? You want it?”

Breath tumbled out. “Y-Ye⁠s—”

"It certainly sounds like she does," a wicked voice sang. It was high-pitched and heavy on the dialect and its source unmistakeable. You wished you were mistaken. "Whatever it is. I'm gonna hazard a guess that it's⁠—"

The two of you repelled like magnets.

"Oh, fuck. Jimin, why are you still here?" Taehyung made no attempt to smother his exasperation. His erection, on the other hand, he smothered actively, obscuring it with the hem of his shirt..

"Good night without me?" the redhead side-stepped. Consistent with his character, the conversation became depraved, and all about him. You found yourself on the receiving end of an unwelcome eyebrow waggle. "I was only one phone call away."

Taehyung's hand flew to his face. Dragged down his features. "I told you I didn't know when I'd be back. If at all. Couldn't you have gone home, dude? What did you even do all night?"

As Jimin dithered and whined, you surveyed the damage the bachelor had inflicted upon Taehyung's usually immaculate apartment. Takeout trays, beer bottles and indiscernible spills surrounded the little imp. Insult to injury was his occupation of your beloved red slanket. It coupled his hair so garishly he resembled something of an angry pimple. You glared at Jimin from behind his 5'11" handler.

"I thought you were coming back!" Jimin finally exasperated. His wrists emerged from the slanket-holes when he gestured to his nest of trash. "I had to eat twice the amount of food. And I got drunk alone. You know how sad that is?"

"Got a glimpse of your future, did you, Jimin?" The snicker that shot from you almost took the contents of your nostrils with it. To say you were a little sniffly this morning was to minimise it. It took all your nasal strength to prevent a flood. Probably all that rain yesterday.

No, don't think about yesterday.

Luckily, your dignity remained intact for discard another day. Jimin's however, had long been abandoned. Tact, too. "So—" He watched, beady-eyed, as you busied yourself in the undoing of his mess. When you reached for a pizza box: "You guys having an affair? Or is this some kinda friends-with-benefits deal?" The slanket rode up his offensively nude thighs as he leaned toward your stooping form. "Any chance of making this a three-person thing? Or four, if that Jungkook guy is still in the picture."

It was like an icicle through your poor, hollowed heart. You froze, bent at the hinges, pizza grease becoming palm sweat. "W-What?"

“Actually, was he even real? I never saw him.”

Was he even real?

Taehyung was quick. Was there in a second, striding to your side, affixing a hand to your lower back. His fingertips, too, were quick. Quick to find that sliver of exposed skin where your jeans and shirt met. To give you the warmth of reassurance that came only with his touch. "Jesus, Jimin. I know this is your shtick, but no-one's in the mood for your bullshit today. Just go home dude, I'll text you later."

An expression you'd never encountered warped Jimin's delicate features. Hurt. "What the fuck?" he grumbled, complying despite his injured feelings. Coming to a stand, he stuffed himself into his night-before skinny jeans, plump lips pursed. "What got into you? She peg you or something?" Jimin’s hmphs continued, punctuating his impromptu Get Ready With Me throughout. Without the care it warranted, he slung off the slanket and began turning out the couch.

“Very funny. What are you looking for? I’ll help.” Taehyung offered, placidity masking his vexation incredibly well. Antagonising Jimin would only prolong his being there, after all, and the scenario was already unbearably awkward. Especially now, when he was flaunting a good inch of his ass-crack in the hunt for some misplaced possession.

"My wallet. Y’know, the pot leaf one. Where did I put the damn thing?"

In that gaping crevice, maybe? It wasn’t aloud.

"Okay, look⁠—" Taehyung, too, looked to have had his fill of his friend's butt-cleft. "I'll bring your wallet 'round your place later. You got your phone and keys, yeah?" The outline in the redhead's jeans confirmed it. "Go home, sleep off the rest of the booze, we'll talk this evening."

Despite his grievances, Jimin suddenly brightened. He never was one to hold a grudge. He was a Pisces, after all. "You're gonna come over? Cool! I'll get more beer in." The fact he'd consumed a dozen only two hours prior didn’t appear to deter him. "You coming, ____? We gonna have another game of Never Have I Ever?"

The sincere sparkle of his eyes threw you a little. "Uh, I don't think so. Not today. Sorry, Jimin. Next time, okay? I've got some things to sort out later. Plus, I think I’m getting sick." A sniffle for illustration.

"That's cool." He hummed, shrugged on his signature varsity jacket. The world would burn before he conceded college was over. "See you later, Tae. Happy smashing," was his parting comment as he sashayed out the door, mildly uncoordinated. Taehyung was charitable enough to relieve his friend of the quandry of closing it.

And when it was closed, your lover turned back. Had a pensive purse to his lips. "Uh, sorry about that. You okay?"

"Don’t apologise, I’m the one that disrupted your plans in the first place, Tae. But yeah, I’m good."

Taehyung couldn’t see the extent of that untruth. Not when you averted your eyes so swiftly. Pinned them to your busy hands as you continued to collect up Jimin's litter. Why had it been so easy for him to speak his name? Like it was nothing but breath? Just two syllables, plucked from an alphabet of indifference?

When it was sand and salt on open sores?

When it was woe so heavy it rasped the soul?

"Alright." It wasn't, but what mattered was that Taehyung knew it. Knew it, and didn't pursue it. Instead, he fluffed a trashbag for you in which to deposit your greasy collection. "He's always like this. A mangy raccoon." The comparison hit humorously enough to curtail your anguish. Momentarily, at least. A genuine laugh came from you. At that, Taehyung looked up. Caught your smile. "He's always like this. Always leaves me to clean up. His metaphorical and literal messes."

Trash collected, you straightened. Inelegantly, and with a groan. You'd have to scrape together the pennies for some sweet chiropractic adjustment. "Yeah? That doesn't surprise me," you smirk, prodding at the knots in the small of your back. "All I know is he's a gross, unashamed pervert that could be a good guy if he grew up a little. You haven't really told me too much about him. I guess you'll—" the reality of your and Taehyung's changed relationship hit you, then. It had transfigured into something far more intense. Far more beautiful. Potentially volatile. "—you'll have to tell me more. About him. Your other friends I don't see much. And about you, stuff I didn't get to know until we—well. You know."

Taehyung's head came to a tilt. His downy locks strayed into his eyes, softening them into a squint. "It's weird, isn't it? Being like this. Good weird—" he added with haste. Had he been suddenly struck by the revelation, too? Your two combined brain cells continued to surf one wavelength. It was uncanny. "You're standing there, I'm standing here. We look the same. But it's all different. I look at you different." A contemplative pause. The trash-bag knocked noisily at his knees as he rocked. "And all I know is I want to learn about you. Again. Inside and out."

"Yeah. I'd like that very much. I'm hardly a treasure trove of alluring secrets, but I'm sure I have a wild story or two from my college years. Ugh—" The ache that'd been no more than a dull tapping at your skull suddenly came to the fore. Your head throbbed like a blunt force concussion.

"You okay?" The trashbag left Taehyung's hands and crumpled to the floor. You felt them on you shortly after, palpating your oddly sensitive forearms. "What's up?"

"Headache. Think I was bent over for too long, or something." But then came a torrent of sneezing. And it was also then that Taehyung's proximity was suddenly, intolerably stifling. "Ugh. Maybe not. I’m definitely getting sick. Sick-sick."

A satiny palm left your shoulder and found your forehead. Your vantage saw only Taehyung's mouth. It opened into an O. "Oh, shit. Yeah, you're burning up, noona. We should get you into bed."

"No, no. That won't be necessary." You waved away his clammied hand and instead peeled off your - his - jacket. The last thing you wanted, on a day as emotionally strenuous as this one, was to find yourself physically compromised, too. "I'll be okay. I just need to cool down a bit. It's probably just a cold, and I can soldier through those. Uh—I'm a little hungry, though?"

"Aha! Want some French toast or something?" Taehyung leapt at the opportunity to tend to you. Like Yoongi, you shied away from showing weakness and instead showed a reluctance to lean on others. It must’ve been frustrating for Taehyung, an unashamed empath who wanted nothing more than to accompany and comfort you during your times of adversity. But he understood that it could not be the case with you. That less was more. That the key to helping you was when you asked for it. Yes, even when it was something so small as the common cold.

And when it wasn’t just the sniffles, but world-ending woe, Taehyung embraced your diversions from the difficult topics. Didn’t push it. Best friends never pushed. Yes, he was still your best friend. Something more, now, too, but forever your gentlest, most attuned of friends. "Don’t you like French toast? I could make something else?" He prompted, peering into your faraway face with those precious eyes of his.

"You can make French toast?"

"Of course I can. I can make you anything, within reason. I've been practicing. Takeout's giving me a belly." In illustration, Taehyung molded his hands to his mildly rounded flesh. Strained it out further, like an expecting mother.

"I like your little belly." Your hands fell to his, pressing his stomach back to flat.

"Yeah?" An errant quirk of his eyebrow. "It likes you, too."

You smiled so, so wide. And then you became certain:

Last night had been the right decision. One made in a swell of volatile emotion, yes. But this day - this moment - in which it was still possible to smile, proved that. Taehyung conjured it to your face with so little effort. It took so little effort to be with him. To just be.

And that was indeed a feat.

Because inside your mind, there was no reprieve. Barbed words and self-abuse clattered about your brain, painting you unworthy of Jungkook. Worse yet; deserving of his treatment.

Every second since your waking hour you’d been assailed by volleys of it. But your self-loathing didn’t end its assault there. In your darkest seconds, it even dared to suggest that you proclaimed your love for Taehyung too hastily.

That you instead yearned for that other man.

By some mercy, you were already adept in handling intrusive thoughts. Because that was all they were: Intrusive. Unwelcome and unwanted. There could be no truth to the doubt or longing.

Not when your new horizon stood before you, a sunshine smile dawning across his cheeks. Taehyung. The once boy, now man, you'd forever coveted.

He was yours. Your desperate words a night ago sealed it.

Puzzlement mingled adorably with Taehyung's bright features. "Babe?"

Yeah. It was the right choice.

"Sorry, Tae." In spite of your climbing fever, you intertwined your idling fingers. Looked down at the union with a contented smile. "Thanks for letting me stay here for a bit. I didn't want to go back to my apartment yet." The reason why remained unspoken. "I know I can't avoid it forever, but for a little while at least, I just wanna not think."

Soft, familiar lips were on your forehead. Spoke against the skin. "You stay here as long as you need. My apartment and I are at your disposal." It was Taehyung's turn to loose himself from your febrile embrace. Your perspiration lacquered his fingers. "We're getting you some painkillers for that fever, at the very least. You don't have to stay in bed, but I want you on the sofa so I can keep an eye on you while I do some marking."

"Okay, dad."

Taehyung’s tongue danced over the tips of his teeth. "That's daddy to you, noona. Get those damp clothes off and get some of my pyjamas on, there's a set on the bed."

----

Your sentencing to the sofa had initially been met with resistance. Especially when Taehyung hovered, ever-watching, an eye on his papers and the other on your recalcitrant form. Your every attempt at productivity - even a surreptitious attempt to fold his laundry - had been met with soft but stern eyes and an escort back to your cologne-saturated prison. Jimin's stank had ingratiated itself with the fibres of Taehyung's cushions. No amount of deodorizer could reduce its cling. It did nothing but intensify the thudding behind your eyes.

And at first, you attributed your worsening nausea to that silly little redhead. But the lightheadedness followed swiftly after, and then the chills, and then that horrid, off feeling encroached, like your soul lagged behind every of your body's movements.

In the end, you begged for the bed. Taehyung's memory foam mattress and sweet-smelling pillows. Only, the sweet made you sick, and the memory foam only exacerbated all your indistinct aches. By early afternoon, despite his dutiful nursing of you, you tapped out of your brave-facing. Practically begged him to return you to your apartment, where all your remedies resided.

If there was something that united the men of your world, it was their haphazard approach to health crises. Taehyung possessed a pitiful two (2) painkillers. The nasty, round, chalky type that got you gagging. Expiry date: Last year. No hot water bottle, no frozen goods to improvise a cold compress. When questioned about his unreadiness in the face of illness, his reasoning was ridiculous. Sound, but ridiculous. 'I never get sick, so I don't need it.’ The painkillers were Jimin’s.

Hoseok and Yoongi were much the same. The former would simply turn up on your doorstep and check-in to your veritable inpatient clinic and expect private-tier care. For the latter, you'd have to make a house visit, because he never got sick, and he didn't need you fussing over him so. And yet he was the one that fell ill the most. The one that needed the most tender of care.

Sigh.

Today, you required it. And that was how you now found yourself back home, a day earlier than you would have preferred. You tottered out of Taehyung's car in your royal red slanket, pyjama pants dragging on wet asphalt. It took what waning stamina you possessed to gaze upward at the same balconies Jungkook strode yesterday. It was like looking on an untouched crime scene; as gloomily lit and ominous as it had been then.

Taehyung came to your side, and then a little in front, surveying that same sight. "Looks like he's gone, noona."

The relief that surged was medicine in itself. "Thank God. Let's go in, quickly." Your teeth chattered animatedly during the climb, even though you burned like the sun incarnate. Taehyung's arm was fast about your waist, steadying you on each of your Everestian steps. Collapse felt close at times, but when your vision began to fail it was the image of Jungkook's guilt-ridden face that rallied you onward. To fall, here, was to expose yourself to the risk of seeing it again.

And that could not happen.

"Do you have the keys—"

"Got 'em." Taehyung was ahead of you in every sense. With the dexterity he was inhibited from displaying earlier, he had your door open before you could reach him. "In you go, babe."

"Thanks." You loped past, unsteady. Unready to climb the flight of stairs immediately within. "Why do I have a maisonette?" The question was to no-one, or God.

Taehyung answered anyway. “Because you’re a woman of discerning taste.” Large hands found your blanketed backside, lending you their support. “Plus, when the bedroom’s upstairs, the neighbours can’t hear.”

“A valid point,” you ceded, beginning your ascent. Even with Taehyung - quite literally - bringing up the rear, your legs felt like those of an unpractised infant. It was astonishing just how quickly the virus had incapacitated you.

Still. The higher you climbed, the handsier Taehyung became. He stole squeezes of your rump with every step. Said it was incentive to keep going.

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

After much of his unscrupulous groping, the laughter finally broke free. "Oh my God, you're being so shameless right now." Another shaky step. "I wish I had a stairmaster."

He wasn't done being outrageous. "Sit back and I'll stairmaster you all the way up, babe."

The giggling became painful. Welcome, but painful. "Stop."

At the top of the staircase, you stopped to compose your failing limbs. It was alarming just how vital you'd been this morning. This afternoon, you felt one laboured breath from death. "One sec."

"I knew this was a bad idea. You shouldn't be going anywhere in your condition." His two, warm hands stabilised you from the back, preventing an inevitable tumble. "I coulda just bought more painkillers and whatever else you needed."

"It's alright, Tae. I had to come back at some point soon, anyway. My keys for the cafe are here and I'm opening tomorrow." Blotting the sweat from your brow, you advanced on unstable legs to the sofa and immediately crumpled onto its familiar comfort. "Plus, when I'm sick, I like to be sick at home."

"I don't think you'll be going into work tomorrow." By the time it took you to maneuver yourself onto your stomach, Taehyung was stood over you, hands emphatically on hips. "Look at you. Can't even get comfortable without exhausting yourself."

"I don't wanna let Hoseok down." Nor did you want to enlighten him to your current romantic quandry, though. Ugh. "But I do feel terrible. If I’m no better later, I might text him."

"Wow, I thought for sure it would take far more convincing than that," Taehyung snickered, eyes round with mock shock. He'd accumulated a number of dirty dishes from your coffee table in his hands. "Glad you're prepared to rest. Stay there and let me get whatever it is you need. I'll clean your place up a little as well, so don't stress about it."

"No—Tae—"

"Hush. Get the pyjama bottoms off, too, they're wet on the bottom."

You'd been shouldering so much discomfort that your freezing wet ankles had eluded you. A glance down. "Oh. Yeah. I don't know if I can, though." You flopped your feeble arms. "Too far to reach." Plus, Taehyung could undress you now. To disrobe in any other way was to squander the opportunity.

His mouth curved villainously. "Okay." Clap. "Let's see if I can do this in one swift move. Like a magician pulling a table cloth."

Before his proposition had entirely processed, he pinched the hems of your sodden pyjama bottoms and snatched them from your legs. "Wh—"

"Open sesame!"

Wheezy giggling filled the air. "Oh, it hurts to laugh. Fuck." Being semi-naked and comically incapacitated only heightened the hilarity. Taehyung straddled your legs, twirling the wet pants in triumph— "Oww. Oh my God, stop, I can’t—” More rasping laughter. “What even goes on in your head? Also, magicians don't shout open sesame when they do that shit."

"I do. That's why other magicians suck. They say the wrong words." He spoke it like he believed it, and for a moment he was again the boy from childhood, proclaiming the weirdest - but sincerest - of things. And now he was your loveable oddball. "Daddy's gonna get you some dry ones."

And there was the gross-ass man he'd grown into.

Nevermind.

"Okay, you're taking that in a direction I don't want to go in, Tae," you protested, flimsily, through persistent laughs. With a half-hearted kick, you nudged him toward your bedroom. "Hurry up, my ass is getting cold."

“A cold ass will do you good,” was his nonsensical retort. He wriggled out of his own, damp jeans as he went, gifting you the sight of his luscious ass in curve-hugging cotton.

You were appallingly close to catcalling take the boxers off too!, but in your current state you could barely lift a pinky, let alone give him the vigorous fucking he deserved.

---

A little channel-hopping later, Taehyung returned. Armed, coincidentally, with your favourite flannel bottoms. Yes, it was likely just coincidence, but the romantic in you posited destiny. "Legs up," he commanded. You did try, but the attempt was laughable. Taehyung's sigh hit the back of your thighs. "Listen here, lazy," he crooned, turning your body with the care one would an undercooked omelette. Pyjama pants in hand, he glowered down at your defiant face, brandishing them like a threat. "You gonna co-operate?"

"Nope." You turned your attention to the TV to stifle further laughter. Why you were hindering his attempts to help with your misbehaviour was anyone's guess. There was something irresistible about making trouble for him, though. Probably because Taehyung, too, was an unrepenting rascal.

"Okay then," was his equivocal response. You scrutinised him through narrowed eyes, waiting on his next, underhanded move.

Which was to tickle your feet. Underhanded indeed.

"Oh, God, no!" you yelped, cried, rasped for breath. Flailed your legs like a fawn on skates.

"Thought you couldn't move, huh? Huh?" Taehyung caught your ankles amidst their thrashing and pulled them through freshly-laundered flannel.

Once the pyjamas reached your knees, you relented in your nonsense and shot him a buoyant smile. "Thanks."

"Hips up."

This time, you were obedient.

And Taehyung was thankful. A fine smile shone back at you as he settled the waistband around your hips. Your smile, however, drifted. Awe replaced it as you stole glances at his beautifully-hewn features. He truly was sublime. The bridge of his nose was high and strong, its tip hosting the most precious of moles. Beneath his bottom lip there was another. These little details, of course, hadn’t escaped you before, but it was something to see them so close now. With time, you would kiss each and every of his chaotically placed moles.

When you recalled your gaze upward, Taehyung was watching you. The chocolate of his eyes was molten with feeling. Love and warmth irradiated him. "Can't believe you're mine now."

It was crucial that you kiss him.

You moved to do so. His lips were only a breath away. But then—

Three, distinct knocks.

You traded looks. Yours, petrified. His, outraged.

"Wait—"

But Taehyung's weight had already left you. An intimidating energy lingered in his wake as he strode toward the staircase, fists clenched. "I'll get that."

"Tae, no—"

The difficulty with which it took you to extricate yourself from your slanket was all the more frustrating for the urgency of the situation. You staggered, almost toppled, to catch him, but he'd already descended the steps by the time you reached the top. Damn those lovely, long legs of his. All you could do now was brace yourself on either bannister to prevent a gruesome fall. Because no amount of honeyed pleading was going to stop him. You peered, lightly nauseous, down the expanse of stair as Taehyung slung open the door.

It came as no surprise that it was Jungkook stood there, his doe-eyes wide.

It eviscerated your guts, nonetheless, to see him.

“Noona!”

At first, he lit up in elation. Perhaps he thought the door-answerer to be you. When Taehyung’s identity became clear, however, that elation morphed. First, to shock. Your long-legged lover wasn’t wearing pants, after all. But when Jungkook spied you at the back all shy, sadness again descended upon him. It was a sadistic hope that your sickly appearance intensified that upset. That it fueled his guilt for having decimated you. With every, shredded fibre of your being, you wished Jungkook hurt.

“Thank you for answering the door,” he began with an earnest bow, as though he didn’t know just how much you abhorred him. “H—”

"I answered the door. What do you want?" Taehyung straddled the doorframe, asserting his dominance over the territory. Jungkook's every attempt to look past him was foiled. The lissom man angled himself obstructively, and yet you sought Jungkook's face, too. Wanted to glimpse the heartbreaker for yourself, like he was some loathsome thing of legend. Like it was hard to believe you'd looked into that face just yesterday and seen the world. "Don't you ever give up?" he added, his patience sounding pencil-thin.

After several, weighty seconds of silence, Jungkook eventually acknowledged Taehyung's existence. Addressed him earnestly. "I know I'm not welcome here. I just want a couple of minutes with ____ to explain what she saw—" A derisive snort threatened to cut him off, so he continued hastily, and louder— "—Not for my benefit. For hers. I don't want her to—to—" Choked with frustration, Jungkook thrust himself into your sightline. Implored you with large, gleaming eyes. "I don't want you to blame yourself in any way."

You despised how pregnable you were under his gaze. Like imminent, avoidable death, it became impossible to look away. The void called. There, in his desolate eyes. He wanted you to join him.

No, Jungkook didn’t need you anymore. What he wanted was absolution. At great personal cost to you. But whatever he wished, no matter how detrimental, you would likely grant.

Because as much as you hated him, you loved him.

“I—”

But you loved Taehyung, too.

“____?” And he was there, soft voice enticing you back toward the light. Back toward his pretty face and tender-hearted intentions. There was no hurt to be had with Taehyung.

"I don't,” you spat, clear-minded once more. “I don’t blame myself, Jungkook. Only you.”

But you did blame yourself. Every second since, in fact.

Too fat, too boring, too ugly, too old, too much baggage—

It mustn't have been too convincing an outburst. Jungkook's mouth remained a thin, grim line. And those fucking eyes of his were so fucking ridiculously big and sad and—fuck!

It was all too much.

Mercifully, Taehyung was composed enough to mediate. You, however, were on the brink of emotional - and physical - collapse. "You heard her." Again, he filled out the doorframe. Stood provocatively close to the man in front. "You fucked up majorly. Actually—" Taehyung leaned in. His baritone dived lower. "You're lucky we're not alone right now."

Jungkook did not recoil an inch. Neither did he square up, though. He just stood, toe-to-toe with Taehyung, receiving the vitriol.

"You've imparted your message. You’re too late. You shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Are you finally going to go?"

At that, something bubbled within Jungkook. It shook his frame, balled his fists. Blinking came more rapidly. And then— "I know all that, dude. Look, I’m not here to fight with you. I appreciate what you’re doing, and that you’re protecting her, but I just—I need to talk to noona—to ___ a little longer. Privately. I just need a little more time. Please. Let me get the words out."

Taehyung bore impossibly close. "You don't need more time."

Jungkook’s mouth opened, combatively downturned. But whatever he meant to launch next was stymied when you took one, noodly step down the stairs. Taehyung turned toward the movement, and Jungkook peered past. It was then that he clocked just how arduous it was for you to move. “Noona? Are you okay?”

Dizzyness crowded your peripheral vision. But Jungkook was front and centre, and so painfully clear, that the influenza quietened. "I don't want to see you, Jungkook. I’m pretty sure I got that across yesterday. How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone? What if I don’t even want to hear your damn sob story?"

He fell mute when your words reached him. Like he could scarcely believe you'd deigned him worthy of directly addressing. Palms pressed together and with his mouth agape, he looked the picture of a supplicant.

But he was unworthy.

No, I am.

You hung your head again. It was strenuous on your neck; weighing like a cannonball. "I don't want to stand here all day, Jungkook. Fucking say something. Why did you come here if—"

"Because I love you!” he gasped. “I love you, and—"

"Bullshit you do!"

It came from Taehyung, not you. He'd turned back, teeth bared, no longer saying but growling. There he was. Your guard dog. The leash was straining. "You don't love someone and hide a fucking fiancee, you piece of shit." Jungkook flinched at Taehyung's ferocity, but remained stalwart on his spot. Curled his lip instead. "You blew it. Now go."

Jungkook shook his head suddenly, violently. Flung rain from his hair and onto the walls. "This has nothing to do with you!" The bridge of his nose scrunched tight and bared not bunny teeth, but fangs.

Taehyung swatted away the finger poised aggressively at his chest. Stepped closer, but didn't stop. No, he bumped him back toward the threshold with his chest. "It does now. Read between the lines, dumbass."

Jungkook was ineffably innocent. “What do you mean?” He stared into Taehyung’s narrowed eyes to glean more meaning.

And then he gulped.

Jungkook’s gaze flickered to Taehyung’s immodestly nude legs, and clarity began to dawn. It astounded you how little reaction Taehyung’s state of undress had initially garnered from Jungkook. But now he was giving the situation its due attention.

A few, unmoving moments later, he gulped again. Harder this time, like something tangibly obstructed his speech. “N-Noona?” It was a mere rasp.

When Jungkook looked back, eyes glossy with devastation, your heart tore again. Right along its freshly-stitched seams. You tried desperately to avert your gaze, but the void shimmering back at you was dense. His voice reached for you again. "____?"

Your name, alien in tone, was what finally closed your eyes. Fresh tears ran down established tracks. You turned away, grip on the bannisters dubious.

"You and—him?" Jungkook gasped, so quietly, so pained, it was like agonal breath.

You crumpled as if stomped on. Your chest was ablaze, and you wanted so desperately to clutch at it. To smother it. To cradle your torso as it caved once more. But you were too impaired to move. Instead, you stood there, frozen and hunched, crying uglier than you could remember ever letting anyone see. Staring at your toes as the carpet caught your tears.

But why? You should be overjoyed to shatter him as he had you.

"Get it? Now go." Taehyung sighed, all the fight siphoning from him. He backed up from Jungkook and went monotone. "You've upset ___. Again. This is your last warning. Get going."

Predictably, Jungkook didn't budge. In the ensuing silence, however, he didn't plead his case as he once would have done. No, something about him was changed. An aggrieved aura hugged him, expanded, until— "Last warning? Fuck you, Kim Taehyung." His eyes, once brimming with tears, now seared with a fury. Even Taehyung looked taken aback. The outburst came sharp despite its gentle source. Again, Jungkook thrust forward an accusing finger. "Don't pretend you're better than me. You're selfish. I knew you couldn't wait to get your dick in her. I knew it ever since we saw you at the movies and you looked so fucking jealous—"

The gasp that exited you was so heavy with outrage it almost took you with it. You gripped the bannisters tighter, wobbled down two further steps. You had to de-escalate this. Somehow. "Jungkook!"

He granted you a brief, guilt-ridden side-glance before once again affixing his target with a glare. "You were just waiting for your moment, weren't you? Didn't want her 'til I had her. Couldn't bear the thought of your closest friend not being one of your conquests."

“Shut the fuck up!”

You didn't make it in time. Not before Taehyung wound back his elbow and snapped it forward, a hard, coiled fist on its end. It landed, brutal and blunt, on Jungkook's jaw. A dull, fleshy thud resounded, but to you it was like a gunshot. And so was the way his head and body whipped away, spiralling until his knees buffered his fall.

"Oh my G—Jungkook!"

The younger man, crouched away as he was, breathed deep, coppery air. Smeared his mouth along his sleeve, leaving red where it touched. And then, standing, he glared hatred at Taehyung. His shoulders shuddered with untethered anger. "You—"

"It's more than that for me. I can't say the same for you," Taehyung cut in, surveying his reddened knuckles. He flexed his fingers for feeling. "Fucking cheater."

Distracted, Taehyung was unprepared for the solid hunk of human that caught him around his midsection. Jungkook tackled him without caution, throwing his entire, intimidating mass into Taehyung's lankier frame. The two surged into the ground, clawing and grappling at the other's limbs, eyes wild, lips stretched back from teeth.

"Stop!"

"Oh my God, stop it!"

Neither listened. They were feral. Both heard only the rush of blood.

Knowing you must intervene, you manipulated your ragdollish limbs into descending the last half dozen steps. It was then, after an elongated struggle, Jungkook clambered atop Taehyung and fisted the collar of his shirt, glaring daggers enough to maim him.

“You’re so fucking smug—”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I’m not the one who fucked up!” Taehyung crowed from beneath, maniacal. He taunted Jungkook with an angular grin, like he wasn’t the one at disadvantage.

“Shut up!”

Once your feet met ground, you crumbled to your knees, Taehyung's head of hair between them. The sneer he brandished fell when he caught sight of your sweat-soaked face. Pitifully you pressed against Jungkook's shoulders, dissuading him from further violence. You felt like a toreador pushing on 1800lbs of charging bull. Jungkook didn't even so much as register your attempts until you wheezed out, "P-Please stop."

He did. He went rigid, in fact. Trembled, when he became aware of your touch. His rage evaporated and the boy that sat there was no longer a bull but a meek little kit. Trepidation rolled from Jungkook in waves, and he would not meet your eyes.

Why?

Was he now repulsed by you?

How could he judge you for your indiscretion when he—he—!

No. It wasn't an indiscretion. What you did with Taehyung held no moral ambiguity.

It occurred to you, then, that the pair of you hadn't been so close since the last time you were intimate. And happy. Though damp, Jungkook's familiar, and once comforting scent, brushed your nostrils. Perhaps your proximity was what flustered him.

When he finally met your gaze, you knew it to be true. He didn't look upon you with the anger nor revulsion you expected. Not anything obvious, anyway. Instead it was the wide-eyed wonder from your first date. The shyness. For just a moment, you allowed yourself to revisit it.

But then his brows drooped low in remorse. "Noona," he called to you like you were far away. Pined for you. Taehyung's shirt fell from his clutches, and you found his hands on your elbows instead, propping up your drooping form.

Feverish before, you were positively boiling now. To have his gentle palms on you again, no matter the circumstance, was a threat to your hastily-cobbled retreat. His fingertips told you, as they caressed your inner elbow, that any other man's hands would never do. And yet - you squirmed feebly, recalling it - those hands had been on, been in some other woman's body. And that would never do. "Don't touch me, J-Jungkook. Not with those hands."

But it was his hands that stirred your heart into uproar.

No. It was simply the flu. Nothing more. It influenced your body in the oddest ways.

And there was someone that had pumped your blood for far longer.

You cast your eyes to where Taehyung lay, honey hair a halo about his head and eyes only for you. Love bloomed fiercely in the bowels of your heart. “You really don’t look very good.” He made to push Jungkook off, but the younger man was already up on his knees, scanning your wan complexion.

"Are you burning up?" Jungkook murmured, his lips a line of concern. "You feel hot." Again he clasped your elbows, testing along their length for temperature. When he reached your upper arms, he was bold enough to advance on your neck, thumbs either side the line of your jaw. To your great shame, though you attributed it in most part to the fever, you enjoyed Jungkook's handling. "Your glands are out. And—" he pressed a cool, clammy palm to your clammier forehead. Spellbound, your eyes closed. "Yeah, you're even hotter up here, noona."

"No shit, dumbass," Taehyung growled from above. When you opened your eyes, he was no longer supine but towering over the two of you, fingers twitching by his sides. You foresaw Jungkook's imminent scalping if you weren't quick to intervene. "You chased her into torrential rain. She's sick, asshole, and it's your fault."

But there was no need to intervene. Jungkook didn't anger again. Nor did he stare down the man spitting insults. His focus remained fixed on you. On the damage he'd done. The deadened, bloodshot eyes, the pallid skin, the absence of joy. Of understanding. "I-I'm sorry," was all he could think to say? Again?

Desperate, you implored him for more with forlorn eyes. Begged him for sense. Practically mouthed the word please. It would be nothing you wanted to hear, but perhaps hearing it could bring closure. Some semblance of peace, eventually, in some far-off year.

Jungkook stared back, ruminating, and you knew there was no sense to be found. None that you wanted, anyway. Jungkook was a liar, an adulterer, a manipulator—

"Alright, you said sorry again. Time to go." Taehyung hauled him up by his underarms and, hopefully, away from you forever. It was a credit to him for tolerating Jungkook’s presence for so long. Especially when all he did was regurgitate the same, tired shit. "Don't come here again, or I'll call the cops," he snarled to Jungkook's ear, spittle flying. With a grip on the scruff of Jungkook's jacket, he whirled him toward the door.

"She's not my fiancee!"

Taehyung paused. As did you, in your agonised ascent into standing.

"She's not my fiancee," Jungkook repeated over his shoulder, looking for you over his gathering jacket. "I wanted to talk to you about it calmly, and in private. It's not simple, and it’s hard to believe."

"Don't lie to me n-now, Jungkook." The finger with which you jabbed at him, trembled. "I asked you that. You said she was."

Taehyung's expression darkened by the second. It would devolve into another brawl at this rate, and you didn't want that. Not because you didn't want to see Jungkook get served, but because you didn't want him in your presence another gut-wrenching moment.

Brazenly, Jungkook yanked himself from Taehyung's grip and turned, palms up and pacifying. He inched back toward the door; a gesture of his intent to finally leave. "Look. It's because technically she is, but it's not real—I'm going, asshole!—" Jungkook waved his arms demonstratively at the nearing door. Having appeased Taehyung, he pinned you again with fervent eyes. "What you saw wasn't the truth. If you won't hear me out entirely, at least hear that.”

“No-one believes you. Everything you say is a fucking contradiction.” Taehyung was red and riled again.

Jungkook ignored him, his time short. “I won't text you anymore, I won't come here anymore. What I’ve done to you is unforgivable. I know that. I should never have lied. But—" The lamp outside illuminated his bedraggled hair. The tip of his nose when he turned. "You know my number if you do want to hear me out. I'll be around for a bit longer.”

A bit longer?

You granted him the minutest of nods.

It was enough. Nodding back, Jungkook turned on his heel and flew around the corner. And though he was gone, his silhouette stayed seared into your retinas, haunting your every blink. It was only when Taehyung replaced him in the doorway that Jungkook faded. “Come on, babe. Let’s get you back on the sofa.”

Wow, he was tall.

Oh.

Somehow, you were on the floor again. You squinted up at him with sore, watering eyes, overwhelmed by it all. You reached for him like an infant would its parent, too vulnerable to move, and too stupid to know better. “Okay.”

"It’s been a shitty day, but I’m gonna try and make it better. Why don’t we have a Netflix nostalgiafest?" Taehyung cooed into your sodden hair, no minding the sweat. He wound your arms around his neck, legs about his waist and chauffered you up the stairs, grunting by the step. Exaggerating the effort by comedic amounts in order to provoke you.

“Sure.”

But you were far, far away. Hidden behind your glazed eyes, the encounter replayed on loop. Lingered on Jungkook's Disney eyes and big buck teeth. The ones you loved back when he deserved to be loved. The nonsense he spouted toward the end was of particular interest in your mental re-runs, even though it should have immediately been dismissed.

'What you saw wasn't the truth.'

But neither was his relationship with you. Not when he kept such weighty secrets as sport.

'I'll be around for a bit longer.'

And that? Another of his manipulative tactics? Was he really leaving, or merely dangling the threat of it?

But why would it be a threat? You wanted nothing more than him to be gone.

Oh, it was all so bad. Everything was bad. Everything was too much, and, oh, even being in your body was too much, let alone your mind. You were drowning in affliction. Assailed from all sides with nothing for defense.

"Babe."

All went black, and then you opened your eyes. Taehyung stood over you, mouth downturned. Cotton caressed your naked skin, and you knew these were your sheets. This was your bed. Your lover had stripped you of your oppressive pyjamas. You stared at the mole on his nose, the one under his bottom lip. One, two. You could count to two.

"Are you doing okay? Your fever really spiked there. Should I call a doctor?"

“No, no.”

Perhaps you'd simply hallucinated the entire encounter. Perhaps it was your mind's exercise in catharsis. Or perhaps Jungkook had never existed to begin with, and his betrayal was the product of a detailed fever dream. Taehyung was real, though, and here he was still. Your forever best friend. Your secret love. You had not yet confessed your love to this real Taehyung. But now you were awake, you would seize the chance. Because if there was one thing your prolonged nightmare had taught you, it was that you should have just done it to begin with. On the porch those years ago, when the stars weighed heavy over his head and dared you to kiss him.

"I love you," you rasped, sounding like Death's next call.

And just like it should have happened then, Taehyung lowered his face to yours. "I love you too, noona," he murmured through a joyous smile, brushing together your noses first, lips second. "But it's time for your next dose of painkillers. We gotta get this in you ‘cause your fever’s really mounting. Pretty sure you’ve been hallucinating. It’s worrying me. I’m this close—” he pinched together his fingers— “to calling a doctor. I don't think that asshole turning up did you much good."

Brainless, you repeated. "No doctor. Asshole?"

"Yeah, Jungkook." A tray of painkillers dangled from the corner of Taehyung’s mouth while he poured water. "Lying douchebag. Who, by the way, will not be working at the school anymore. Not if I have something to say about it."

The words went in, but floated right back out. The ceiling swirled.

"Oh." He was real.

Of course, you knew that. Even in the murk of fever it was apparent. Still, it’d been nice to pretend for a while.

The sound of preparation ceased and the mattress dipped. Taehyung extended your next dose and a glass of water to you. His expression was no longer so sunny, but clouded with disquiet. "Talk to me, ____. I know you're sick, but that's not all that's going on in that muddled head of yours. It might help to talk. I know you don’t like it, but you don’t have to be afraid. Just try it."

It was a credit to your weakened state that you were so loose-lipped. You downed the pills and curled around Taehyung's seated position, molding to his lap. "I'm just—I don't know." Your cheek was hot against his thigh. His Calvin Klein waistband stared back at you. "I don't want to be sad anymore. I'm so, so sad. It's unbearable. I can't handle much as it is. It doesn't take a lot to drag me down, but this, this—" Tears welled. Taehyung's slender fingers were there to catch them. "This feels almost too much. Even with you here. It's like I'm locked in a mental prison."

"I know, babe," he whispered, stroking your face free of limpid hair. "It's gonna take a while to feel better, like it does with any big change. What he did to you was villain material. Of course you're going to be devastated." For once, you listened. "You don't owe him forgiveness, though he tried his damned best to get it. For his own selfish satisfaction, I'm sure. And you don't owe him anything else, either, not even the thoughts in your brain. Though I know that's gonna take a while, too. I'm sure it's all you can think about." You nodded, snuffled into your blanket until it was wet. A sob felt ripe for eruption. "The flu won't make things easier, either. You're not losing your mind. You just need rest. And when you're not resting, distraction. I'm on hand for the latter." All that he said was all that you craved to hear. A tremulous smile - of relief, of gratitude - wobbled into place. Taehyung must have seen. "That's it, babe. It won't always be this bad, okay?"

You nodded, marring his exemplary thighs with a variety of unpleasant excretions. "Ugh. Sorry." You’d been intimate just one day with Taehyung and you were already establishing yourself as a repellent bog monster. Usually that happens at least 3 years in.

Taehyung merely chuckled. Kept the tissue box out of reach when you moved for it, thinking himself funny. It was only upon your panicked pleas of oh my god, snot’s gonna go in my mouth, that he finally indulged you. By wiping your nose for you, cooing all the while. "That better, little baby?"

Your face spelt vexation. But inwardly, yes, yes, it was better.

Taehyung made you so.

Next: 13 ASAP! || WYLEI Masterlist

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #taehyung #kim taehyung #jungkook angst #taehyung angst #jungkook scenarios #taehyung scenarios #bts angst #bts scenarios #taehyung smut #jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #taehyung x you #taehyung x reader #wylei

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dammitadolfnomorecake · 4 years ago

Text

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 126

126

Lance knew he’d taken a turn for the worst as he shuddered on the cold stone floor. He’d thrown up so much that he knew he was definitely dehydrated and on the wrong side of hunger. His body felt lighter. Too light. And something in the darkness felt physically heavy to the point of suffocation. Groaning to himself, his eyes went wide as it came out as a squeak. His body moving as he found himself not as he should be. Tiny little legs and flapping wings were tangled in his shirt. He’d turned into a bat again... He’d let everyone down. He knew he’d been exhausted. He knew he’d had a fever. He knew Shiro was worried after their talk... and now he was showing how useless he was as he wasn’t even able to maintain his human form from how weak he felt.

Untangling himself from his shirt, a new realisation hit him as he surveyed how tiny he was compared to the space he was in. He was tiny. A quick check down showed he a chubby little belly... Right. This couldn’t be good for the twins. This shouldn’t even be possible unless... unless something had happened to them! He was starving. Their tiny masses of cells were foreign bodies... with foreign DNA in his system. Flapping his wings, he squeaked loudly. Spinning himself in a circle due to his lack of coordination. Why wasn’t anyone helping him? Was he losing Keith’s twins? He needed to switch back. Blinking at the darkness, he found himself alone in the cell. No Shiro. No Matt. No Curtis or Sam. Alone... They’d left him behind? When did they have the chance!? He didn’t want to be left behind! He wanted to go home to Keith and cuddle! He didn’t want to lose the twins! He didn’t! He’d been so careful. So careful that this wasn’t fair! He wanted his Mami and his boyfriend and cuddles... not... not Keith hating him for how weak he was!

Shooting up from his nightmare, Lance groaned as his body protested the sudden sitting upness. Thank fuck. Thank fuck he wasn’t a bat

“Lance?”

Taking a moment, Lance realised he was sitting with his back to Curtis now...

“Wha...”

“You fell asleep, so I moved you so your head was resting on my leg. You seemed to be having a nightmare”

Ugh. That was one way to put it. Stupid vivid dreams that had to stick in his head

“Yeah... it was... fucking awful. Don’t let me turn into a bat”

“That bad? Here, lay back. You feel slightly feverish”

“I thought I was... never mind... How long was I asleep?”

Even dreaming about losing the twins had shaken him up too much. Saying out loud would panic Shiro... Curtis was probably worrying too... He didn’t want to sink back against him, but Curtis needed the comfort

“A couple of hours. You haven’t missed anything happening other than Matt farting in his sleep”

“I’m glad I missed that. I swear there’s something dead in his intestinal tract”

“It was rather pungent. Much like being at home”

From their breathing Shiro, Matt, and Sam were sleeping. Curtis must be on guard shift. That was good. He preferred not seeming stupid in front of Sam, and not upsetting Matt

“I know this probably a silly thing to ask, but how are you doing?”

Settling himself to sit next to Curtis, Lance covered what he could of them with shiro’s jacket

“I’m not happy to be here”

“Yeah. Their hospitality sucks. I won’t be recommending this place to all my friends”

“I’m ashamed more than anything. They used a gas canister to take us out. Shiro tried to get us to the car, after Rieva was hit. He called Coran straight away, while I did nothing”

“Hey. You don’t need to be ashamed. At least you didn’t get kidnapped in front of VOLTRON”

“Yes. Well. I had hoped you’d be safe. Evidently not”

“I did try to make a recording... I opened up the app so I could record whatever Shiro said when you guys turned up... you know, as evidence or whatever. I don’t even know what happened to my phone”

“I’m sure Pidge would find it”

“Unless they’ve got it and turned it off. They could have even disposed of it on the way to throw the others off”

Being stuck here was thoroughly depressing. What a stupid notion. A vampire who didn’t want to lurk in the dark damps of an underground basement

“We can only hope the others work things out. You had some interesting ideas”

“My ideas only upset Matt. I know he’s worried about Rieva and can’t control himself right now, but like... I thought if we could combine forces we could bust out”

“The only problem with that is what’s waiting on the other side of those bars”

“Yeah, Shiro said that too. I’m worried about you guys, but I’m more worried about what this is doing to Keith... I feel like a bad friend”

“Keith is your soulmate. You have been through a lot together”

“And just when we think we’ve go a break, this goes and happens... I’m sorry. That nightmare fucked me right up”

“Want to tell me?”

“I was a bat. But like, I was panicking because I was a bat and I thought I was losing the twins... if I was a bat, I could get through the bars, then disable the power”

“We both know you’re not that coordinated”

Lance lightly jabbed Curtis in the side with his elbow

“I’ve had my moments of extreme coordination. Plus, I’m more coordinated without my glasses on”

“Barely. You’ll need blood soon”

“Don’t remind me. I never want to eat again as it is. It’s tiresome throwing up”

“The smell isn’t too pleasant”

“There’s that too. I almost miss the bag from over my head”

“I could get it...”

“Nope. I said almost. Do you really think they’ll leave us down here until I starve and vampire out?”

“I don’t think so. You’re a prime specimen. Having you out of control does them no favours”

“Unless they want to see how far they can push a breeder before having to feed them”

“Let’s not think about that. How are you feeling? Have your teeth grown back?”

“Yeah. My fangs grow back in pretty fast, not that the rest of them don’t”

“If you get hungry, let me or Shiro know... I don’t know what my blood will be like, but Shiro’s should be okay as he’s human”

He didn’t want to feed from Shiro. Nor did he want to feed from Sam. He didn’t know if feeding off Curtis was a smart idea, and Matt was out the question. Even when Keith force fed him, he didn’t want an audience to what he was... and with Keith, it was only because Keith was his boyfriend. It kind of felt like cheating if he fed off anyone else. Curtis didn’t want to hear that

“I’ll think about it. You should get some sleep. I doubt they’ll come for us anytime soon”

“I slept enough. It’s you who should be resting. We need you with as much energy as possible for whatever comes”

“If something does happen, promise you’ll get Sam and Shiro out. Matt... he’s a wolf, and I’m a vampire... but them... I can’t ask Shiro”

“We’ll all get out of this. You’ll see. We’re not leaving you behind”

“Keith! You’ve got to come now!”

Bursting into the briefing room, Allura startled Keith out of his self loathing flunk that not even the countless amount of coffee was helping. 24 hours with nothing. Rieva couldn’t help. They’d been gassed, all she really remembered was Shiro yelling and being shot, and had some very choice words to say about it all. It took everything had not to start screaming at her for the answers she didn’t have. Raising his aching head, Keith stared at Allura. She was too damn perky...

“What?”

“Shiro is back”

Pushing his chair back to fast it fell backwards, Keith was on his feet, a little too fast as he head throbbed. Everyone trying to talk at once

“Is dad...?”

“What about Lance?”

“Is Matt there? And Curtis?”

Allura shook her head

“Shiro, Sam, and Matt. They were left outside the bookshop unconscious”

What the hell? Where was Lance? Why was Lance not with Shiro? What the fuck did this mean? He’d felt so... he didn’t actually know the word for the relief at hearing Shiro was back, but now he felt weak at the knees seeing Lance wasn’t...

Allura turned from the room, all of them following after her, Keith the first. Shiro was back and it was finally time to find out what was going on.

Led down to VOLTRON’s infirmary, Coran had the three unconscious men laid out. Nursing staff busy around him

“Shiro!”

Going to rush to his brother’s side, Coran intercepted him

“I’m sorry, Keith. I need you to wait outside with the others”

“That’s my brother!”

“And at the moment we’re collecting their clothes and analysing what’s in their system. I know you want to be here, but we need space to work”

Shiro was right there. Right in front of him... now he was being sent away...

“Keith... It’s not like we don’t want to see Sam and Matt. Coran, thank you. We’ll wait outside”

Colleen agreeing with Coran meant Keith had no choice but to head outside with the others. She’d worked as hard as everyone else to understand what was happening, even with no leads to go on. Lotor had left, taking his generals. Allura doubting if she’d made the right call seeing he’d actually gone. With so many people in the room, Keith had found himself withdrawing more and more. He didn’t feel he had anything valuable to add. He’d watched everything at least a dozen times, only no magical leads had materialise and he’d burnt the image of Lance collapsing into his brain. Krolia had been a bigger help than he knew what to do with. She’d gone and picked up Kosmo, and now remained personally stationed with Rieva on the off chance something was to happen. If he wasn’t so hung up on Shiro finally returning, he might have thought to go tell Rieva that her boyfriend was back... Instead Pidge thought of that, her, Hunk, and Allura leaving him with Colleen to go let Rieva know.

Leaning against the wall for support, Keith kept his arms crossed and his head down as he waited for Coran to let him see Shiro. Curtis wasn’t with the others, Keith didn’t want to think the worst of his brother’s boyfriend, yet the fact he wasn’t with the others led to that little voice inside his head wondering if Curtis was the traitor. The guys who took Lance had said that Curtis confirmed the pregnant. He didn’t think Curtis had it in him to lie them, yet if they’d offered him a cure for his curse... He didn’t want to think that way, but why hadn’t he been returned with the others? Was it because he’d fused with a demon? He was the only person Keith had ever heard of to be cursed. If Curtis wasn’t the traitor then... then he and Lance could both be being tortured right now... Shiro could have been tortured. Just because he didn’t see obvious bruising didn’t mean there wasn’t any.

It’d pushed half an hour before Coran came out, the others assuming similar positions to his, only Pidge had her arms wrapped around her mother. Krolia hadn’t left her post. Kolivan had come up empty at the scene, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t spent most of the night scouring the area for clues. James and the wolf pack had nothing. Shiro had to be okay, or Keith might just lose it.

Letting himself relax, Coran smiled at the group of them

“You may go in now. They’ll be asleep for a few hours, but I know you’re desperate to see them. I’ll take the evidence we’ve collected for processing. Hopefully we’ll gain some clues as to where they’ve been held and if Lance was held with them. Before you panic, we’ve restrained Matt purely as a cautionary measure. He may... uh, as you would say, “wolf out”. Hit the red button on the wall when he wakes. I expect he won’t be under as long as Sam and Shiro”

Hunk wiped his hands on his shirt, marks left from the sweat. Almost timidly he asked Coran

“And... they’re okay? They...”

“They’ve been sedated. I would say gas was used as there is no sign of puncture marks. I’ll know more when I’ve examined their blood work. The three of them were dehydrated, I’ve set up IV fluids. I failed to find signs of bite marks, both Shiro and Sam are still human from the feeling of their quintessence and body temperature. Though, had they been changed the change would be obvious. For three men held by vampires, they’ve been exceptionally well looked after considering Matt is a werewolf and Shiro’s identity as a hunter. Right. Well, head on in. I’ll be expecting all of you to get some rest. This has been a very tiring 24 hours and until we learn more, you’re best of resting and recovering your strength”

Keith noticed the way Coran said nothing about Lance. No reassurances that because their three friends had been returned mostly safely that Lance would be found with the evidence on them or that they could expect him to be returned in the same condition. Heading into the room, he found himself stumbling the last few steps to Shiro’s side, grasping his bothers hand as he shook. Shiro was warm. He was warm and alive. He hadn’t expected him to be so warm when his brother was normally such a loud sleeper. Letting himself all but collapse against his brother, he laid his head on Shiro’s chest, listening to the strong sound of his beating heart. He’d come back to him. He’d come back to him when Keith feared he’d never see him again. But how was he back? Had even been taken by the same people who took Lance? Why would they return a hunter? What had they done to him? Was this sleep really drug induced? Or had there been some kind of incident where they’d tried escaping and Shiro had been hurt? He felt terrible for not caring for Matt and Sam as much as he did his brother. He did care about them. He did. He swore he did. He just... felt abandoned all over again. Like Shiro would never be home, or he’d come back but be like Adam. Half crazed and begging for his death.

Coming up behind Keith, Hunk wrapped an arm around his shoulder

“He’s going to be okay, man”

What did normal well adjust social people say to that?

“Thanks”

That didn’t sound quite right. Hunk sniffled

“I’m so glad they’re back”

The angry over caffeinated region of his brain wanted to slap Hunk away and yell at him because Lance wasn’t with them. The more tired part of him making impossible to get those words out

“Yeah”

It didn’t sound enthused. He should be more enthused. He was just too emotionally and physically drained

“You should get some rest. We’re going to stay until they all wake up, and no offence, man, but you look dead on your feet”

“I’m fine... I’m not leaving Shiro”

“Then at least take a nap next to him... or I can go find a chair?”

“Won’t that be weird?”

“Nah, man. He’s your brother. I’d be climbing into my brother’s bed too if he’d just come home from being kidnapped”

He wouldn’t sleep. He’d nap. Or better yet, he’d doze. That way he’d be semi awake when Matt woke up, seeing he really was the most likely to wake first.

#once bitten twice stupid #oncebittentwicestupid #I really need to update the master list #ashratherose

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darkhorse-javert · 5 years ago

Text

Vidua... Part 1

@everlarkficexchange and @567inpanem. I’m sorry this is so late, technical problems my end. Also I am still writing it down, and I have no idea when I will get to the end.

Written for prompt 44, where Katniss is taken to the Capitol to marry Snow.

They bang on the door just after sunrise. Buttercup leaps from the windowsill to dive under the bed as I shove my feet into my boots and cross the room to open the door. No matter what you opened when the Peacekeepers knocked, or you soon found that you didn’t have a door, just a flat board of wood lying on your floor. Cray, Head Peacekeeper, stands on the doorstep

“Katniss Everdeen, aged sixteen on 8th of May this year?”

I nod tightly “That’s me” Cray knows who I am he’s bought wild turkey from me often enough, but there is a clipped formality to his voice, and I see the half-dozen other peacekeepers grouped up beyond him

“You need to come with us to the Justice Building, now”

“What is it?” My mother’s voice comes from behind me “What’s going on?”

“No need to worry Mrs Everdeen, in fact you should be proud of your daughter.” Still the formality in Cray’s tone, my mother's hand clamps on my shoulder, wrinkling the rough shirt. “Now Miss Everdeen comes with us, Mrs Everdeen you and any close family may attend at the Justice Building in half an hour to assist, bringing smart clothes for Miss Everdeen”

Cray holds out his hand towards me, I don’t take it but I step through the doorway, past him. The half-dozen peacekeepers form a box around me two in front, two behind, two at my sides. They are so precise it unnerves me, but as we march off I take a look over my shoulder. My mother stands in the doorway of our house, watching, and then Prim still in her night dress appears at her side in a flash of checks.

Framed by the Peacekeepers we walk quickly through the district, the dirt paths and rickety Seam houses, then onto the more orderly streets of the town. Already people are up, and they look over but then avert their eyes. Someone in the centre of a squad of peacekeepers, it doesn’t do to show any kind of acknowledgement or association. Only a handful of children stare, because it is a strange thing to see, with our Peacekeepers. That only makes me stiffer in my stance. Somewhere in the long distance between the start of town and the Justice building, the peacekeeper on my left reaches out and touches my hand, making it seem as if she’s guiding me around a puddle on the ground. I glance over to see the formal reflective visor gone and recognise Purnia, who I’ve seen at the hob. Her eyes are kind as she whispers quickly, “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble, I swear.”

I want to ask her what is going on, but her eyes snap forward again and the glimmer of the visor comes down. We’re nearly at the square when I hear the pit siren. But not the horrifying screech that means there has been a mine accident, the hooting that marks an end of shift, and yet, isn’t the pitch different. Normality in the middle of chaos, but even that is wrong.

We pace across the square, prominently visible. The shopkeepers are more awake than the Seam; setting up for the day, rigging out their awnings, polishing the glass, checking the lay of the window displays. They stop what they’re doing as we walk past, making a dull ripple of silence and I feel the fear in their gazes. But again, nothing more than looking, you don’t mess with Peacekeepers on official business. Then when we’re at the base of the two flights of steps to the front of the Justice Building, there is the sound of a scuffle going on behind. Only when we reach the big landing halfway up the stairs do I glance over, two of the baker’s sons are grappling in the shop door, the older pulling the smaller back into the shop. Purnia’s hand on my back urges me forwards up the stairs onto the stone frontage. The doors, with their huge proud eagle, swing open, then close behind us with a deep metal slam. Only my pride holds back a shuddering flinch. Now Purnia's reassurance feels very very thin.

Inside the Justice Building entrance hall,mMy escort march me to one of the lifts. I along with Purnia, and the other flanking peacekeeper step into the lift to be surrounded by the smell of sour milk. The other peacekeeper presses the button to take the lift up.

As I turn round, just before the doors close I see the back pair of peacekeepers moving away to the flights of stairs at a quick jog. The lift doors close and it begins to creak upwards. Without the sun on the visors I can now see the face of my other escort, Livia. She's not in the job as often as some of them, but I've traded with her before now. Rosehip syrup comes to mind.

"Katniss, whatever is to happen, from the moment these doors open, you stand for District 12 in its entirety. Just - " Purnia pauses “Just show them what District 12 really is, not just the assumptions people make about it, that it's all grubby minors. 12 is more than that. Be proud of it and show that pride.”

The fact that the Peacekeepers who know about things because they are the officials of the district don't really seem to know what this is about far more than I am willing to let on. And why warn me or cue me at all. Whatever is going on, it's to her benefit for the District to look good for some reason. Of course the Peacekeepers are the security, the day to day panem representative in our district, so they want to look good.

The lift in the Justice Building is supposed to be slower than a slug but it is too soon when the box stops and the doors open. It must be slow though for Cray and the other four Peacekeepers stand there to receive us. Cray is slightly further back, his face tinted red. I resist a smile at the thought of him having to puff up all those stairs for me. The flash of amusement is quickly doused, what am I doing here? To represent the District, according to Purnia. That’s the same high flowery language Effie trinket uses each Reaping day. But how? A reprobate hunter being whipped? Have they snached Gale too, to make an example of both of us… or some of the Hob traders? They lead me down the corridor to two large wooden doors at the end with the same eagle insignia as on the Justice Building main door we passed through earlier. Last time I was here I was eleven, receiving a medal for my father who I would never see again. I blink sharply, forcing back the emotions behind my mask. Purnia warned me.

Keep it together Katniss, you stand for District 12.

Cray pushed open the wooden doors of the hall, and we walked in. The wooden beamed hall seeths with Capitol people, a mass of bright colours. As someone notices our arrival there is a sudden hush, and in the gathering of the silence I hear someone say "President Snow has chosen well this time."

Even then a shrill Capitol voice rises and out of the throng comes Effie Trinket, the Capitol representative who each year calls out the names of those reaped

"Here she is, our District Sposata" her hands are outstretched towards me as if in welcome, but I'm still coping with the shock of the too brilliant false pink dress she is wearing, so bright it cannot be a natural colour. She clicks towards me in her heels, moving straight past Cray without even an acknowledgement. Her eyes note my clothes and hollow, then falsely brighten again.

"You are a darling, I am sure."

She glances at Cray, who straightens and answers a question she hasn't even asked "I asked her family to arrive in half an hour with smarter clothes, to give you a chance to explain everything to Katniss, Miss Everdeen,about her situation."

"Quite right." She beckons to me as she turns away "Come with me, dear and I'll explain everything."

I follow her then perch awkwardly on the wood of a recessed window seat. I already know at least part of what she is about to say. As soon as the bubbly man said the words President Snow. A dim memory from that starving spring I turned 12, extra mandatory viewing,watching a girl from District 4 in the Capitol, walking between rows of people in a dress of luxury we could only dream of, to be married to the president of Panem, a man old enough to be her father. There had been pain in her eyes, pain I hadn't understood or cared about then, as she walked. I drag myself back to listen to Effie prattle "it is a great honour to be chosen for your district Katniss, to be the one to symbolise the partnership between the Capitol and the District."

Partnership..not likely.

I but in, before I think too deeply about that. "What about my family, my tesserae, I provide for them".

Effie actually looks sympathetic for a moment before it morphs into excitement "You needn't worry Katniss, they'll receive a Capitol stipend to replace your wages, a house in Victors Village... They needn't worry about the tesserae anymore with that. Besides with the marriage they'll become Capitol citizens by extension, and they'll be ineligible for reaping." Effie pauses to tally where she's got to in her list of benefits, and it's a good thing because my brain is fixed on those three words

Ineligible for reaping.

I go and Prim won't be in the pens this summer knowing that there is a slip with her name on itin the girls great glass bowl. And not just this summer, but every summer, as the slips would pile up each year.- for this I would be willing to die, marriage is a small price to pay.

"How many of my family?"

"Just siblings dear, those with a shared parent."

A pang of regret that I cannot register Gale and his siblings as my cousin and have them excluded from the reaping too.

"Is the marriage today?", it tumbles out before I can stop it and Effie laughs softly, pityingly like you would with a child. I clamp my jaw shut before I say anything else stupid and she shakes her head.

"Goodness me, no Katniss. Today is your district farewell, then we'll go to the Capitol. There are so many things that you need to know and that need to be done. The fitting of the dress, your trousseau," Effie waves her hand as she speaks and the cuffs flutter like birds. The marriage, that will take place in a week, once we've dusted you off a little bit.” I feel like I have been doused in cold water. Effie is looking around slightly suspicious at one of the fire places, which does seem fairly free of coal dust.

These people are not interested in me. Just in a symbol of the district they can have without it's bad points. I rub my fingers on the smooth wood of the seat, while she rattles on again sounding rather like a squirrel chattering in the branches. After a while she notices that I am not attending in the slightest and huffs, then she gets up and leaves me to the whirl of my thoughts.

There is a velvet cushion on the window seat, my fingers find it, rifling the stroke of the fabric back and forth. But even this is strange, different from the little house, where it's only place is a tiny strip on my mother's collar. I turn and stare out at the square below. The stalls have been herded away, people in uniforms are setting up huge projector lights, uncoiling the rope for one large pen in front of the steps, I cast my eyes upwards and sure enough there are nests of extra Peacekeepers appearing on the roofs I can see. It's like another reaping day, apart from the fact there are no age pens. The thought, the realization hits like a stone, sinking through my mind and into my stomach. It is a Reaping day, and I am the lone tribute, chosen by a lottery I don't even know; to go to the Capitol. I turn back to the room, and Effie must have been watching because she's stops her chattering and comes to me

"You will love this Katniss, I've just been to talk to Cinna, the ideas he has for your trousseau, you'll be the talk of the world." I have no idea what a trousseau is, other than it needs fitting according to her earlier comment.

"Miss Trinket," I use my best manners voice, as if I was at school, "I will be able to come back to District 12 won't I?"

"Of course", the cuff birds flutter. "Why it would be utterly gauche to miss any special district events… but Katniss there is so much in the Capitol the winter celebrations, the illumination yo will never have seen the like, the fireworks the dinners, and I haven't even mentioned the private parties."

But through that I hear what she isn't saying, that once I leave the district I become a person of the Capitol and that my visit back will be few and far between for display. Some of it must have shown on my face, because Effie starts chattering again "But of course we're not rude, after you have been presented to the district and received their acclamation, you have two whole hours to make your goodbyes to all your friends, so they understand before you are whisked away to the Capitol for a time"

[i]or forever[/i] I add in my head.

"You mustn't come back until you are well settled in." She holds out a notebook and a gold pen, seeming warmer in her attitude "Here, you write down a list of everyone you want to see, and that way I can give them priority over anyone else who comes to curry favour."

The back of the notebook is slightly furry in my hand, a strange texture between pelt and the velvet. The pen is so strange, cold and gold that I am almost afraid to touch it, that I'll leave fingermarks on the shell. Effie leaves again. Livia steps closer to me, ostensibly a protective guard. She leans over and subtly twists the pen so a small nib pops out of the end, giving me a tiny chin up nod then becomes inscrutable again. I turn my attention to the page, the list of people I really want to see as it forms in my head as I run it down.

[i]Gale Hawthorne[/i]

[i]Hazelle Hawthorne[i]

[i]Primrose Everdeen[/i] I'm not taking chances she'll be forgotten, but I hope she'll come with our mother.

There are others I'd like to add, but I don't think I can safely invite Hob people without giving reason, and I can't send peacekeepers to fetch them on official business. But Sae is safe. Yet as I add her name, I realise I don't know her surname. Only that her Hob name amongst us is Greasy Sae, and we can rely on her to take what we catch and to not begrudge us hear in the winter. I stare down at the page, trying to remember, trying to hear someone else use it, but I draw a blank. Livia bends her head down, speaking low.

"Its Fetler."

[i]Sae Fetler[/i], I write it down pause... then add another name beneath

[i]Madge Undersee.[/i]

We aren't friends, not like Gale and I but I realise that I'd feel guilty to leave her out, to disappear without a proper explanation to her face, although being the mayor's daughter she probably knew before I did. Half a dozen names, all the people I can put down to say goodbye to. Not much really. Effie clicks over on her heels, wordless I hand over. She nods, half glancing." I'll see they come". She speaks with such confidence and nods with such assurance as if no one would dare say no to her.

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

Any feedback, @567inpanem, would be gratefully received.

#thg #hg #hg fanfic #everlark fic exchange #EFE #efe 2020 #katniss #Katniss everdeen #fanfic

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incandescent-creativity · 5 years ago

Text

Pre-Games: Olu and Mal

I. the big day

Mal shifts at the back of the crowd and picks at the pants she’s wearing.

“Don’t fidget,” Olu reprimands quietly.

“Easy for you to say,” Mal snaps under her breath. “You like wearing pants.”

“So do you sometimes. Why did you choose the suit when you’d rather the skirt?”

Mal scoffs. “It was hardly a choice. Barely more than tatters now.”

“My condolences.”

The reel ends, and the Capitol representative’s heels click as he moves back to the microphone. He’s saying something, but Maluka’s mind is still turning over. With such long hours in such different parts of the district, she hasn’t seen Olu in months. Now, today, in such close quarters, Olu stands at her side.

They’re just as tall as Mal remembers, which would be comforting if not for the fact that it just means their hand is close for the taking.

It wouldn’t be that weird, would it? Reaping days are exceptional, in the sense that they are exceptions to everyday life. Maybe Mal can’t see them every day while she’s busy with administrative work, and maybe she can’t hold their hand when Olu’s hands are raw from the rough scythes, but maybe today—

“And now, our first name.”

Crushing stray thoughts like dead leaves beneath her heel, Mal holds her breath with the rest of District 9.

II. the reaping

Olufemi prays.

They don’t know who’s listening. They’ve never known. It’s never mattered. Someone is, and that’s what matters.

With their eyes never straying from the glass bowl full of names, Olu prays.

Please, keep us safe. I know that two must be taken, but you have kept us from the jaws of death for so long. To your purpose, I’m sure of it. Let us serve that purpose still.

After all, the families that refuse to take tesserae subsist on the grain bars Olu sets aside for them. A monthly reprimand when the yield is lower than projected, for “unknown reasons,” is a small price to pay to ensure that District 9’s citizens do not starve.

It is a good purpose, and one that Olu intends to continue doing for as long as possible.

“And now, our first name.”

The man covered in green sequins and peacock feathers plunges his arm into the bowl, up to the elbow, and retrieves a scrap of paper.

Please. Your will be done.

“Maluka Samale, please come to the stage.”

The crowd begins to part, and the cameras begin to turn, but the only reason the name sinks in is a quick, brief squeeze of the hand. It is this moment of contact that triggers the realization: Mal—their Mal—is on her way to the stage.

Olu cannot breathe. Everything freezes up at once. Is this punishment? A prayer recognized for its selfishness, and thus realized through the taking away of their only companion in life?

By the time they think to volunteer, and ensure Mal’s safety, she is on the stage.

I’m too late.

Tears threaten to dampen round cheeks, but there is still one tribute to call. Then the visitation hours will start, and one last moment can be had between them.

A seed of resolve hardens in their heart. I will not let Mal away from me again.

The Capitol peacock already has his second slip of paper.

“Nora Collins, please come to the stage.”

Despair replaces resolve. The Collinses were the first family to approach Olu begging for an alternative to tesserae. Any other granarist would turn them in for attempted theft, they said, but Olu had a kind heart, they could tell. Would it be possible to spare some of their next harvest?

Nora, the Collins daughter, had grown up hale and strong as a direct result of the system they had devised together. She matured from a dead eyed child into an adolescent with the quickest weaving fingers around, and Olu watched it happen.

I cannot let her go to the Games.

Before the girl can take even her first step towards the stage, Olufemi fills lungs that call out over entire fields with the last free air they may ever know.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

All eyes turn to them, and they feel the weight of the crowd once again. An intimate knowledge of procedure and an increasing anxiety to escape the mass of people drives them forward.

“An unexpected twist here in 9!” the Capitol man narrates. “Here comes our lovely volunteer now—and just look at those shoulders! I think we have a contender here, folks, I daresay we do.”

He offers a hand to help Olu onstage, and they accept. Holding it delicately, he guides them both over to the microphone at center stage.

“What’s your name, tribute?”

“I am... Olufemi Abdalla.”

Turning away from them smartly, the Capitol man gestures for Mal to take his other hand. He lifts the two hands he has up in the air, though Olu’s slips out due to their height, and makes one final announcement:

“The tributes from District 9: Olufemi and Maluka!”

III. the visit

If I could have leapt off that stage and tackled Olu to the ground when Nora’s name was called, I would have.

As things went, all I could do was watch. They never even hesitated—as soon as her name was read, their voice spoke up. Credit where credit is due; they sounded strong. All confidence, no weakness. I’m not surprised the Capitol dude called them a contender.

That initial impression won’t last very long, though. There are no cameras in the visitation room, so nobody seems them hug the Collinses and put on a watery smile for Nora, but I don’t think Olu has it in them to be anything other than what they are: a good person.

Settling against a wall opposite their little gathering, I try not to be bitter. Unfortunately, I knew it. I knew that dumb heart of theirs was going to get them in trouble eventually, I knew it from the day I discovered their haphazard attempt to smuggle grain foodstuffs from their quota to the needy.

Their stupid “production” never would have gotten off the ground if it wasn’t for my insider access to the records, fudging the numbers to make sure they weren’t missing as much as they actually were. Olu would be stuck with the hard labor of the fields—there’s no chance of promotion with those numbers—but they also wouldn’t hang.

And now we’re tangled in another mess.

Maybe they could have managed it on their own if it were just the Collins family, but Olu never figured out how to say no to the other folks that approached them. People took to calling them Angel as a codename: “Go and see the angel if you’re in need of food.” “The angel will help you.”

If they’re an angel, what does that make me? Hiding in the background, covering tracks, lying on every paper I fill out every day?

A shadow falls over me, and I look up to see Olufemi approaching.

I drop my arms out of their somewhat aggressive position across my chest. “What?”

They freeze, a minute tic I’ve seen before that means I’ve completely misinterpreted the situation.

Hesitantly, they answer, “I... they just left.”

“So?”

“So, wouldn’t you like to trade spots to afford you a bit of privacy, as you did for me?”

I smile and shake my head, but I can’t force myself to put any warmth into it. “Nobody’s coming to see me off, Olu. My people are long dead, and I’ve pissed off everybody at work at least once before.”

They shift their weight back, now awkward with the weight of what I said. “Ah.”

“Yeah, I know. At least it simplifies things, right?”

“Of course,” they say delicately.

Letting myself slip down to sit on the floor, I sigh. “God, I wish I had a drink.”

Olu folds their long legs and drops to the floor, as well. Perfect posture, as always.

“I’m sure they’ll have alcohol on the train.”

“They better.”

IV. the train ride

Unfortunately, my prediction regarding the train’s alcoholic stores is an accurate one.

Mal proceeds to get “properly plastered” over dinner. I’ll admit that the wine is incredible, the finest I’ve ever tasted, but I sip at it only to complement the meal. She downs cups of it like its sole purpose is to intoxicate her.

As a result, I am the one to take her to her quarters. I suppose the Avoxes could, or perhaps the Peacekeepers, but I can’t convince myself to find either of those appropriate. The Avoxes have enough cleaning to do in the dining car, and the only danger Mal presents in her current state is to herself.

The doors slide open smoothly, to reveal a room decorated in dark tones. The bed has a dark grey duvet and its posts are made of dark wood, and the rug is a plush navy blue color. Even the lamps and lights along the wall are muted.

“Finally, a place that isn’t so fuckin’ bright,” Mal mutters as I guide her towards the bed.

“I didn’t think the rest of the train was too bright,” I say by way of making conversation.

“It was,” she says, with all the confidence of a child. “This is nice, though. Like you.”

I’m unsure whether she means that I am nice, or I am dark, but I suppose she is right either way. Regardless of meaning, it seems an appropriate moment to withdraw my hands from her arms. After a brief pause to ensure she doesn’t immediately fall over, I start setting aside extra pillows and pulling back blankets.

“You takin’ me to bed, angel?”

I huff out a laugh at the codename turned nickname. “In a sense.”

“Awesome,” she mutters. “You’re sexy as fuck.”

I could handle the first comment, but this second one prompts heat to my face. “Sorry?”

“Ah, don’t apologize. I’m just glad you’re finally actin’ on it.”

I’m running out of pillows to keep busy with. “On what?”

“On our undeniable chemistry,” she answers, using a tone that implies I should have known this already.

“I mean, fuck,” Mal continues, “I’ve been trying to hold your hand for, like... years. Figures I’d have to get reaped for it to happen.”

This last sentence is muttered, and the sorrow that overwhelms me over our circumstances closes my throat. All I can do is step back and gesture an open arm to the ready bed.

Mal dutifully crawls in, brushing a hand against the skin of my arm in thanks as she goes. Perhaps it is just her recent words echoing in the room, but the touch does incite nerves in my stomach and chest. Hasn’t it always, though? Or is that her point?

“Olu,” Mal mumbles, one arm up in the air. “Stop thinking.”

This command, at least, is familiar ground. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to sleep with me,” she promises. “I’m clearly not all... here.” A yawn interrupts her speech.

“Clearly,” I say gently.

“But I wasn’t kidding about sleeping with you. I mean—”

She buries her head into the dent of the pillow for a second, and a frustrated noise is muffled by it.

“I do want you to sleep with me, but like, sleep next to me. I don’t... want to wake up alone like I have every day, for years. This place already sucks. I don’t need that on top of it all, you know?”

It appears that Maluka has forgotten that I also live and wake up alone, but all that means is I understand the loneliness she is speaking from. And as such, I can hardly deny her.

Adjusting the blanket she is under one last time, I circle over to the other side of the bed and crawl in beside her.

#whg #ship: malufemi #star crossed lovers #my writing #prompt response

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setaripendragon · 5 years ago

Text

Ursakoda Soulmates - Part 3

More of this nonsense! This time with actual kisses! =D

Hakoda is good with people. It’s one of the things that makes him such a well-respected chief. Everyone’s different, of course, but there are some types of body-language that are pretty similar all around, and Ursa’s reaction to his question about the father of her children put a whole new spin on the bumps and bruises he’d felt from her over the years. That reaction hadn’t said ‘fighter’, it had said ‘hunted’.

And it’s filling in more than a few bits of the story for him. Not the details, and he’d still like to hear those, at some point, if Ursa’d be willing to tell him, but… the broad strokes. And it’s making him more and more convinced that she’s here because she’s running, not because she’s spying. It’s a relief, even if the knowledge that there’s something she’s that scared of makes his heart hurt for her.

“Tell me your story?” Ursa asks, shattering Hakoda’s thoughts. He turns his head towards her, and finds her looking back with a curiosity that’s only a little bit guarded. “You already know so much about me, it’s only fair.” She adds, on the edge of teasing, but… not quite.

And that’s fair, Hakoda decides ruefully. “Okay.” He agrees, and then considers how to begin. At the beginning, he supposes. “I was born at the South Pole, in the Whale-shark Tribe, one of the Southern Water Tribes. My father was the Chief before me, and my mother was originally from the Northern Water Tribe.” He paused, and then laughed. “I have no idea how to describe my childhood. It seemed normal enough to me, but I’ve learned that our normal really isn’t all that normal for the rest of the world.”

“Tell me what you think is important.” Ursa instructs gently.

“That works.” Hakoda agrees. “My best friend growing up was Bato. We were the resident trouble-makers. Gave my mother no end of grey hairs chasing after us. We learned to hunt with our fathers, learned the ways of the sea and the turn of the stars. Learned to fight.” He sobers a little, and reaches out catch hold of Ursa’s hand, because what he wants to say next is going to be hard. “The raids had been going on since before I was born, so to me, they were… just a fact of life. Polar leopards will eat you if you’re not careful on the ice, sometimes blizzards snow us in for so long someone starves, and the Fire Nation comes and takes water-benders every now and then.”

Ursa squeezes his hand, but doesn’t say anything, and Hakoda is grateful. It makes it easier to get through the next bit. “When I was twenty-three, there was… what we thought was the last raid. My mother’s best friend was the only known water-bender left, and she was taken, and my father was killed trying to stop them. Mum was… Well, someone had to step up, so I did. Won my place as Chief, and kept the Tribe going. Married Kya.”

Beside him, Ursa stiffens slightly, before relaxing again. “Kya?” She asks quietly.

Hakoda stalls for a moment. Because Ursa is his soulmate, and so she deserves the truth, but she’s also Fire Nation, which brings the lie to his lips automatically. In the end, he settles on telling a half-truth that will, at least, answer the question Ursa is really asking. “She was killed in the actual last raid.” He says, aware that his tone has gone hard and angry, but unable to stop it. “For being the last water-bender in the South Pole.”

Ursa sucks in a sharp breath. There is a very, very long silence in answer to that, and Hakoda lets it sit, because, really, there’s not much to be said to something like that. “I understand you may not appreciate hearing it from me, but I’m sorry for your loss.” She says, finally, tone subdued.

Hakoda sighs, and lets the anger and grief flow away for the time being. “Thank you. On a more cheerful note, I also have two children.” He goes on, finishing up the very loose tale of his life. “Sokka is about a year younger than your eldest, and Katara’s half a year older than your youngest.” He grimaces a little. “They’re still in the South Pole. I haven’t seen them in… just about two years now.”

“I know how that must feel.” Ursa tells him, and Hakoda looks over at her, caught by the fragile note in her voice. Her eyes look hollow, haunted, and Hakoda doesn’t need to work hard to put the pieces together.

“They’re still with their father?” He asks carefully.

Not carefully enough. Ursa flinches, and her expression goes tight with pain. She keeps her composure, but she can’t keep a slight tremor from starting up in her shoulders. A line of sharp pain scores its way across Hakoda’s palm when she fists her hand and her nails dig in, and another across the inside of his lip as she bites at hers. “Ursa?” Hakoda prompts in concern, voice little more than a whisper, reaching over to catch her hand and gently uncurl her fingers. Then he lifts his hand, slowly, giving her time to move away if the touch would be unwelcome, to her cheek.

She stops gnawing on her lip when his thumb brushes the corner of her mouth, and she draws in a sharp, shaky little breath. “I left them.” She confesses in a rushed whisper, closing her eyes against the truth of it. “Agni forgive me, I left them with him.”

Hakoda remembers how she’d reacted to his sideways inquiry about her husband, and tries to imagine how he would feel if he knew that Sokka and Katara, instead of being as safe as they can be with the rest of the Tribe, had been left in the care of someone that could evoke that sort of reaction in him, that sort of cold, defensive rejection… The mingled fear and fury turns his stomach, and his heart goes out to Ursa. Following the impulse, he wraps his arm around her shoulders and tucks her in against his side, tipping his head to rest his cheek against her hair.

Ursa turns her face into his shoulder, and just breathes for a moment, soaking up what little comfort he can offer. Then she sits up, still looking a little ragged, but with resolve glittering hard and bright in her eyes. “I’m getting a little tired.” She announces mildly. “Walk me home?”

Amused, Hakoda stands and offers her a hand to help her up. “That will earn us a lot of speculation.” He warns her, because he can already feel the curious and incredulous stares of his men. He ignores them easily enough, because the Tribe are always up in each other’s business, it’s difficult not to be with the way they live, but he doesn’t want Ursa subjected to that without prior warning.

But she just looks resigned as she takes his hand and lets him pull her up. “Oh, I know.” She assures him, keeping hold of his hand as she leads the way out of the village square and into unlit streets. She doesn’t say anything else until the sounds of the revelry have faded, at which point she sighs. “I assume you have questions?”

Hakoda does, but he’s not sure he knows where to begin. He could ask about her husband, but as much as he’d love to know which Fire Nation bastard to take particular pleasure in cutting down, it’s not a subject he feels he has a right to. It’s Ursa’s pain, and she’ll share it if and when she wants to. The same is true of her children. He’d like to ask about them, to see if it might not be possible to arrange some sort of reunion, but surely Ursa has already thought of things like that, and he doesn’t want to dredge up any more of her pain.

There’s one question, though, that crystallises out of the mass of curiosity in him, and it feels more important than anything else he can come up with. “How come you’re here?” He asks.

Ursa’s steps stutter and slow, as though she hadn’t been expecting that question, but then her lips quirk into a side-ways little smirk that makes Hakoda’s heart trip in his chest, it looks so good on her. Part amused and part smug and part mischievous. “I was banished.” She says lightly, but Hakoda knows full well not to trust that tone, given that smile. “For murdering Fire Lord Azulon.”

Hakoda trips over his own feet, and he gives up on trying to walk and stare at Ursa in flabbergasted shock at the same time. Ursa comes to a stop as well and turns to face him, clearly enjoying his reaction. “What?” Hakoda asks, not because he didn’t hear her, but… what?

Ursa folds her hands together primly, and repeats herself. “I was banished for murdering Fire Lord Azulon.”

It’s almost unbelievable, but Hakoda can’t help but believe her. Wishful thinking, some might call it, but Hakoda would prefer to think of it as gut instinct. Ursa’s not lying. She really did kill a Fire Lord. She killed the Fire Lord that was, ultimately, responsible for all of the worst things in Hakoda’s life. He laughs, incredulous and delighted, and Ursa grins in answer. “You’re amazing.” Hakoda tells her, entirely sincere.

Ursa’s grin gentles, and then slips sideways into something rather rueful. “I wish I could say I did it because it was the right thing for the world, but… it was a lot more selfish than that.” She tells him.

Hakoda shakes his head, not to deny the truth of her words – he doesn’t know why she did it, but right now, he doesn’t care – but because he’s not going to stand there and let her deny that she did something incredible. His heart swells with a feeling that’s rather a lot like awe, and he decides he has a better way of conveying it to her than words. He steps forwards, catches her face in his hands, and leans in to kiss her.

Ursa’s eyes go wide when she registers his intent, but she doesn’t pull away or bring a hand up to push him back. Instead, she leans up into him, eyes fluttering shut as their mouths meet. Her lips are warm and soft, but the grip of her hands on his waist is firm and sure. “You’re amazing.” Hakoda repeats against her lips, and Ursa kisses him again to shut him up.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #ATLA #Ursa #Hakoda #Ursakoda #Soulmates AU #soulmate identifying marks #hakoda/ursa #hakoda x ursa

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unfolded73 · 5 years ago

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How Do We Get Back (13/16) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: In a literal alternate universe where the Roses escaped financial ruin, David and Patrick struggle with loneliness and a sense that something isn’t right. A chance meeting in New York and a terrible tragedy drive them to question whether the timeline they are on is the right one.

This chapter is explicit, 4k words. (ao3)

_____________________________________

Chapter 13

Patrick was drifting, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, thinking about the nature of orgasms.

For a long time there had been two kinds of orgasms that he had first-hand experience with. There was the masturbatory kind, which he took care of in a perfunctory, utilitarian way when he felt like the needs of his body were distracting him from something more important, like schoolwork or practicing the guitar or a good night’s sleep. Quick and harsh, a tight fist and hand lotion and his brain carefully blank while he was doing it, just an efficient, neural shortcut to a little burst of pleasure, then a quick cleanup and it was back to whatever he’d been doing before.

Then there were orgasms from sex, where quick and harsh wouldn’t cut it, but where again he shied away from thinking too much about what he was actually doing. It felt like a job, being skilled enough at sex that his partner wouldn’t have any complaints. And he was happy that he could please another person, he was, but it left little room for the work his brain needed to do in order to find that neural shortcut. A lot of the time, he never got there. When he did, it was underwhelming, to say the least.

If those experiences were like weakly flickering light bulbs, then being with David was like a supernova.

Patrick did things for David, touched him and sucked him and fucked him, not because of an obligation to be competent at sex but because he wanted to. No, want was too small a word for what he felt — he was starving, he was aching to do those things for David. And orgasming with David didn’t take effort; it was inevitable — it was simply impossible not to be swept along to that heart-stopping conclusion, so intense sometimes that he felt like he barely stayed conscious.

“What are you grinning about?”

Patrick slowly opened his eyes and looked over at David. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Nope.”

“I was thinking about orgasms, if you must know.”

David hummed in a way that said, Oooh, I’m intrigued, tell me more.

“Also I was thinking that as much I’ve enjoyed this weekend of hardly leaving the bed, I do have to go to work tomorrow. Will you be okay on your own for the day?”

Looking offended, David said, “I’m not a child.”

“No, of course you aren’t. But I don’t know if being alone is necessarily the best thing for you right now.”

“I’ll read a book. Or maybe, I don’t know, take a walk.” Patrick raised an eyebrow; David going for a walk without a destination in mind seemed a bit out of character, but there were likely hidden depths of David’s character that Patrick hadn’t seen yet. He was excited to learn them all, every facet of David’s personality, every quirk and annoying habit.

Whoa, slow down, he thought to himself. Just because David had chosen to lean on him in this time of mourning, it didn’t mean he was thinking in terms of a long-term relationship. Just because they’d spent most of the last two days in Patrick’s bed, learning each other’s bodies, didn’t mean David was falling in love with him. For the first time, Patrick realized how in danger his heart really was. And that perhaps it was too late to do anything about it.

“What’s wrong?” David asked.

Realizing his face was betraying his thoughts, Patrick relaxed his features. “A walk sounds like a good idea.”

~*~

“This place is cute,” David said, the grimace on his face saying he thought it was anything but.

Patrick looked at the local bar through David’s eyes: televisions tuned to a variety of sporting events, signed hockey jerseys mounted on the walls, wide-board wooden floor and tables with decades of initials carved into them.

Giving him two firm claps on the back (“You’ve got such straight boy body language,” David had once said), Patrick grinned at him. “Come on, I promise you’ll have a good time.”

Dennis had invited them out, having no doubt heard through his parents or perhaps just through the town rumor mill that Patrick had a guy staying with him. Between the other tenants in Patrick’s building and the people in the bookstore and coffee shop that David had visited over the last few days while Patrick was at work, Oak Grove was almost certainly churning with news that little Patrick Brewer had a boyfriend.

Not a boyfriend, Patrick reminded himself, although with every day that David didn’t return to New York, it felt more and more difficult not to name him so. David had been in town a week now, and with every day that passed it seemed more impossible that the day would come when this would be over.

Patrick spotted his cousin at a table near the bar and he steered David over.

“Hey, man!” Dennis said, up and out of his chair and hugging Patrick before he quite understood what was happening. He didn’t particularly remember Dennis being a hugger, but he went with it.

“Um, this is David,” Patrick said simply. Dennis reached out and shook David’s hand enthusiastically, as if being introduced to a man that Patrick was in an unlabelable romantic relationship with was a normal thing that didn’t require remarking upon. Which, maybe it didn’t.

They fell into easy small talk; it turned out that Dennis had a lot of opinions about music and so did David, and Patrick could just sit back and watch another member of his family welcoming David into the fold. When Dennis suggested they play darts, David didn’t want to play but he seemed content to serve as Patrick’s one man cheering section. And when Patrick won and got a kiss for his efforts, he tried not to let it show on his face how overwhelming it was, the simple fact being out in public and sharing casual affection with a boy he liked.

Ash brought over their third round of drinks themselves, as things at the bar had started to slow down.

“Ash, dude, what’s this I hear about you moving away?” Dennis asked.

They shrugged. “I’ve got some people in Norway that, if the world is ending, I’d prefer to ride out the apocalypse with,” they said, collecting and stacking empty glasses.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said, “‘if the world is ending’?”

Ash gave him an impassive stare for a second. “Have you read the news recently?”

Patrick frowned. He hadn’t, really. He’d been too busy with David to give any thought to the outside world.

“To the people living in any particular time, it always seems like things are the worst they’ve ever been. It doesn’t mean you need to go join a doomsday cult in Norway,” Dennis said.

“There it is, cults again,” David said, making Patrick raise his eyebrows in surprise. “I swear I keep hearing things about cults these days.”

Dennis chuckled. “I mean, between climate change and so many of the world’s governments being taken over by dictators, maybe it’s not surprising that people are turning to mass protests and weird religions.”

“We saw protesters being arrested at the airport in New York,” Patrick said. “A lot of them.” He felt embarrassed that he’d let the event slip his mind entirely.

“The violence has only gotten worse in New York the last few days,” Ash said, looking annoyed at them for being so uninformed. “They’ll probably have to shut things down like they did with O’Hare and LAX.”

“I’m sorry, shut what down?” David asked, his voice rising in pitch.

“The airports. There have been so many threats of terrorism that they can’t afford to keep those airports running. I’ve got a flight out of Toronto to Heathrow in three days, and I’m praying that things don’t get too bad before I can get on that plane.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Patrick asked no one in particular.

“The world is falling apart, man,” Ash said. “And the old gods are in ascendance.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I read that Neil Gaiman novel,” Dennis said in a way that made it clear he wasn’t taking any of this seriously.

“We should make sure we have a way to get you back to your parents,” Patrick said, trying not to wish too hard that David would somehow be stranded here with him forever.

David looked startled, and he paused before saying, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess we should.”

“I wouldn’t go back to New York now,” Ash said. “Best to stay out of the big cities. That’s where the worst shit is going down.” They looked over at the bar, where more people were waiting for drinks than it looked like Ash’s assistant could handle. “I’ve gotta get back, guys. Good luck with everything.”

“Thanks?” Patrick said.

“Just…” Ash gave him a piercing stare. “Don’t ignore your dreams, Patrick. Let your subconscious be your guide.” They turned and went back to the bar then, leaving the three of them looking at each other, bemused.

“That was weird,” Dennis said.

Unnerved, Patrick reached over and took David’s hand. “Yeah.”

~*~

“That bartender was right.” David was looking at his phone when Patrick emerged from the bathroom, ready for bed. “JFK, Newark, and LaGuardia are all closed as of today. It says they don’t know for how long.”

“That’s insane. How is anybody flying anywhere?”

“They aren’t. It’s almost like 9/11, when I was stranded for four days in Portugal.”

Patrick lifted the blankets and got under the covers with David. “I was only thirteen on 9/11.”

“Oh, fuck off,” David said affectionately.

“And what was the thing Ash said about dreams? Let my subconscious be my guide? What was that?”

David gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know, had any interesting dreams lately?”

Patrick laughed. He didn’t usually remember his dreams. Except… “I mean, I dreamed you and I were planning to get married in Schitt’s Creek, but…” He blushed at having admitted even that to David. “It was silly.”

“Wait, what?” David asked, turning fully to him.

God, David must be freaked out by what that might reveal about his feelings, Patrick thought. “It was just a dream, it doesn’t mean I actually want to—”

“No, that’s not… I dreamed the same thing, that night at the motel. That you and I were engaged.” David looked down at his bare fingers. He always took his silver rings off at night and put them in a little dish on the bedside table that he’d borrowed from Patrick’s kitchen.

“Huh. That’s a weird coincidence.” Patrick settled down onto his pillow and closed his eyes.

“Is it?”

“Is it what?”

David huffed and nudged Patrick’s shoulder until he opened his eyes. “Is it a coincidence?”

Patrick laughed. “Well, what else would it be, David?”

“I don’t know, it’s your bartender friend who was spouting all that mystical stuff about old gods and dreams!” He gesticulated wildly with his hands.

Patrick sat back up. “I don’t actually know Ash all that well, but… look, I just don’t believe in stuff like that. Stuff I can’t verify with my own eyes and ears.”

“Okay, fine, so let’s collect some data. What else happened in your dream?” David said.

“David—”

“Humor me.”

“Okay.” Patrick rubbed his face, trying to remember. “We worked in a store together.”

Now David looked genuinely alarmed, as if even though he’d been arguing on the side of the import of these dreams, he hadn’t really believed in what he was arguing. “Without telling me what it was, do you remember the name of the store?”

He did. It had been all over everything — baggies of coffee beans and bottles of who-knew-what; it was abbreviated on the wall and on the top of the refrigerator case. Patrick took a second to be amazed that there had been that level of detail in the dream, and that he remembered even a fraction of it. “I remember it.”

“I’m going to tell you what it was, then, since you’re the skeptic. It was Rose Apothecary.”

Patrick’s heart started to thunder in his chest. “Maybe… maybe there’s a mundane explanation.”

David crossed his arms. “What?”

“Maybe we saw a place with a similar name somewhere, and it happened to register in both of our subconsciouses—”

“Two little roses, one on either side of the name,” David said. “And I had four gold rings in place of my silver ones. I’m pretty sure you gave them to me.”

Patrick stared at him. “Okay, so… so we shared a dream?”

“I don’t think it was a dream. Or, it was, but it was more than that.” David was up and out of bed now, like he couldn’t contain these ideas unless he got up and walked them off. “It was like a view of an alternate reality. One where for some reason my whole family was in that town, and so I met you a while ago, and… I don’t know, but it was good. Everyone was happy, and…”

“And Alexis was alive,” Patrick said as soon as it struck him why David wanted the dreams to mean something. “That’s what this is about, right? Your sister was alive.”

“Yeah, this is the ravings of a grief-stricken person except you saw it, Patrick. It wasn’t just me. You saw it too! And you felt something when we were outside that general store, didn’t you? And… and the waitress said it was… that the veil between worlds was thin or whatever.” He was so manic now that Patrick worried that David might be on his way to a panic attack if he didn’t calm down.

“I don’t know if I’d hang this theory on Twyla,” Patrick said, but then he had to pull himself up short, because it was triggering something else in his memory. Someone else who’d raved at him… “The homeless woman outside your building,” Patrick said softly, lost in memories of those nights, months ago, when his whole life changed.

“What?” David stopped pacing, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

“There was a homeless woman outside your building; I ran into her both times I left your apartment in the early morning. And she said…” — he struggled to remember. “She said that this world was wrong and we needed to get back to the right one. Wait, before that, the first time I saw her, she said to me ‘you found him.’”

“Patrick, if you’re fucking with me—”

“Why would I fuck with you?” Patrick rubbed his sweaty palms off on the bedspread.

“I know who you’re talking about; she was a regular in the neighborhood,” David said. “She used to say all kinds of crazy stuff to me, stuff like…” He dragged a hand through his hair, making it stick up at all angles. “That my family and I were supposed to be living in a motel together.”

Patrick didn’t want to, but it would have been dishonest not to connect those dots. “You did say those rooms felt familiar.”

David sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. “Fuck.”

Not knowing what else to do, Patrick crawled over and rested a hand on David’s back.

“What do we do?” David asked.

“We… we get you back to New York, to your family, for a start. And we try to find that woman, because maybe she knows more.”

“The airports are closed,” David pointed out.

Patrick shrugged. “So we drive. If we leave early in the morning and take turns driving, we can probably be there by this time tomorrow.”

“What about your job?”

“David, we’re going to drive to New York in the midst of a violent uprising to seek out a mystical homeless woman to explain why we’ve both dreamed of the same alternate reality. My job can go fuck itself.”

David laughed, an edge of hysteria in it, and kissed him.

~*~

“This is insane,” Patrick said as they pulled away from the third police checkpoint since crossing over into Manhattan. Only David’s ID with his Chelsea address had allowed them to get this far.

This is insane had been Patrick’s mental mantra for many of their hours of driving, and he wasn’t sure if the increasing evidence of societal collapse was bolstering the idea that they were doing the right thing or detracting from it. He knew it was insane when he called his parents from the road to tell them that he was driving David to New York since the airports were shut down (the rest of the story, he left out). He knew it was insane when they had to spend almost a full hour at the U.S.-Canadian border, undergoing extensive questioning before they were allowed to cross. He knew it was insane when he left a message for his boss, resigning his position at Rollins Electrical Supply via voicemail. He knew it was insane when David had an extended phone call with his parents as they drove through Buffalo, arguing about which of the properties that his parents still owned would be the safest if civilization fell.

David directed Patrick to a parking garage near his apartment. The automated gates had been broken off, so Patrick drove in without taking a ticket from the machine.

“If we somehow manage to get away without paying to park in Manhattan, then society really has collapsed,” David said, which made Patrick laugh.

Rain was coming down steadily on them as they walked to David’s apartment from the garage. Even Patrick, with his limited time in New York, could tell that the streets were unnaturally quiet. “I don’t see our prophetic friend,” Patrick said as they approached David’s building.

“With the rain, she might be in a shelter,” David said. “We can try to find her tomorrow.”

He looked as exhausted as Patrick felt, so Patrick didn’t argue.

At least nothing had changed in David’s apartment during their days away, and Patrick was struck by the way the smell of the place took him back to that first night in February, when he’d gone home with David and ended up in his bed. That had been insane too, but it might have been the best thing he’d ever done in his life. Maybe insane wasn’t the worst thing.

They took turns showering off the funk of the long road trip, and while Patrick waited for David in his bed, he started trying to catch up on what exactly was going on in the world. By the time David joined him, Patrick’s palms were sweating and his stomach felt queasy.

“David, I’m starting to think the world might really be ending.”

“Why?” David asked, sitting down on his side of the bed and rubbing some kind of moisturizer into his heels.

“The amazon rainforest is on fire, for one thing. Like, intentionally. They’ve instituted full-on martial law in Brazil. And that guy Jeff Bezos and some other billionaires have bugged out to some private floating city and disappeared, which I’m pretty sure was the plot of an Ayn Rand book.”

“Don’t tell my mom, she’ll be pissed she wasn’t invited,” David said, settling down onto his back and pulling Patrick into his arms.

“And legitimate people are writing articles questioning whether it’s possible for the U.S. to ever have fair and free elections ever again,” Patrick went on.

“Okay,” David said, his hand caressing Patrick’s hip.

“You don’t seem worried,” Patrick said.

“It’s not that I’m not worried, it’s that my brain literally doesn’t have any room for anything else to worry about.” David rolled them so that he was on top of Patrick and began kissing down his neck. “Also, fifty-seven percent of my brain is occupied with thinking about sex.”

Patrick grinned, wrapping his arms around David and sliding his hands down to David’s ass. “Fifty-seven percent?”

“Eighty-three percent.” Patrick thrust up with his hips, grinding against David. “A hundred and nine percent,” David breathed.

They quickly shed their clothes and were back to grinding against each other immediately, their bodies almost on auto-pilot, desperate for friction and closeness and connection.

“So I guess there’s a universe where I asked you to marry me,” Patrick said when David pulled away long enough to lube both of them up, his slick hand on Patrick’s cock and stomach and on himself. The idea of that being real somehow had turned itself over and over in Patrick’s mind on the drive until he felt compelled to speak it out loud.

“That’s the part that strains credibility, that any version of you would want to spend your entire life with any version of me,” David said, and only David Rose could manage to be self effacing while he stroked himself.

“David,” Patrick said, reaching up for David’s shoulders and pulling him down so that they could kiss, and now each thrust of their hips was slippery and so wonderful that it almost brought tears to Patrick’s eyes. “That part is easy for me to imagine.”

David kissed him, frantic, and when they separated to breathe, David’s eyelashes were fluttering as he tried to blink away his own tears. “I doubt that, but thank you for saying it.”

Patrick pulled him as close as he could, rolling his hips, trying to bring him pleasure and comfort in equal measure. “That life with you, the one we dreamed… I’d take that life in a second.”

Gasping, David kissed him again. “Me too. God, Patrick, me too.” He buried his face the crook of Patrick’s neck, his hips slowing into a more gentle undulation. “Can we pretend, just for a minute…?”

Patrick brought one hand up and carded it through David’s hair. “That we’re in that world?” He felt David nod.

His heart hammering in his chest, Patrick matched David’s rhythm and tried to imagine what he would say in that life, comfortable and confident and in love with a man that he planned to spend the rest of his days with. “I’m so happy you’re going to be my husband, David,” he murmured, his voice pitched low, and the answering noise from David told him he was on exactly the right track.

Considering and discarding several other endearments — he didn’t want to tell David he loved him until he could be certain David knew he meant it — Patrick went on. “I don’t ever want this to end. I don’t ever want to not be sharing your life. You’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever known.”

“God, Patrick, I—” Whatever David was going to say got lost as he climaxed, wet and hot against Patrick’s stomach. Patrick groaned and moved faster, seeking and finding his own peak, biting down on David’s shoulder as he came.

After a quick cleanup, they settled back into bed together, Patrick resting his head against David’s chest.

“Thanks for… I probably shouldn’t have asked you to do that in the heat of the moment,” David said. “Roleplaying scenes usually require some pre-negotiation.”

“I didn’t mind,” Patrick said. It’s not like anything he had said hadn’t been a sort of truth. “It, umm, worked for me too. Obviously.” He pressed a kiss against David’s sternum.

David laughed uneasily. “Who knew that my kink was domesticity?”

It gave Patrick a chance to lighten the mood, to get out of the territory that was going to lead to premature confessions of love, and he took it. “Should I have also talked about mowing the lawn?”

“That depends, what do you wear when you mow the lawn?”

Patrick laughed. “I’ll save my material on painting the garage for next time, it’ll drive you wild.”

Chapter 14

#schitt's creek ff #schitt's creek #david x patrick #david x patrick ff #david x patrick fic #hdwgb fic #my fic

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captaingondor · 6 years ago

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Kings of Orient

Here is my TSE Secret Santa gift for @rithmeres! The prompt I used was ‘Apen observing Advent traditions’ which, is sort of what is happening here? I hope that you enjoy it as I did writing it, and Merry Christmas!!

Everything was different in Gallitan. That wasn’t all bad, really - everything had been different at home before he’d left, too, and must be even more different now. At least everything was supposed to be different here. Apen didn’t mind downgrading from living in a palace to a ranch - certainly not after starving through the Deadlands. He didn’t mind not being king. He didn’t mind having a living father. He missed having three sisters - he couldn’t think of Chara and Berlyne as sisters, not really, even if they were something like family - but he’d done what he had to when he left, and they’d be alright. So most of the differences mattered less and less as he let himself get settled in the West. But some just started eating away at him more.

Particularly, it was very difficult to be a good Catholic in a world where no one had ever heard of such a thing.

Mother would want you to try anyway, he told himself - and added, a little ashamed the thought hadn’t come first, and God does, too.

And he did try, as best as he could. He had to assume God would be forgiving of some necessary lapses when there wasn’t a priest within two thousand miles. And the Alvarados, never anything less than welcoming to him, were happy to let him talk about his faith when he wanted, even if they didn’t always seem to totally understand. Fair enough; there was a lot to go through.

But just when he was feeling like he was getting into the rhythm of his new life, it was December, and the Advent season was starting.

It would almost have been easier, Apen sometimes felt, if they didn’t celebrate Christmas at all here. But the Alvarados - and near everyone else, from what he could tell - enthusiastically began their preparations at the start of the month. And none of the preparations were the same. They didn’t even know what any of the Advent feast days were!

Apen couldn’t ask them to bend their traditions to his desires. He couldn’t ask them to toss out years of their own history on a whim, just because it didn’t match his. Of course it didn’t match his, but they were gracious enough to share it with him anyway. But since he’d come to Gallitan, nothing had so reminded him of how much an outsider he was here than this.

He didn’t say any of this, of course, as the Alvarados swept him up in their festivities - they’d gone out to cut a tree down that afternoon and carted it back to the ranch, the rest of them all in high spirits. He wasn’t going to be the one to bring down the mood. Christmas should be celebrated, after all. He wouldn’t argue against that. Now they were all bustling around the house, bringing out their holiday decorations. Apen was starting to get caught up in the mood himself. Not all of the imagery was wholly unfamiliar. And when he closed his eyes, and breathed in the scent of pine and of the baking Joe had started on in the kitchen, he could allow things to feel like Christmas. He smiled and, almost without a thought, began humming an old favorite carol.

If he were home, April would have heard him and started singing along. He could almost hear her voice, almost hear the bells of the cathedral and the chorus of voices together at midnight Mass…

But Chara’s voice broke through instead. “What song is that, Josh?”

Nothing was the same here. Nothing was right. He shrugged. “It’s nothing, just a song.”

Chara didn’t press him. She was pretty good at knowing when not to press him. She doesn’t deserve this kind of treatment. It’s not her fault she isn’t April. None of this is their fault.

He pretended to busy himself with some of the decorations they were bringing out, when he noticed Berlyne setting up a nativity scene, carefully arranging a large array of wooden pieces. He drifted over towards her instead. He picked a figure up from the box - a shepherd - and examined it. “Did you make these?” Berlyne looked briefly over her shoulder at him and nodded before going back to her work. “They’re great.” Each piece had been made with care, and there were many. The Holy Family was already placed, with an angel looking on. To one side was a growing crowd of adoring shepherds, their flock fanning out behind them, and to the other -

Apen frowned.

“There are four Magi.”

Berlyne didn’t even look up this time. “Yep.”

“There’s supposed to be three.”

She shrugged. “I liked making them.”

“There are three gifts - what’s the fourth one bringing?”

“Dunno, maybe he’s helping carry the gold.” She paused. “There isn’t actually a number given for them. What difference does it make?”

Apen sputtered, and Berlyne looked over her shoulder again, eyes narrowed, trying to read him. Apen crossed his arm. “Three is traditional. They have names. Melchior and Caspar and Balthasar. They’re saints!”

“I’ve never heard those names.”

“Of course you haven’t! You haven’t heard of anything!”

Berlyne gave him a dark look, and turned back to arranging the scene. Chara was staring at him from across the room. Well, so much for that Christmas spirit. He had to find something new to occupy himself with, this wasn’t working. Fortunately, Melly could always be counted on in this regard - she was turning over a box of decorations left on the floor by the tree. Apen hurried to snatch her out of the way and mumbled something about taking her out, leaving the room before anyone could say anything else. They were better off doing all this without him there.

Apen had walked around the ranch for awhile with Melly, the small white puppy hardly showing up against the snow, but leaving trails kicked up behind her as she frolicked through it, weaving in and out around his own line of trudging footprints. Eventually he’d made his way to his ‘room’ in the stable. He’d been sleeping inside during the cold nights, but it wasn’t actually that bad with the body heat from all the horses, and it was a good place to be on his own awhile. Melly curled next to him, the snow collected on her fur melting into a damp ring around her, and seeping into his clothes where she pressed against him. He didn’t let it bother him.

Joe had come to check on him a little while ago, and tell him that there were fresh cookies inside - but he seemed to have known Apen would decline to come in, as he’d brought a few out for him as well. He’d offered to talk if Apen wanted, but he shook his head. Joe did a great job being a dad. He didn’t want to make him feel inadequate. He knew at the same time that wouldn’t be the case - Joe would understand that he missed his home and family; what was more understandable than that? But it wasn’t something he was ready to talk about right now.

Melly pawed at Apen’s arm, and he petted her head absently. “Been out here long enough, girl?” He probably should get back to the house soon, but he didn’t want them pitying him. People were supposed to be happy this time of year. Melly whined. “Yeah, it’s not like I’m bringing the mood up staying out here.”

He was getting to his feet when he heard the stable door creak open, and looked toward it. Berlyne was storming through, wrapped in her winter coat with her hands shoved in her pockets, and charging towards him.

“Hey, I’m sorry I made such a big deal about the nativity, they did look nice-”

Berlyne did not give much attention to his apology, intent on her own mission. She pulled one hand from her pocket and plunked an object down on the stall ledge, then took a step back. Apen looked over.

It was the fourth wise man.

“You didn’t need to get rid of it,” he said quietly.

“I’m not getting rid of it. It’s right here.” She gestured towards it, then shoved her hand back in her pocket. “You came from the east too, right? So. That one’s for you.”

Apen picked up the wooden figure and smiled at it. “I’m a Shephard, actually.”

“Well, you didn’t have anything to say about the number of those.”

“No, no, I’m not complaining, just… just a joke. He’s great. Thanks.” He looked back up to her and smiled. Berlyne nodded. He set the figure down again, carefully. “I’ll leave him out here with y things. I was just about to head back in.” Berlyne nodded again, and turned to head back out of the stable. Apen followed after her quickly, and Melly at his heels.

“Were you really a shepherd? Back where you came from?” she asked when they were midway back to the house.

“Sort of… I’ll have to tell you about it sometime. Later.”

Most things were different in Gallitan. But it wasn't bad, not having a family name he had to live down. And some things, he supposed, were the same no matter where you were. Christmas was meant to be celebrated - preferably, with people you loved.

#tse #the silver eye #tse secret santa #nerdarians #rithmeres #something i wrote

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administratumadept · 6 years ago

Text

Shipboard Life

Voidships are always busy. Out in the darkness of hard vacuum, time is measured by the ship itself, in cycles. For Flowers, it was always an uncomfortable adjustment – no matter how long he’d spent aboard ship, he always felt more comfortable with a sun or two in the sky and ground under his feet. The trip to Polarnus from Persephon was going to take at least a month, sidereal, and Emperor only knew what the time dilation might be in the warp despite the announcement that warp transit would only last a week. A month and more of living in a warren of metal boxes and corridors, in a cabin barely big enough to stretch in, corralled into the ‘live cargo’ side of the Munitorum mass conveyor, not really sure if it was day, night, or neither, was not Flowers’ idea of a good time.

In his cot, he sighed. The bell tone for mid-cycle had sounded, shrill and clarion, jerking him out of an uneasy sleep. He’d been dreaming of the dead, again, a seemingly endless parade of maimed or eerily unmarked bodies floating past as he wept and begged their forgiveness for not having been able to save them. At least he’d not got to the point in that particular nightmare where his friends from the Schola appeared.

After a little while, he swung himself out of the bed and stood up, resigned to wakefulness. He stepped over to the little metal basin that protruded from the wall, and splashed tepid and chemical-smelling water across his face. He looked briefly in the mirror and smiled – his eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow, and he knew his uniform hung off him. The last few weeks on Persephon had been hard fought and poorly fed. He hoped that by the end of this journey he’d at least have filled out his uniform again.

“Only way to do that,” he whispered to his reflection, “is to go and eat!”

Even off-duty, Flowers wore uniform. He didn’t own any other clothes. And after Persephon, he didn’t have anything but his combat gear left. He shrugged on his shirt and pulled his breeches on, swearing as he struggled as he always did with the braces. That, he thought, would do for now. He slipped on his boots and laced them up, his internal sense of noise discipline wincing as the steel shod soles clicked and clacked against the steel plate of the deck.

By now, only two days into the journey and still burning for the warp transit point hundreds of millions of kilometres away, Flowers already knew exactly where to go for food. Out the cabin, turn right, walk past the other little cabins occupied by various functionaries, officers, and middle-ranking sorts from all the varied departments of the Imperium, pass through three bulkhead doors (one, two, three), hit a junction, turn left, go up a set of stairs, under a low-hanging set of cables, turn right again, through a pressure door, and into the mess.

It was a repurposed cargo hold, vast and cavernous to Flowers, small and barely worth filling to the Shipmistress and her staff. At the back, opposite the pressure door, was the food – an ad-hoc-become-permanent setup of cooking vats, storage, servitors and chefs. In between, plastichip furniture and a hubbub of voices from people in a mix of military, civilian, and religious garb. Flowers was not surprised to see a group of red-robed Mechanicus lay-priests sitting in eerie silence around a table, although they hadn’t been there on any of the other occasions Flowers had left his tiny room to eat.

He squeezed through the crowded hold to the queue, and took a tray proffered by a servitor.

“Thanks,” he said, as he always did to the mindless almost-machines. Flowers felt sorry for them, even though he knew that most were vat-grown meat-puppets purpose created for the roles they filled – something in his soul pitied them.

Suddenly, a soft and lilting voice addressed him from behind: “Did you just say thanks to a servitor?”

“Sorry?” Flowers turned, bringing the questioner into view.

The person was short, and dressed in charcoal-grey robes cinched at the waist with a heavy-looking chain from which hung dataslates, ledgers, and an autoquill. A black patch on their breast glinted with an embroidered silver-and-gold Administratum emblem. Their eyes, one violet, one green, glinted with mischief, while their skin displayed the unmistakable signs of vitiligo – a mix of deep, polished brown and pale, almost translucent, pink. Their tightly curling black hair, pulled back in a loose bun, was shot through with streaks of white and grey. A smile danced across their lips.

“I said,” they began again, “did you just say thanks to a servitor?”

“I – yes, I did,” said Flowers, “it’s just – it’s polite.”

“Polite! Oh, dear me, that’s a new one from a … Guardsman?”

“Commissar, actually,” Flowers whispered, his voice escaping him as he fought to prevent himself blushing, “but I’m not really in uniform so…”

“Tut! Not in uniform? Whatever will the troops think,” grinned the adept, as they gestured with their own tray to the hall, “if they see a fine and upstanding Commissar blushing in his shirt sleeves?”

Flowers knew he was being played with, but all his Schola-instilled social skills and hard-earnt experience seemed to have left him entirely. He felt like a teenager again, the night he’d been pulled aside by Aubrey and hustled into an empty room.

“W-Well,” he stammered, “I hope they’ll think I’m just a hungry trooper. I’ve had enough Commissarial duty for a little while, Adept.”

“Please,” the Adept said, executing a brief bow, “call me Nyasha. And you are?”

“My apologies, Adept Nyasha,” smiled Flowers, “my name is Feliks.”

“Well, then, Feliks – you’d better get moving if any of us want to eat today!”

Flowers gaped, then glanced back over his shoulder at the gap that had opened up while he’d been talking to Nyasha.

“Yes, I suppose I better had.”

Then, on impulse, as he quick-stepped forwards: “Nyasha – would you care to join me?”

“Why, Commissar, I believe I would.”

The food itself was not fancy. It was plain and simple, but nutritious and filling. Flowers suspected the bulk of it was corpse starch and nutri-paste that had been extruded into appetising shapes, but after surviving on rats and whatever else could be foraged or scavenged for six weeks, he didn’t care. It tasted good, or at least better than rat – even though he knew he’d probably be sick of it soon.

“So, Adept Nyasha – ”

“Please. Feliks. Call me Nyasha.”

“Sorry. Nyasha. What brings you aboard?”

“Oh, you know – the never-ending work of the Holy Administratum – bean counting.”

Flowers coughed.

“Bean counting?!”

“Oh yes. I counted bolts on Persephon, and now I’m going to Polarnus to count beans.”

“I- beans.”

“Absolutely. Polarnus needs to eat, and Polarnus gets beans shipped to it, and I’m travelling to audit the shipments and make sure that Polarnus is getting the correct quantity of beans. Its bean requirement was last updated 257 years ago, give or take a few months.”

“Hah. I never thought I’d ever meet a literal bean-counter.”

“Well, I never thought I’d be one! Honestly, fiftieth-generation Administratum Adept, with a nice cushy number in the archives, get promoted one too many times and bam here I am supervising counting of beans, nuts, bolts and other sundries. At least travel lets me meet many interesting people such as yourself, Feliks.”

“I’m not sure I’m all that interesting, Nyasha.”

“Nonsense! Look at you – a warrior through and through, but one who says thank you to servitors. You’re a beautiful conundrum, Feliks, and I’ve lost count of the boring scribes and flunkies I’ve fraternised with.”

“Beautiful?” Flowers smiled, wryly, fork half-way to his mouth, “Nyasha, I hope you’re not referring to my half-starved physique.”

“Feliks, I find your semi-skeletal appearance quite intriguing. I would have thought a Commissar such as yourself would be all chiselled muscle and stony eyes.”

“Well, I was once. Combat action under difficult circumstances has rather wrecked my physical condition I’m afraid.”

Nyasha grinned, their teeth flashing gold in her mouth. Flowers jerked, suddenly, as he felt a foot running up the inside of his leg.

“I’d like to test that physical conditioning of yours, Feliks. If you’d like that too?”

Suddenly, Feliks felt strangely light-headed. After months of vicious fighting culminating in a six-week brutal trench fight to hold off an ork horde, Feliks barely remembered what sex was. He sat there, mouth open, too shocked at Nyasha’s bluntness to respond until the foot left his leg and their expression changed.

“I’m sorry, Commissar, I didn’t mean to-”

“No!” Flowers blurted, “No. I’m sorry. I would very much like that. I just wasn’t expecting such a proposal. I’ve been around killing for months; it’s, I mean, I’ve not, there’s not been any opportunity and, oh, Emperor’s teeth. I sound like a flustered teenager. Yes. I would love to go back to your cabin, or mine, and play.”

Nyasha laughed, shaking their head.

“I never thought a Commissar would be so easy to fluster. Come on then, Feliks. Let’s go back to mine. I know where it is, and frankly if one of us has to do a walk of shame I’d rather it was you.”

Flowers mock-bowed, grinning.

“I thank you for your honesty. Lead on, Nyasha.”

Smiling, Nyasha pushed their chair back, and moved off. Flowers admired the way they moved – smoothly, calmly, like flowing water, he thought. He had few such graces at the best of times, and did his usual squeezing and shunting through the tables and chairs and people, following Nyasha just a few paces behind.

They walked like that all the way to Nyasha’s cabin, which – as it transpired – was just a few to the left of Flowers’. They didn’t say a word until the door closed behind them.

“Strip,” said Nyasha, as the heavy chain and all its attendant items crashed to the metal floor, “and close your eyes.”

“At once!” grinned Flowers, clicking his heels together in salute as he unclipped the braces from his trousers and began pulling his shirt off. By the time he’d managed to get his boots off (with his eyes closed) he could feel Nyasha looking at him, drinking in his thin form, the scars, old and new, the still-livid bruising across his chest where his carapace plate had stopped an ork choppa dead at the cost of a broken rib. He stood up, naked, aroused, eyes closed and instinctively ‘at ease’, his hands lightly clasped behind him. His heart pounded in his ears and his throat.

Then a touch, light as a feather, on his chest. A cool fingertip, moving slowly down his body, tracing his injuries and his shape. He shuddered with barely suppressed longing. Another touch. A hand this time, running down his back, smooth and cool on his skin. A kiss, sudden and gentle, on his bruised flesh. His breath hissed out of him.

“You can look, if you want,” Nyasha said, “your scars earnt you that at least.”

He opened his eyes and looked down. Without the robes, Nyasha seemed taller. Slender and smooth, their hairlessness contrasted with Flowers. Their body was toned, unscarred. A strip of elasticated cloth, dark, with tiny fish picked out in white, ran tightly around their chest. They smiled, and reached for his hands.

“You’re not on parade, Feliks. Let’s go to bed.”

The cot was identical to his own, except perhaps slightly harder. Nyasha pulled him round them, and pushed him backwards onto the mattress, before straddling him.

Flowers leaned in, pulling them towards himself, kissing, kissing. Their lips met his, briefly, and then he was moving down, his lips and teeth finding purchase in their neck, soft moaning rewarding him as he explored their shoulder blade.

They shifted, and he could feel the dampness between their legs and the pressure of their thighs on his. He sat up, suddenly, grinning at their sudden squeak as he lifted them up, then gently lowered them down onto his cock, their hand manoeuvring him into them.

“Ah,” they said, “that’s good.”

“Careful,” smiled Flowers, “not done anything yet.”

“Good anyway,” Nyasha breathed, “been a while since I’ve had flesh and blood inside me. Lie back. I want to fuck. You.”

“As you command,” Flowers grinned.

He leant back, propping himself against the bulkhead wall, and clasped Nyasha’s hips as they sat up straight and began to move. He bit his lip as they rolled their hips back and forth, and he slid a hand across to their cunt, fingers moving through their hair and onto their clit.

“Naughty – ” gasped Nyasha, moving faster, one hand on his chest, another guiding his fingers around their clit and pressing him harder into them, their eyes locking onto his, a glorious smile of desire and pleasure lighting their face.

Flowers arched his back, pushing himself deeper in, feeling his own cock against his fingertips, pulling them down onto him with his other hand while they rocked and bucked. He moaned, and closed his eyes, and lost himself in Nyasha for the first, but not the last, time. Epilogue: Polarnus Station

The corridor stank of fyceline and burnt flesh. Shotgun shells littered the floor where armsmen had made a brief stand. Bolt casings clinked around his feet. The madness was over. He moved, leaden, his head feeling full of blood and wirewool. He barely registered the bodies until he stumbled over them, falling, pistol clattering away.

He put his hands out, one hitting the deck hard, sending a shooting pain up his arm, the other going – in. Cold. Wet. Sticky. He looked, zombie-like, focussing with intense care on the gaping, ragged, bloody hole his hand had vanished into. Something was familiar about the robes, despite the spool of ruined innards marring them. Something nagged at him about the shattered dataslate.

It took him a moment, but he swung his gaze up, across the ruined body, to the face he knew he was going to see and desperately didn’t want to.

That was how they found him, then, slumped against the corridor wall, cradling the ruined body of Administratum Adept Senioris Nyasha Selim-vaLoche, eyes staring vacantly into space, holding them close, murmuring the Litany of Duty’s End over and over again.

#original work #original content #fiction #fanfic #smut #40k #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 40k #death unto darkness #larp #flowers #commissar flowers #commissariat #imperial guard

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limitedrevolverworks · 7 years ago

Text

My Mother 2.0 [2]

[Chapter 1]

Above all else, it’s the silence that that he cannot comprehend.

A deep quiet fills his ears, flooding with a silence so paradoxically deafening. Mere instinct reaches out as best it can, grasping for the slightest vibration it could feed to eardrums sorely starving for that hint of familiarity, but all it can scoop out of the stale air is an utter anomaly it doesn’t know what to make of. The frightening shadow of an indecipherable unknown looms over him, daring his powerless, broken shell to do something, anything about it that he obviously cannot. He could chalk it up to the numbness that seems to envelop his entire being, from the smallest atom to the very thoughts produced by his half-comatose brain, but even in his stupor, the boy knows better. And of all the interrogatives pressing down on him, this one feels the most daunting precisely because he can blame it on himself, rather than some factor outside the scope of his perceptions. It’s a minuscule, vibrant spark of audacity that the very mind culpable for its creation regards it with cautious hesitation, unable to fathom its own ability to birth it. For a time that his diluted consciousness desperately stretches into a seeming eternity, the child refuses to acknowledge the one truth he could process, choosing instead to wallow in an uncertain oblivion that is at least partially of his own making. It’s a long, drawn out, tiresome battle, a silent war fought without weapons, a peaceful, stubborn conflict where nothing happens aside from waiting, waiting.

Waiting.

He doesn’t realize the gradually shifting tide of his struggle until his sole serviceable eye timidly spreads open to brave the unknown sight that has been waiting all along for his acceptance.

Now, the boy finally admits it: that the very unknown he should fear, he very much welcomes far more than anything he’s ever been acquainted with.

And so…

At last…

Time begins to flow anew.

“Hey now, awake alread-D-D-D-D-D-y? Go figure.”

The rapidfire barrage of glitchy reverb is interspersed between words that sound like they’re rattling within a box made of thin metallic sheets. The auditory concoction stampedes its way through the child’s hearing with all the grace of a bombardment and hurting twice as much.

It’s odd, though.

Common sense etched deep inside tells him that the optimal response should involve either lots of thrashing and screaming, or curling into a ball and quietly begging for it to end. There’s the fact that the neural pathways in charge of his muscles are currently fueled with a thick, uncrossable gel paste-like form of paralysis, but that’s not the whole of it. The pain is far from pleasant, yet it conveys a clear message - that he is alive, and not anywhere he would recognize. One of these two conclusions fills him with something akin to relief; the other, not so much.

It’s hard for the boy to decide which corresponds to which. He decides that, for the time being, a better way to keep busy what few of his brain cells are awake would be deciphering exactly what it is that he’s staring at.

Through the fog blanketing his vision, the child sees grey lips, framed by a shade of dull blue well on its way to fading into the latter color. The plated shape gives him the impression that it must be a helmet covering the rest of the stranger’s face, but the two halves hug each other so harmoniously to form a solid mass that he questions this interpretation, despite any other making little sense. He seeks answers in the single black strip cutting into the superior portion: the bright red dot swimming inside it, however, dumps only more questions onto a pile that has already grown rather healthy.

His eye begins to burn, reminding him of such a basic need as blinking that he’d seemingly forgotten in his stupor. The boy’s eyelid trembles: will it manage to arise once more, after it’s fallen? The darkness was daunting, but he felt safe within its embrace. It tasted different from the one he’s grown accustomed to - ah, hold on, that’s not quite right.

As more and more of his consciousness tears itself free from its sleepy cocoon, the child begins to make sense of his own thoughts. He understands that it’s not quite that his unconsciousness felt safe in and of itself - rather, it’s what he feels now, after he’s already gotten out of it. Knowledge informs his less rational side, rewriting his immediate past in light of the present. It’s the fact that he knows what comes after the darkness, that leads him to trust it for the first time his short, young life. And for how utterly fruitless his attempts at making heads or tails of his present predicament may be, he has no doubt that he prefers it to the routine that preceded it.

Lingering for a long, drawn-out second more on the thing that may or may not be a face, the boy tells himself that he has nothing to lose anyway. And in the simple act of blinking once, he perceives the rush of an emotion he’s never known he could harbor.

If he’d ever had any conception of it, the child could relish in his first taste of freedom.

“Do yourself a fa-A-A-A-A-A-vor and don’t move, will you?”

More words come out from a mouth that doesn’t move to spell them. The boy speaks his obedience with silent immobility: at the end of the day, old habits are too stubborn to lie down and let themselves die; he receives a nod for his effort, or lack thereof.

“Not that you can move an-N-N-N-N-yway.”

From the corner of his vision, the boy witnesses what seems to be a shoddy impression of a shrug from a pair of stiff shoulders that must have been made for anything but.

“Had to strap you good in case these aneS-S-S-S-S-thetics failed to do their job, and what do you kno-O-O-O-O-w? Never trust chemic-C-C-C-C-als a couple centuries past their expiration date, kid.”

Peeling off the various layers of noise and glitching haunting it, the voice digs out the impression that he’s been talked to by a woman, despite his eyes’ struggle to acquiesce with this conclusion. If what she’s wearing is a protective suit of sorts, it’s nothing like the ones he’s seen.

Panic threatens to seize him. Could they have transferred him to another research facility?

No! No!

He’d just begun to warm to the idea that perhaps, finally, it had all ended, but now that his lucidity has wrestled back control of his ability to process things properly, he wonders how he even came to that conclusion. His path had never, ever strayed from its repetitive course until that fateful day. Why, exactly, should he believe it to be the case now?

Foolish. Stupid stupid stupid! He dared dream for the first time ever, and he knows that all it did was set him up for greater anguish than he’s ever known. Because now, he has tasted hope. It’s far too late to retrieve the resignation that he cast away at a whim. He’s left himself vulnerable, discarded his fragile shell in the spur of a momentary madness. For all he knows, he’s left himself bare against a realm of suffering that could surpass anything he’s experienced. That is… that is…!

He wants to cry. To scream atop his lungs until his throat will have burned away along with what’s left of his sanity.

Burning…

His throat is burning. He feels a lump in it that has nothing to do with the one born from his desire to cry his heart out. The distraction is a tiny one, yet he clings to it as best he can, a minuscule island in an ocean of self-made terror. He notices now that the noise he was picking up while barely conscious is his own breathing. A ragged, drawn out sound like dusty wind sweeping off a gravelly path. The boy’s eye moves down on its own, seeking an explanation. It can only manage to pick up the vague shape of a cylindrical shape, jutting out of the edge where his pupil meets his lower lid. The woman bends aside so that her masked face can meet his gaze again, her head tilted even further to express what her “face” simply can’t.

“Yeah, that w-W-W-W-W-W-W-ould be the reason why you’re tied like a b-B-B-B-B-undle of rations. I can’t have you thrashing all ov-V-V-V-V-er the place with a tube sticking out of your throat… wait, hold on. Does it hurt? Those painkillers I stuffed you w-W-W-W-W-W-ith are three decades older than the anaesthetics.”

There’s a long, drawn out pause filled mostly with one-sided blinking, and little else.

“Oh! Right! Can’t move! Sorry, this one’s on me. hA-hA-hA-hA!”

For a moment, the boy thinks his… caretaker? Captor? Whoever that may be, the way her voice spazzes out at the end and her whole body shakes, it looks and sounds dangerously close to a seizure. It comes to an abrupt conclusion and a return to her very relative normality, which means… what exactly was that supposed to be?

“That’s a face you’re making there… well, half-F-F-F-F-F a face. Did I startle you, maybe? Sorry, faulty voice m-M-M-M-M-odule. Gave up trying to fix it a couple centuries ago, not worth the has-S-S-S-S-S-S-sle. You don’t find many conversational partn-N-N-N-N-N-ers around these parts, you know?”

He doesn’t, but then again it’s not like he can point that out.

“Anyway, anywa-A-A-A-A-A-y, I’ve just told the IV to inject you with another sleepytime cocktail, so sit tight and relax. You’re g-G-G-G-G-G-oing to be doing a lot of that, honestly, at least until I’m done downloading all this medical training software for the surgery.”

A metal-clad arm raises: at the end of it, fingers lightly curl around a wire that begins somewhere outside the boy’s scope, and ends in a rectangular protrusion connected to a similarly shaped hole in the side of the mysterious stranger’s neck. It makes about as much sense as anything else the child has learned about her, and he’s given up trying to put together all the clues he’s been given into a cohesive, discernible whole.

“I mean, a thracheos-S-S-S-S-S-tomy’s a piece of cake by itself. But anything beyond going stabby-stabby on your tr-R-R-R-R-R-R-achea is a tad more complicated than that. I haven’t half a clue what they’ve d-D-D-D-D-D-one to you up there in that big floaty world of theirs, but whatever it was, it made a mess of your throat. There was enough goop stuck in there I had to spend an hour drain-N-N-N-N-N-ing it to make sure you wouldn’t choke on it. I reckon that when my scanning module’s been updated, we’ll disc-C-C-C-C-C-over that the rest of your body’s even worse for the wear.”

Silence falls anew at the end of a series of informations that the boy tries to digest all at once. Half of his features are still perfectly usable, and could lend themselves to expressing what a metal visage cannot. But the child does not visibly react to the news given to him. His lips do not smile. His eye does nothing but look at the one speaking to him with a half-lidded stare, unsure of what to make of any of it, less of all his worry that this may be a prelude to a nightmare.

The boy is tired. He closes his eye, deciding to thrust himself to the darkness, and the infinitesimal chance of salvation hiding in it.

If he has any hope left in him now, it’s the old, familiar brand that cannot wait for his body to do away with itself.

Sensors that were state of the art back when they were made do their best to try and do what they weren’t built for. The staticity on the little human’s face brings up correspondences with old, untouched corners of her databases. Visual data from times long forgotten by those they begot, visions of broken husks of flesh and bone, deader than the corpses of their comrades. Some of those fallen to the very same iron-cast hands that have done their best to keep a lone boy from biting the bullet, based on what can only be defined a whim.

The automaton born of war kneels besides her guest, and wonders. She does so by sending microscopic sparks across a net of data swimming inside her artificial brain, in search of an act that no medicine or surgical procedure could emulate - a way to heal something other than a body.

Something comes up. A tiny possibility buried among billions of others, at the very edge of her range of intended abilities. Fragments of culture acquired for mere curiosity and to stave off whatever form of boredom a machine could even feel to begin with, knowledge thought obsolete until it came up in this very moment, suggesting a pattern that seems convincing enough to be put into tentative, awkward practice.

Thunk. Thunk.

The child raises his eyelid, startled. A gelid, hard sensation is spreading on his head, where his forehead gives way to his disheveled hairline, right next to where the chitinous substance has overtaken the rest of it.

His view is obscured by something. A shadow that robs his sight of light, only to let him seep through again, cyclically going through the motions while the sharp feeling becomes more defined against his skin. It’s only after the fifth time that the shadow finally relents and draws back enough for him to find its source, staring at him through a red, unblinking light.

“How is it? I’m not entirely confident since it’s my f-F-F-F-F-F-irst time, but apparently headpats are supposed to feel g-G-G-G-G-G-ood for young humans like you.”

Her hand approaches again, stopping short of reaching him. It reels back just enough that he can see the black band where her eye resides, and the mouth whose lips cannot flap, nor curl.

“You want me to stop?”

He hadn’t noticed it before, taken as he was with pretty much everything else assaulting his senses, but… there is something about this voice. Beyond the metallic-sounding raspiness, aside from the occasional slip into an ear-piercing torture, there is a tone about this voice that feels unmistakably reassuring.

It’s a rough, alien-feeling sort of softness.

The boy’s eye lingers on the hand hovering above him, shifting to the person staring back with what he decides must be expectation, then back to the hand.

The lid falls like a curtain, letting the centuries old anaesthetics do their job. If he wishes to protest, he doesn’t make the slightest attempt to show it.

As sleep beckons him back to its thoughtless cradle, the child hears it again. Thunk. Thunk. It’s cold, and hard, so much so that at the epicenter of it he can feel a sharp, prickly pain.

Yet somehow, he doesn’t mind.

#wordy seeds #Let's Meet the Robot

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bookaholic1012 · 7 years ago

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Prythian Magazine Part 4

I know I’ve said it a bunch of times, but Imma say it again. I am sorry for not updating in weeks! I was busy and didn’t feel like writing, but I’m back! Anyway, if you guys saw my post on this chapter, you know I have ship-related news.

Lately, I've been wanting some Cassian/Azriel, Azriel/Lucien, and Cassian/Lucien fics (btw, please tell me if you have or know of fics with them!). ANYWAY, I have decided to have one of these ships in my fic. I have chosen.......... Cassian/Lucien! Elain will now be with Azriel (sorry, Elucien shippers! I just felt like Elain should be with someone, and I know SJM has said they have a bro/sis relationship, but I didn't want to make an oc or take someone else from the ACOTAR books!) Nesta Archeron will be alone, although I am hoping to have her and Cassian be friends, idk, we'll see. Also, Lucien is bi (obviously, it goes without saying) and he and Andras did have a relationship, which I'll elaborate on in future chapters. So, that's all the news I have. Again, sorry for not updating, and sorry for the really long note!

Tagging: @sugarcoated44

ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO SARAH J. MASS

PM Masterlist My Writing

“Rhys.”

He couldn’t breath. She was stunning. Her pale skin, blue-grey eyes, golden brown hair, freckles. Everything.

“Hello, Feyre, Darling.” Rhys purred. My Feyre, Darling. No. Not mine. She’s with Tamlin. I’m just a friend. Painfully, he reminded himself of this.

Rhys didn’t know who moved first, but he was holding her in his arms. Rhys buried his face in the crook of her neck. She smelled of vanilla and oranges. Rhys knew he missed her, but he hadn’t realized to what extent he did. When she left them to be with… him, Rhys couldn’t do anything for weeks. He fell in love with her, and he still is.

“Ahem.”

Startled, they broke apart, to see everyone standing a bit awkwardly around them. How long were we hugging? Probably a while if their friends’ looks were anything to go by. Cassian - who interrupted them - and Mor both wore shit-eating grins, Azriel’s mouth twitched up into a smile, Amren was smirking, and Lucien was smiling, though worry was in his eye. He tried to hide it, but Rhys saw.

“Anyway,” said Cassian, “We are all glad to see you again. Rhys especially.”

Cassian sent a wink Rhys’s way, earning him a glare. Cass was going to give Rhys hell for this later. Feyre was blushing, her cheeks a deep red. As Rhys was looking at her beautiful self, he realized with a shock, she was thin. Rhys didn’t mean healthy thin; he meant a starved thin. Rhys slid his fisted hands into his pockets. Rhys knew it was because of Tamlin.

“I’m really happy to see you guys, too. I missed you all so much.” said Feyre. “I hope you guys don’t mind Lucien being here.”

Their attention turned to Lucien. He looked like this was the last place he wanted to be. Rhys knew there were mixed feelings for what his family did to Mor, but we the Inner Circle also knew that he left the Autumn Court and stopped using his family name. Cassian broke the silence.

“Hey, Foxboy.”

“Don’t call me that.” Lucien snapped.

“Why not, Foxboy?” Cassian taunted, a smirk on his face.

“Because-”

“Enough, the both of you.” Mor interrupted. “We’re aren’t here to listen you two argue. We’re here to have fun together and welcome Feyre and Lucien.”

Lucien glared at Cassian and Cassian playfully did it back. Lucien sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Fine.”

Everyone else greeted Lucien and they went back to their table. Prior to Lucien, Feyre, and Mor arriving, Rhys and his friends ordered enough food for seven people. He sure that there won’t be enough food.

The food came and everyone dug in, catching up with Feyre. Lucien and Cassian were mostly arguing. Then, Cassian asked what Rhys had been thinking, ending all conversation.

“So, Feyre, why are you here? I mean, it’s great and I’m not complaining, but I thought Tamlin didn’t want you being around us.”

Lucien and Feyre both tensed. What happened to her? To Lucien?

“We… broke up.” Feyre said, although her eyes were bitter and distant, as if remembering an unpleasant memory. “I, with the help of Lucien, realized that I wasn’t being treated the way I should’ve been. Lucien helped pro- I mean, Lucien helped me break up with him.”

Lucien put his hand over Feyre’s. Rhys knew it was a friendly comforting gesture, but he still felt jealous. He wanted to be the one who comforts Feyre.

Cassian raised his glass, “I propose a toast to Feyre, for finally leaving the ass!”

Everyone laughed, toasting to Feyre, the tense atmosphere dissipating, though Rhys knew the others still had questions. He had a lot himself.

As the others were saying goodbye to Feyre, Rhys made his way to Lucien.

“Lucien.”

“Rhysand.”

“Call me Rhys, Lucien. We’re friends now.”

He snorted at that. “Sure we are.”

“We are.” I insisted. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you for helping Feyre with Tamlin. I know there’s more to the story, but you helped her and that means a lot.”

“You’re right.” Of course I am. Someone should tell him I’m always right. “There is more to the story then what Feyre said, but there’s a reason she didn’t share it.” Lucien said, a look of seriousness on his face.

“Well, bye, Lucien. See you around?”

“Bye, Rhys. And you probably will be seeing me, as I’m currently staying with your cousin.” Lucien replied, walking towards Mor and Feyre, but he turned around.

“And don’t worry, I won’t tell Feyre.”

“Tell Feyre what?” Rhysand asked, furrowing my brows.

Lucien merely gave him a knowing smile, “That you’re in love with her. It’s quite obvious you know.” With that, he turned away.

Shit.

I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Please let me know your thoughts and let me know if there are any grammar or spelling mistakes! Also, let me know what you think about the ship change! Next chapter will be in Feyre's POV. If anyone wants to be tagged in future chapters, let me know! I will (try) to post weekly.

Much love,

Bookaholic1012 <3

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chefbarry · 5 years ago

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The Foodie Files, The Final Chapter, Zucchini Bellpepper, Writer of Wrongdoing, Takes a Knee

My last case almost did me in. I was still having nightmares about it and my left big toe was broken for some reason I cannot recall. I don’t really want to get into it here, as I’m trying to move past it, or some other gobbledygook my therapist calls it, but it involved a large shipment of oysters that were way past their prime, the Reno chapter of the Chicago mob (more on that later), and an underage health inspector working his way through community college.

I’ve been thinking it’s time to retire, or whatever retired people do, when they go back into the workforce — run a sketchy private eye firm that moves offices every six months due to questionable arson and fake subpoenas and overdue bills that keep showing up in the mail — and then try to retire again. Take my gal, Raspberry Cardamom, on a long trip around southeast Asia, maybe even open up another office there in some old abandoned warehouse on the edge of sketch, but I’m digressing, and daydreaming again, or what my therapist calls, “dis-projecting”. My lady. She saves me from myself, I’m thrilled to know her — yet disturbed why she wants to hang with me — but I’m trying not to ask too many questions anymore.

So, I had to move to Reno after the previous warehouse incident. I wasn’t even there at the time, but am being sued by my landlord now. I’m trying to work off the damages by helping his college dropout son get into the business. Another reason to skip town, more like skip country, close up shop, maybe write my memoirs, or at least eat a good taco. Plus, the Chicago mob has their eye on me for some reason. Maybe it’s that old hot dog case I never solved. I know it stirred things up back in the day when I was first getting gum on my shoe.

I had to leave before another fire broke out. My landlord would be happy to see me go anyway. There was a clause in the lease about maximum undesirables on the property in a given day, something my lawyer couldn’t even explain. I was packing up my things, and getting ready to seal the envelope with my office key, when they waltzed in. Three of them. Long multi-colored hair, nose rings, Crocs, and “the ‘tude”.

I said, “Sorry, I was just leaving, actually leaving for good, I don’t take any new appointments. “Are you Zucchini Bell-something?”, one of the somber ones said. “Yes, I am”, I said, not bothering to correct her. “Who are you?” She spoke up, obviously taking the lead, “I’m Kite, these are my friends, Vikan and Paolo. We heard about you from Avocado Toast. She says you straightened things out for her, saved her from the paparazzi, and such.” Avocado used to be my secretary, and was best friends with Raspberry. If she recommended these stragglers, I could at least hear what they had to say.

The taller one, Vikan I think, spoke up. “We’re all from California, Orange County. Our parents all went to high school together, and we sort of all grew up together. Lately, we have been having some real problems with all the actors, musicians, fitness instructors, so-called nutrition experts, and models out there. We came here to get away, but we have to keep moving. We think they are following us. You’re our last hope, Zucchini!”

I sat down. “OK, what’s the problem?” I asked. Vikan continued, “So we all sort of are in this band, play small clubs from time to time, so a lot of people know us, but lately it’s been getting out of hand. After a set we get bombarded with crazed and scary-looking folks. They’re obviously not fans. They look hungry and angry.” “Describe them to me”, I said, getting intrigued. He said, “Well, they talk really fast, are not in the clubs to drink any alcohol, and don’t even snack on the free pretzels at the bar. They come over to us and start blaming us for waking up hungry, having nightmares, and one of them said on time, that she stared at her cats for too long one time, whatever that means.

“We’ve never seen these people before, and the celebrities started to have their people call our people, really our parents, to complain about something called self-cannibalism, cravings for Cuban food, and the boredom of lettuce wraps. We have no idea what they are talking about. We’re trying to put out some good music, and, sure we all eat at different restaurants, which we’ve always done, but...”

“Wait a minute!”, I said seeing where this was going, “I think I know what’s going on. Why don’t you all have a seat?” Paolo spoke up, “Do you really think you can help us? I mean, we have to get back to California, we have shows lined up, but are kind of scared to go back there.” I said, “Here’s what’s happening. I don’t think you know what kind of effect you have on the world at large.” Vikan got excited, “Do you mean our latest record? I know it’s just a demo, but wow!” “No”, I said, “This has nothing to do with music. It’s your names and what they are causing. Do you know why your parents gave you those names?” Paolo replied, “I mean they said they wanted to name us after something special that happened in their lives, but never really told us about it. They seem like normal names to us I guess.”

I went on, “You see there are these food fads that have been out for some time, and though they might help people at first, they aren’t sustainable, and can actually do some damage. Paolo, you were named after the Paleo Diet, which your parents probably were on at the time you were born. It’s very confusing, it’s supposed to mimic what humans ate during caveman times. It makes some good points about how agriculture wasn’t developed yet, and food was hunted and gathered for survival. But we have adapted since then, our digestive system has developed, our DNA has evolved, and there weren’t any food processors back then, so how did they make orange sesame sauce or zucchini noodles? Plus, there can be many vitamin deficiencies related to this diet, and high levels of saturated fat and protein, which can be toxic. Plus, I don’t trust any diets that say you can’t have hummus and pita chips.”

I turned to Kite next and said, “You have it a little harder, toots. Imagine being on a Paleo Diet, then being forced to live inside a garbage bag with no air circulation. You were named after the Keto Diet, sadly. This diet has everyone turning into zombies. It’s even more restrictive with higher levels of saturated fat and protein, and only the lowest-carbohydrate vegetables like lettuces, greens and broccoli. It forces your body to lose weight artificially from not only stored fat being used as fuel, but your body losing muscle and tissue mass as well. So, you think you are losing weight, but some of the weight is actually part of your body. After a couple weeks there could also be permanent liver and other organ damage.

“A lot of these diets were created by “nutrition experts” that were trying to sell books and supplement programs, and not really concerned with an overall healthy lifestyle eating program. Plus, I don’t trust any diets that say you can’t have your morning oatmeal with blueberries, c’mon! I gotta keep regular ya know?!”

Vikan turned to me and said, “What about me, Zucchini? I mean my parents seem like they eat normally, we just don’t eat any meat or fish or seafood or turkey or dairy or eggs or anything fun. We seem to have a lot of potlucks, though, with foods that come in oval-shaped ceramic baking dishes. I love me a rockin’ scrambled tofu!”

I had texted my squeeze, Raspberry, after these scoundrels first walked in, and had her stand in line for a couple of hours at one of these joints that sells chicken sandwiches. I knew we’d be here awhile. I said to the group, “Well, certainly she was named after the Vegan Diet, which is virtually the opposite of both Paleo and Keto Diets, so I’m not sure how all your parents got along back in the day. While there is certainly nothing wrong with eating a mostly plant-based diet, with foods from every kingdom, including mushrooms, vegetables, fruits, legumes like lentils and peas, beans, sea vegetables, and whole grains, which I call “smart carbs”. These are slow-burning foods that don’t raise your blood sugar, and take a long time to digest, so your body uses the calories as fuel in a sensible and sustainable manner.

“The problem is most people don’t eat all of these foods, or know where to buy them or how to cook them so that they taste really good. Plus, you have to eat complete proteins like quinoa, wild rice, and other grains mixed in with legumes, seeds, nuts, and beans to get a complete nutrition profile. Most vegans or vegetarians simply don’t eat any meat or other animal products, but are not necessarily making good food choices, like eating organic, local and sustainable whenever possible, or eating plant-based proteins, and a wide variety of foods.

I like to eat this way, but after a day’s work, I don’t have the time to cook for hours. I like to eat like a vegetarian, but with meat on top! And Raspberry, well, she tries, but we try to at least eat organic and so on. And... oh, look, here she is now!”

We were all starving at that point and dug into those controversial chicken sandwiches, even Vikan. I made a mental note to have a really good walnut salad for dinner. I looked around and thought, I know how we can get these kids back to California without anyone bothering them anymore. We made a plan. We called up all the agents and fitness instructors, and got them to agree to put these chicken sandwiches in everyone’s trailers, green rooms and lockers. This way, the aroma attacks them when they come back from training or performing, and they can’t resist. Afterwards, they’ll rethink their fad diets and come to their senses, fire their nutritionists, and even the vegans will have a cup of bone broth once in a while maybe.

I closed up the office for good this time for real. Said goodbye to our guests, and refused payment. I was good, clear-headed and ready for my next adventure. A couple days later I got a check in the mail from one of these chicken franchises thanking me for increasing their stock valuation. Raspberry and I took the money and, well, I can’t tell you where we’re going, because I think the nutritionists’ union is after me.

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robinbuckleysfringe · 8 years ago

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I Solemly Swear That I'm Up To No Good

{here is the next chapter guys}

*set in POA*

Eleanor's POV

I was walking through the crowds of family's saying goodbye to each other on Platform 9 3/4 when I overheard someone talking about the mass murderer Sirius Black. I ignored it and made my way onto the train and into an empty compartment. I looked at the locket that was round my neck, opening it to see the pictures of my mum and dad. I smiled a sad smile knowing that they were both no longer in my life. And for some strange reason, I wondered wether the woman I had called my mother for eleven years still remembered me. I looked up from my locket when I heard someone enter the compartment, to find Fred and George, my favourite pair of red heads, walk in.

"Hey" I greeted them. "Hey" they both greeted back at the same time. "So" -Fred "How's your" -George "Summer been" they both finished together. "Oh the usual, you know? Not much. My grandmothers painting screamed at me again cuz I kept knocking over the hat stand in the hallway and Kreacher made rubbish sandwiches. What about you?" "Oh us?" George questioned. "We pranked Ron again, turned his hair purple for a week." Fred told me. "And then we continuously teased him that Sirius Black would kill him in his sleep. We went to Egypt as well." George finished. "Cool. So what do you think about Sirius Black escaping from Azkaban. No ones ever done it before, so why now?" "Dunno" they both replied. By now we were quite far from the station and the trolley lady was making her rounds. Since no one had much to say as we were all thinking about the previous topic, I got up and brought some sweets for us to snack on.

"I got Dumbledore again." I groaned, opening another Chocolate Frog. Suddenly the train lurched to a stop, causing me to go flying across the compartment into Fred. "Sorry." I muttered, blushing slightly. "It's alright." Fred replied back with a smirk on his face. I sat back in my seat. "What do ya think caused the train to stop? We can't be there yet" I wondered out loud. But my question was answered when at the air suddenly became cold. The cold air was like being inside a freezer, not that I've ever been in one. I felt as if I'd never be happy again. The compartment door opened and there stood a hooded black figure, a Dementor. I figured it was looking for someone. Someone who we were talking about not long beforehand. I stood up and moved towards it to speak to it.

"He's not here. Sirius Black isn't here. We're not hiding him." The Dementor appeared to not have listened to my words because it came nearer to me and started to try and suck the life out of me. I screamed, really loudly. I felt my body fall to the floor and then everything went dark...

Fred's POV

Ellie fell to the floor, unconscious, with the Dementor sucking the life out of her. Her skin was getting paler by the second. The compartment door opened again a man in run down robes walked in and said something under his breath, his wand pointed at the Dementor. The Dementor left the compartment and the man walked towards where George and I knelt next to Eleanor. "Names Professor Lupin. What happened?" George told him everything while I looked worriedly at Ellie. "What's her name?" He asked us. "Eleanor Black. Sir, why did the Dementors have an affect on her but not us?" I questioned the Professor. He was probably the new DADA teacher. "She might have had a bad past? I knew her parents so I don't see how..." He trailed off, deep in thought. "Try to wake her then give her some of this." He pulled out a bar of chocolate and gave it to George to look after. "Tell her that it will help."

Ellie's POV

I woke up to find to red heads faces above mine looking concerned. I sat up and rubbed my forehead, trying to get rid of my headache. The world was spinning. "What the bloody hell happened?" I asked. "And why am I on the floor?" The twins sat me on the chair and took turns explaining the story.

"Wait so this 'Professor' said he knew my parents?" I asked, putting quotations around the word Professor. "Yeah, and he told us to give this chocolate to you for you to eat when you woke up. And say," Fred said readying himself to try and do an impression of this so called teacher, "it'll help." "So what was this guys name?" I asked them, realising that we were getting nearer to Hogwarts. (I was already in my robes). "He said his name was Professor Lupin. Ring a bell?" George asked. "Not sure." I yawned, rubbing my eyes in the process. "Too tierd to think about it right now." And with that me eyes shut and my head rested on someone's shoulder, me falling asleep in the process. For how long? I have no clue.

I'm not sure how long my eyes were closed but i felt someone shaking me and trying to wake me up. "Go away" I mumbled, trying to turn away from them. "But we're at Hogwarts. Wake up!" I recognised that voice. Probably Fred or George's. "I don't want to wake up. I'm having a good dream, to good to wake up..." I am cut off because someone decided to use the 'Aguamenti' spell on me causing me to become wide awake quite quickly. "What the bloody hell was that for?!" I shout, using a spell to quickly dry my robes and myself. "You weren't waking up-" Fred started. "So we thought that was the best option" George finished. I just shook my head at them. "You two are so childish, you know?" "We know. Get told all the time." They said in unison. "So.... How long was I asleep for?" "About an hour..." George answered. I looked out the window to see we were just pulling into Hogsmede Station. Looking back at the twins I noticed them looking back at me. "LETS GO! WE'RE AT HOGWARTS!" I screamed, pulling the two out of the compartment where we were met with Lee Jordan (I think he was still trying to hit on Angelina but was, again, having no luck at winning her heart), Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell (she was in the year below us, so a fourth year), Alicia Spinnet (I don't like her. We had an arguement at the end of last year) and Charlie (one of my best mates, in real life as well so don't go saying anything). The whole lot of us noisily made our way off the train and towards the carriages where we bumped into the 'Golden Trio', aka Harry, Ron and Hermione (third years).

"Howdy people" I said cheerily, climbing into the nearby carriage. It was pouring down with rain and I didn't want to get stuck in it. I heard the others greet them before one by one they climbed into the carriage I sat in. We all talked for a bit, the conversation occasionally steering over towards the subject of Sirius Black. The man in the picture on the Daily Prophet looked a bit like the picture of my dad that was in my locket.

I stayed silent as we reached the gates of Hogwarts and walked into the Great Hall, voicing my opinion when I felt it was necessary.

The sorting happened quite quickly, guess my mind was just elsewhere. Dumbledore started speaking.

"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, {AN: I felt like typing sirius, but thought against it, 😣. Maybe another time} I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast..." Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued. "As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing the host to some of the Dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business." He paused, Dumbledore's speech was long. "They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds, and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody leaves this school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises-or even invisibility cloaks," his gaze turned where the Golden Trio sat not to far away from me and the twins. "It is not in the nature of a Dementor to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and everyone of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the Prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs foul of the Dementors."

I looked over at Percy who had sat up straighter at the mention of Head Boy. I rolled my eyes and looked back at Professor Dumbledore who started speaking again.

"On a happier note, I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year. Firstly, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

I turned to the twins as everyone clapped, unenthusiastically must I add, and said, "is that the teacher you were talking about on the train?" "Yup." They said simultaneously. I was about to reply but Dumbledore started speaking again.

"As to our second new appointment, well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties."

"Well I think that's everything of importance." Dumbledore stated after the applause, mainly from us Gryffindors, died down. "Let the feast begin!" With that food appeared on the table. I tried to not eat too much at Hogwarts because I knew that when I was at home in the holidays I would starve, being used to a lot of food and then suddenly having almost none I didn't want to eat everything I had at home because there wasn't much money to buy it with. I owned less than the Weasleys, and without being mean, that's saying a lot.

I stayed silent during the feast, listening to the conversations happening around me. Most people were talking about how Sirius Black escaped Azkaban. I just picked at my food, not feeling very hungry. "You okay?" The voice pulled me out of my thoughts and I looked up from my plate to see Fred Weasley looking at me with concern. "Yeah... I'm fine. Not very hungry." I sat quietly, keeping to myself for the rest of the feast.

Soon the feast ended and we all headed upstairs to Gryffindor tower so that we could go to bed. The Prefect said the password and the Fat Lady let is the common room. I headed straight to bed.

Being the first person in my dormitory I grabbed my pyjamas and hurried into the bathroom. I didn't want to have to make conversation with anybody, I wanted to keep to myself. Once I was dressed I folded my robes and placed them neatly on top of my trunk. I climbed into bed and the moment my head it the pillow, I was asleep.

"How should we wake her?" I could hear voices. "Aguamenti maybe?" Another voice suggested. "How about nothing?" I said sitting up in my bed. I wasn't a morning person, far from it, and I thought that by now, in our fifth year, my dorm would have learnt that. Apparently not. "Well your up so we didn't need to try and wake you." Came the voice of my best friend Charlie. "Oh hi Charlie, how are you? Now if you don't mind I would like to be able to get into the bathroom so I don't have to go to breakfast in my pyjamas." And with that I climbed out of bed, grabbed my uniform and headed into the bathroom.

I undressed and climbed into the shower my thoughts filled with my family. I thought about how my father disappeared one day and how my mum blamed me for it. I thought about how my mother never truly cared about me. I wondered who my father was and if he was still out there. I wondered what my mother was doing. I felt alone. It didn't matter how many friends I had and how much I knew they cared about me. I just felt so, so alone.

I quickly dressed into my uniform and ran out of my dorm, out of the Gryffindor common room and all the way to the Great Hall where I got my timetable off of Professor McGonagall. From there I ran back out of the Great Hall, ignoring any stares from fellow students and many from teachers, all the way to the Forbidden Forest.

"Accio guitar!" I called and soon enough my guitar came flying through the sky towards me. I sat in the middle of the clearing and started singing.

"Do you the enemy? Do you know your enemy? Well, gotta know the enemy

Do you the enemy? Do you know your enemy? Well, gotta know the enemy

Violence is an energy Against the enemy Violence is an energy

Bringing on the fury The choir infantry Revolt against the honour to obey

Overthrow the effigy The vast majority While burning down the foreman of control

Silence is an enemy Against your urgency So rally up the demons of your soul

Do you the enemy? Do you know your enemy? Well, gotta know the enemy

The insurgency will rise When the blood's been sacrificed Don't be blinded by the lies In your eyes

Violence is an energy From here to eternity Violence is an energy Silence is an enemy So gimme gimme revolution

Do you the enemy? Do you know your enemy? Well, gotta know the enemy

Overthrow the effigy The vast majority We're burning down the foreman of control

Silence is an enemy Against your urgency So rally up the demons of your soul!"

I took a deep breath. I strummed my guitar, starting another song.

"I walk a lonely road The only one that I have ever known Don't know where it goes But it's only me and I walk alone.

I walk this empty street On the boulevard of broken dreams Where the city sleeps And I'm the only one, and I walk alone.

I walk alone, I walk alone I walk alone and I walk a

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me Till then I walk alone.

Ah ah ah ah ah Ah ah ah ah ah

I'm walking down the line That divides me somewhere in my mind On the border line of the edge And where I walk alone.

Read between the lines What's fucked and every thing's all right Check my vital signs to know I'm still alive And I walk alone.

I walk alone, I walk alone I walk alone and I walk a

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me Till then I walk alone.

Ah ah ah ah ah Ah ah ah ah ah

I walk alone, I walk a

I walk this empty street On the boulevard of broken dreams Where the city sleeps And I'm the only one, and I walk a

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me Till then I walk alone."

I looked at my watch. 10:20. I had missed Transfiguration and was late for History of Magic. I don't know why I decided to take it for my OWLs. I stood up and started making my way out of the forest and back to the castle.

Third person POV

Too engrossed in the song she was singing, Eleanor didn't notice the black dog that had neared the clearing and was currently hiding in the shadows, watching her. The dog was hidden behind a tree. The dog watched intently as the girl finished singing the second song, looked at her watch and timetable, stood up and left the forest.

Sirius Black's POV (wasn't expecting that were you? Okay, maybe you were. I apologise if you were. I shall get on with the story)

I was hiding in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts hoping I would get a chance to talk to my Godson and be able to kill Peter Pettigrew when I heard someone singing. It was a girl's voice. In my animagus form, I followed the voice to a clearing. There, sitting on the floor of the forest was a girl, around fifteen or sixteen, playing the guitar and singing a song. I recognised the band that sung the song, Green Day.

The girl had midnight black wavy hair that reached to around the middle of her back. She looked familiar. I stayed hidden behind a tree as I watched her. Sounds creepy right? But I needed to know who she was. Finishing the song she looked up and directed her eyes towards where I was hidden by a tree. She obviously felt as if she was being watched. As she looked I saw that she had green eyes and had been crying. I again felt as if I knew this girl but couldn't place my finger on where I had seen her before. The girl looked back at her guitar and started strumming it again.

Once she finished this song, she checked her timetable and her watch. I'm pretty sure that I heard her mumble the word "shit" under her breath. She stood up and left to go back to the castle. I followed her to the edge of the forest where I saw her be greeted by an angry Professor McGonagall. I could kind of hear what was being said, me being in dog form and all. Then someone stepped next to McGonagall who shocked me to say the least, but what he said next shocked me as well.

💩💩💩💩💩AUTHOR'S NOTE💩💩💩💩💩

Hello people! *waves*

How are you? Did you like this chapter? Please tell me what you thought and how you think I can improve.

#harry potter #fred and george #hermione granger #ron weasley #luna lovegood #platform 9¾ #trains

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smut-camren · 8 years ago

Text

The Hand That Feeds// chapter 6.5

original story http://archiveofourown.org/works/3673911/chapters/8142474 ———————————————

Lucy had made it clear since day one she was discontent with Camila living here. If it were up to Camila she would completely avoid Lucy. Camila wanted nothing to do with a girl who was spiteful and clearly in love with Lauren.

“It’s too tight.” Camila complained, as Lucy made the knot in her apron.

Lucy let out a huff as she untied the knot and retied it for a second time. The grip around her waist wasn’t much less snug, but a comfortable breathing space. Camila walked away when she was done, not intending on fixing the knot for a second time.

Camila looked herself over in the full length mirror. The choice of clothing had been unusual. It was formal attire, but lacked the luxury appeal of designer gowns. That didn’t mean the uniform lacked style or an appeal. Camila was given a black vest with a low v-neck design that would have given the guest large amounts of cleavage if she didn’t wear a formal white button-up dress shirt underneath. The sleeves had been folded up to her elbows and the first three buttons of the shirt were left open exposing her collar bones.

Paired with the top was a black circle skirt that made Camila feel completely uncomfortable due to the lack of leggings underneath. Her legs were left exposed, except for her thighs, and a pair of black and white oxford heels. Camila could do without the shoes, but she knew it was wise to wear what she was given.

Camila had put part of her hair up into a fishtail braid and tied it together with a black hair tie. She chose to skip makeup as she had no knowledge of how to apply any of it. And she wasn’t going to ask for Lucy’s help anymore as tying her apron had been too much of a hassle for her.

Lucy had been nice enough to give Camila a brief run through as a server; basic rules such as not speaking unless spoken to, avoid eye contact and react quickly to any call of the guest should they need anything like refills or new utensils.

The food would be made in a specific order so all Camila would have to do is take the trays and distribute them to the guests without dropping it on them.

“Camila, the guests has arrived.” Lucy announced.

She took one deep breath, smoothed her apron and nodded. Camila wouldn’t have been nervous if Michael wasn’t there. This would be the first time she’s seen him and if he was in any way as bad as people said Camila had to be on his good side as much as possible.

Camila followed Lucy out of her bedroom and into the foyer. They were to enter the kitchen as it was common practice to not appear unless called. The sweet smell of pastries and savory steak filled Camila’s nose and it caused her stomach to grumble.

The clatter of pans and pots echoed through the kitchen and the deeper Camila traveled the hotter the kitchen became as she got closer to the stoves. The slaves were running around gathering ingredients and cooking as quickly as possible to not keep their master waiting.

“Camila load this cart with the first course.” Lucy instructed. “It’s on the counter behind you.”

Lucy gathered wine glasses and carefully selected the suitable wine for today’s meal from the fridge. When the cart was loaded Camila was directed to step out, but kept in mind to not trip over the cart as she moved. Lucy was behind her with the wine bottle in a bucket and three wine glasses in her left hand.

Stepping into the kitchen Camila nearly froze at the sight of Michael Jauregui. A truly beastly and frightening man as he barely classified as human. He was tall with plenty of muscle as it showed in the way he carried himself. As he inhaled it caused his chest to sharply rise through his sweater vest.

She made sure to keep her eyes at the cart in front of her as she came closer to the table. She could hear the sound of Michael’s voice bellowing through the dining room.

“Finally.” Michael stated. “The food has arrived. Are you hungry Brad?”

“Starving.” Brad replied.

Camila knew nothing of Brad in public, but if he had stayed in company with Michael he would get enough attention to have his name spread within the society. It wouldn’t be unusual for demons to network for publicity.

Camila picked up the first plate and placed it in front of Brad. He was a tall man, but not as tall as Michael, nor as bulky. It was odd how he had long arms that looked as if they could reach his feet while the rest of him was disproportionate. Camila also noted his orange complexion.

Why Michael would want to speak with another half-breed, was beyond Camila. He’s shown great distaste with half breeds and had only tolerated Lauren.

“Thank you.” Brad smiled, when his food was placed down.

Camila caught a glimpse of two sharp teeth that stuck out from his lower jaw. He had an under-bite that had not been as gruesome as most demons, but it had been evident enough in the way he spoke as it stuck out and clattered against his other teeth. The features of Brad had reminded Camila of an ogre. His ears were long and pointed, slicked back and closer to his head in comparison to a real ogre, which had floppy ears.

Camila hastily served Michael next. His presence had been as terrifying as his appearance. He didn’t thank Camila and went back into conversation with Brad.

“So Brad,” Michael started. “How is your business going?”

Brad wiped a napkin at his face.

“It’s going well.” He answered. “I’ve made enough to lessen the mass production of food. That will give the human population plenty of time to bring their numbers up.”

An icy chill ran through Camila. Brad had been in the food production business. It’s filthy business to provide for demons. He slaughtered innocent humans for food. Trying to ignore the conversation, Camila made her way to Lauren. She had little shame in staring at Camila with heightened interest.

The coy smile that greeted her gave Camila the shivers. In the middle of picking up the last plate Camila had wondered if Lauren thought about their time spent in the bathroom before brunch. Another shiver came through Camila at the memory.

“Here you are Miss.” Camila said, trying to ignore Lauren’s sly smirk.

“The uniform looks good on you.” Lauren complimented.

Camila jolted as she felt Lauren’S hand curl around the shape of Camila’s calf. She looked back to Michael and Brad, who had not the slightest clue of Lauren’s behavior. They had been at the other end of the table which was large enough to comfortably fit nine people. Fingers rubbed up Camila’s calf and to the back of her knee. She bit her lip to hold back an on-coming moan.

“Thank you Mistress.” Camila yelped.

“Did you hear that Lauren?” Michael’s voice interrupted. “Brad’s recently bought property in the great outdoors.”

Lauren instantly dropped her hand and Camila scattered with the cart in front of her. Lauren was much better at appearing more collected, while Camila could hear her heart beating into her ears. Camila decided to stay near the door, trying to listen to the conversation. It would take some time before the appetizers were finished and Camila had to send out another cart.

A tickle ran up Camila’s leg where Lauren’s hand had been moments ago. She craved for the touch of Lauren’s skin against her own again. The urge unpredictable, but the longer Camila stood by the door the more she wanted to see Lauren again for her to touch her, even if it would get Camila in trouble.

After ten minutes of chatter and laughter Lucy directed Camila to load up the cart with the second course. The plates were already gone, leaving Camila space to place the entrees on the table. Brad and Michael paid no attention to Camila’s presence, completely lost in a hot topic of market value. Lauren showed little interest in their conversation.

Lauren had the same coy smirk in place when Camila came around. As she reached behind her to pick up the plate Lauren had reached for her fork and dropped it to the floor. Camila’s heart nearly burst out of her chest.

“I’m sorry.” Lauren coaxed. “Would you pick that up for me?”

Camila reached down, finding her throat too dry to speak. As she reached down Lauren’s hand rested onto Camila’s thigh and traveled under her skirt. Camila heard Lauren chuckle as she felt Camila’s legs quiver.

Flabbergasted, Camila gasped when she felt Lauren’s hand cup her butt and rigorously rubbed it in her hand. Camila let out a moan from underneath the table. She felt Lauren push her underwear aside and firmly grip her butt.

Camila remained under the table, out of breath. She leaned back for further contact and Lauren gave her ass another firm squeeze. It took all Camila’s willpower to stand back up and hand the fork to her.

“H-Here you are M-Miss.” Camila stuttered.

She placed the fork on the table and turned around just as she saw Lauren’s devilish grin. It widened when she noticed that Camila had been staring at her crotch. Lauren dropped her hand to the curve of Camila’s calf.

“Thank you.” She whispered.

Camila walked away, taking the cart with her into the kitchen and Lucy came back out to refill everyone’s wine glass. In the kitchen, Camila leaned against the counter to take several deep breathes. Bracing the counter, Camila took one last deep breath and stood up to shift uncomfortably. She can feel the thick wetness that had dripped to the inner part of her thighs.

The swish of the kitchen door opening announced Lucy’s return with a now empty wine bottle. She placed the green glass container on the counter. The way she noisily placed the bottle gave Camila the indication that Lucy had been in a bad mood. She glanced at Camila with a glare in place.

“I know what you’re doing.” Lucy hissed. “You better stop it unless you want to get the Mistress in trouble. I’m warning you.”

With a final glare, Lucy stepped away. Camila could feel the eyes of the slaves. The tension in the kitchen was suffocating. Lucy stayed in a bad mood, still scowling at Camila every time they made eye-contact. It would be a long and painful thirty minutes until the dishes from the entree were collected and Camila would send out dessert.

Lauren had refused to let up her grabby hands when Camila passed by a third time. She nearly came and moaned when Lauren’s finger grazed the length of her outer lips, which were soaked in her arousal. Camila could hear the small moan from Lauren when her finger touched the tender flesh of her center.

She watched Lauren lick her lips and her nose twitch as she picked up the heady scent of Camila’s wetness. Camila rushed the cart back into the kitchen about ready to come if she had stayed any longer next to Lauren.

The cart was dropped in the kitchen and Camila left to cool down. She found the nearest bathroom and turned on the tap to pat cold water on to the back of her neck. The contrast of cold against heated skin was startling, but welcomed as Camila tried to find a way to wash away her racing thoughts. All she had on her mind was Lauren and fantasized at how it must feel to have Lauren’s dick in her hand again. Camila nearly hit the floor when she thought of how it would feel to have it fill her and stretch her.

Camila waited fifteen minutes before stepping out again. She spent five of it debating if she should touch herself to relieve the burning sexual frustration, but decided to wait it out. When she returned Lucy had come through with the dishes to dessert and another slave took it to put the plates into the washer.

The door opened a second time and Lauren stepped through. Camila froze, watching her walk up to her with a smile in place. Camila’s heart fluttered in her chest so fast that it hurt. Lauren put her arm around Camila and put her right hand on Camila’s butt.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Lauren sighed. “You’re too distracting in this uniform.”

Desperate for more contact, Camila put her arms around Lauren’s neck. The action had done enough to break the last of Lauren’s resolve. She took a hold of Camila’s leg and wrapped it around her hip before slamming Camila into the nearest counter. The pots on top rattled, masking Camila’s yelp before it was covered by Lauren’s lips.

“I wanna fuck you so badly.” Lauren panted, against Camila’s cheek. “Would you let me? Right here?”

Lauren’s hand on Camila’s leg moved to clutch the collar of Camila’s shirt and ripped it open. The sound of buttons hitting the floor filling the kitchen. Camila gasped at the sheer strength of Lauren’s arms as she managed to pick Camila up with her left arm and drop her on to the couch.

Camila moaned and cupped the back of Lauren’s head before tangling her fingers into black tresses. Lauren kissed the valley between Camila’s breasts.

“Y-Yes!” Camila cried. “Please, I -”

Lauren kissed her. The contact was rough and hungry. Before Lauren could remove her necklace the door opened again. The two women quickly broke apart. Lucy paused in front of the door, looking over their disheveled state. Lauren’s face red and her hair a tussled mess. Camila just equally guilty with her shirt ripped open exposing her bra with a guilty expression in place.

“Master wanted to speak with you.” Lucy informed. “He’s in the living room.”

Lauren patted down her hair and readjusted her clothes.

“I’ll be right there.” Lauren responded. “The two of you clean the dining room and return back to your daily chores when you’re finished.”

“Yes Miss.” Lucy answered.

Lauren silently walked out, leaving Camila to fall under Lucy’s vengeful gaze. The silence had been a painful tension that would drive Camila mad if she stayed here any longer. Lucy reached into the cabinet under the sink and pulled out rags and cleaning spray.

Camila watched her, fully aware that the more she stared the more irritated Lucy became. Her actions became more sporadic and harsh. The hostility between the two could easily explode into a chain reaction of violence. Camila had developed a strong dislike for Lucy over the time they’ve been stuck together. With a smack from the rag Lucy placed it on to the counter and spun around.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Lucy demanded.

Fed up with Lucy’s bratty behavior, Camila stepped forward; ready to set whatever it was between them straight. If violence was necessary Camila had no problem getting into a scuffle. If it meant putting Lucy in her place Camila would be more than happy to tackle her to the ground.

“Excuse me?” Camila asked.

Lucy showed no signs of backing down. While she was used to people dealing with her outburst because Lauren had always been around to protect her, Lucy knew somewhere in the back of her mind where the anger was not the main drive of her thoughts, that this was a bad idea.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Lucy spat.

She wasn’t going to stand being lied to and deal with Camila acting so innocent. She had an equal amount of responsibility as Lucy.

“I’m tired of your shit!” Camila growled. “What is your problem with me?!”

Lucy scoffed.

“My problem is that not everyone wants to watch you act like a slut every time the Mistress comes around.” Lucy sneered.

Lucy felt the ache of the slap on her left cheek and stood with a hand to her face in shock. The state of shock lasted no longer than a second before Lucy rushed forward and shoved Camila into the counter. The pots and cleaning products crashed to the floor. The entire room rang with the commotion of the two into a full on brawl with Camila , shoving Lucy into the counter behind her.

A cook had come to investigate the racket and rushed out to notify a guard upon spotting Camil and Lucy in a brawl.

A series of shouts filled the kitchen. Sharply, the kitchen door was pushed opened and Puck ran inside, surveying the ruckus. Lucy was on the ground, grabbing on to Camila’s hair while Camila tried to get free.

“Stop that!” Puck yelled, taking a hold of Camila and yanking her to her feet. “Enough!”

Puck swiveled with Camila in his arms to wedge himself between to the two and took a punch to the back.

“It’s her fault!” Lucy screamed. “It’s her fault everything is like this!”

“Cool it Vives before the Mistress finds out!” Puck warned.

“What’s going on?”

Puck looked over Camila to see Lauren back into the kitchen. Lucy stepped back.

“These two got in a fight.” Puck answered. “I got it under control.”

“Who did this?” Lauren asked, looking from Camila to Lucy for an answer.

Both refused to speak. Lauren strides farther into the kitchen. She looked back to Camila with a disappointed expression.

“It wasn’t me!” Camila corrected. “That bitch behind me started it!”

“Is that true?” Lauren questioned. “Lucia?”

Cowering away from Camila , Lucy was wavering to answer.

“I…” She trailed. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just got so mad and…it isn’t -

Lauren shook her head in disbelief. “That’s unbelievable. How could you-”

“Please Miss, I -” Lucy whimpered.

“Don’t interrupt me!” Lauren yelled. “I can’t believe you Lucia. I’ve been very clear!” Lauren glanced back to Camila. “Release her. Puck send Lucia into the basement. She is to remain there until morning.”

“W-What?” Lucy stuttered. “You can’t be serious? Mistress?!”

Puck grabbed on to Lucy’s arm and pulled her out of the kitchen. Camila rearranged her shirt.

“Are you okay?” Lauren mumbled.

Camila chuckled. “I could have handled myself.”

“Go back to your room and change into your daily clothes. I want you to remain doing your chores. Meet me in my room at ten.” Lauren instructed.

Lauren left little room for arguing as she exited the kitchen quickly after her order. Still a mess and trying to process the entire situation, Camila didn’t leave the kitchen until her breath was even and the adrenaline was gone. She didn’t want to do anything to further upset Lauren. Camila did not want to spend the rest of the night in a basement.

Camila finished her chores five minutes early to change into her sleepwear then spent the remaining four minutes preparing for when she entered Lauren’s room. She had no idea what to expect. Lauren had been pissed about the chaos from earlier. It was mainly directed at Lucy, but Lauren had clearly been disappointed to find out that Camila had taken part in a fight.

Lauren had not stated she would be punished, but if she was angrier than she let on than Camila would be facing a punishment that might be much harsher than Sebastian’s. With a minute left, Camila left her room and head to the second floor. She made sure to knock before entering.

The last thing Camila expected was for Lauren to be dressed in a sheer robe that showed the lingerie underneath, which had been a red lace bra and matching lace boy shorts. Speechless, Camila entered and closed the door behind her, eyes still drawn on Lauren. She came over, taking Camila by the hand and sat on the edge of her bed.

“W-What is this?” Camila asked.

“What do you mean?” Lauren replied.

“I just…I thought – you aren’t mad at me?” Camila stuttered.

Lauren put a second hand on to Camila’s thigh.

“You aren’t at fault with what happened during brunch. I’ll speak to Lucy in due time.” Lauren clarified. “I promise.”

Camila didn’t dare to second guess Lauren’s response. She had no reason to from their past experiences together. Assured, Camila nodded and Lauren kissed Camila’s forehead before colliding forward in a heated kiss. Camila could feel Lauren’s wandering hands slide along her thighs before finding the bottom of her shirt and lifting it up.

Camila watched her shirt fall to the floor and her bra quickly after. With a gasp, she leaned back and Lauren followed, wedging her way between Camila’s legs.

She placed soft kisses on to Camila’s collar bone before attaching her mouth to Camila’s nipple. Camila was in a haze of bliss, shaking and panting as Lauren licked her nipple and moved to the left one to wrap her lips around it.

The lack of distance between them gave Camila the comfortable feeling of Lauren’s weight on her. But it lacked the warmth of bare skin, as Lauren had kept her robe on. Camila moaned as Lauren’s finger and thumb took a hold of her nipple and pulled.

Lauren released Camila’s nipple with a grin and let out a cry of her own, shifting her position to straddle Camila’s hips and grind into her, the soft warmth of her dick rubbing against Camila’s pelvis. Lauren leaned back, cupping Camila’s breast into her hand and sighed.

“I can’t wait any longer.” Lauren cried.

Throwing off her robe, Camila reached for her underwear and tugged them down. By the time Lauren removed her boy shorts completely and was loosening the hook to her bra, Camila had her hand wrapped around Lauren’s cock.

The appendage was soft and limp. Camila began to massage it into her palm, starting from the base to the tip where she watched the tip hide underneath the foreskin. Lauren sighed before sitting up and watching Camila tenderly rub her dick. The adoration Lauren witnessed in Camila’s eyes was overwhelming. She switched between looking back at Lauren and glancing at her dick as it began to harden.

Releasing a light groan, Lauren ran a hand through her hair and raked a hand down her back over her shoulder and to her breast. The warm stiffness from Lauren’s dick filled Camila’s hand. Hungrily licking her lips as the tip of Lauren’s penis poked out from the foreskin, Camila met with Lauren’s lustful gaze.

Lauren stroked Camila’s hair affectionately, encouraging her suck her off. She came into view with the tip of the penis, dripping with pre-cum.

Camila licked the underside of the head and watched Lauren quiver as she moaned, gabbing on to Camila’s shoulders for support. Camila took a hold of Lauren’s arms, pulling her forward and locking them together into a kiss.

She had ended the kiss to lick the curve of Lauren’s collar bone. Affectionately, Lauren rested her hand to the back of Camila’s head, letting out a sharp moan as Camila licked her breast then sucked the nipple into her mouth.

The sensation bringing a dull ache that started in Lauren’s stomach and down to her dick. Blindly, Camila’s hands glided down Lauren’s toned stomach and circled around her penis. Camila’s other hand gripped on to Lauren’s butt.

Lauren pulled back with a gasp, desperate for air. Camila removed her hand from Lauren’s rear and squeezed her breast. The contact caused the older brunette to moan and automatically thrust her hip forward, into Camila’s hand.

Camila brushed the side of her thumb over Lauren’s nipple and smiled as she listened to Lauren moan. Unable to be satisfied with just the touching, Lauren moved to lie on her back and used her arms to rest on her elbows.

Camila stationed herself at Lauren’s hips and hovered over the erection. She took a hold of it before licking the tip a second time. Lauren’s fell back once Camila’s lips closed around it.

“C-Camz.” Lauren huffed, reaching out to push Camila’s hair to the side for a better view.

Camila moved closer to place herself between Lauren’s legs and pushed her head down to twirl her tongue around Lauren’s aching dick. The feeling of Camila’s talented tongue working along the shaft as she steadily bobbed her head up and down made Lauren a weak and whimpering mess.

She hadn’t expected something as small as oral sex to feel this divine, or be this meaningful. Lauren can’t remember the last time where she had felt her heart thrash around her rib cage and feel this satisfied.

Camila let out a moan of her own as she watched Lauren shake and cry as she worked her way down the shaft, the sounds filling her ears and the thickness of Lauren’s dick filling her mouth. It was beyond satisfying. She would have never imagined being this wet from just giving a blowjob.

She switched between jerking Lauren off and sucking the tip of her cock and inching slowly down the shaft to prepare for the two inch thickness at the base to reach her throat. Lauren’s arms gave out and she was laying flat on her back, staring at the ceiling and reaching out to tangle her fingers into Camila’s thick brown strands.

Camila moaned as Lauren started to thrust forward and gently pushed her head down, begging for more friction. The grip tightening and pulling at Camila’s hair as Lauren found herself closer to release. Camila pulled back, running the tip of her tongue along the head and Lauren arched off the bed with a cry.

Camila couldn’t think of anything as beautiful as this. Seeing Lauren like this, begging and moaning as Camila pleasured her.

With a smirk, Camila massaged Lauren’s testicles and put her mouth back on to her cock, reaching half way down. Lauren wouldn’t be able to last much longer. The waiting was making her mad and the way Camila sucked her off was a lot better than Lauren expected.

“I won’t be able to…” Lauren exhaled. “Shit, slow down.”

Camila grinned before taking a deep breath and pushing farther down. Lauren moaned, thrusting her hips upward, pushing the head of her dick to the back of Camila’s throat. Lauren yelped as her entire cock was encompassed by the tender tissues of Camila’s throat.

Lauren tucked a piece of hair behind Camila’s ear and took a deep breath to try and slow down the trashing of her hips. Camila sucked, staying still to adjust to the size. Lauren had been quite thick down to the base, but hadn’t been as uncomfortable as Camila expected.

Opening her mouth, Camila pulled back an inch before reaching down. She swallowed around the penis, the walls tightened, sucking Lauren deeper inside. Camila gave a firm squeeze to Lauren’s balls and it had been enough to get her over the edge.

“Oh shit! Oh Shit!” Lauren yelled. “C-Cumming! Gonna…cum!”

Lauren gave several quick thrust to the back of Camila’s throat before she came. She felt Lauren’s cock pulse and stiffen as three waves of cum filled her mouth; the thick fluid coating the back of her throat before swallowing. She slowly pulled back, enjoying the feeling of the penis twitching in her mouth before it stopped.

Camila sat back with a sigh and a grin on her face. Lauren lay back out of breath, sweaty, and tired. She’s never had an orgasm this intense before. It left Lauren’s mind a mess of hazy thoughts and twirling stars before her eyes.

Feeling Camila’s gaze on her, Lauren sat up and let out a ragged chuckle. Camila smiled and leaned down to kiss Lauren. The kiss was timid and slow, with Lauren still unable to keep up with the pace of Camila’s hungry mouth.

“You’re amazing.” Lauren panted, bashfully looking down and brushed the tip of her nose against Camila’s bottom lip.

“You’re just saying that because I sucked your dick.” Camila laughed.

Lauren chuckled and playfully slapped Camila’s butt. She reached over to kiss Camila a second time and take a hold of her waist to flip them around. The strength of Lauren’s slim arms still shocked Camila. Lauen ripped ’s underwear apart and threw them off the bed.

“If I just wanted to get in your pants I would have done it sooner.” Lauren reminded. “You really are amazing.”

Lauren dipped down kissing Camila’s shoulder. With two hands, Lauren grabbed Camila’s boobs and firmly squeezed them. She made sure to suck each nipple and pull one before licking up Camila’s neck to have their lips meet in another kiss.

One of her hands traveled around Camila’s body, tracing the shape of her curves and the bumps of her scars. The action caused Camila to flinch, but as Lauren continued to explore and kiss Camila the anxiety of Lauren finding every inch of her scars that marked her body washed away.

“Lay down.” Lauren whispered against her lips.

Camila gulped before mindlessly doing as she was told. Lauren’s mouth wandered away from Camila’s lips and made its way down her stomach where she took her time kissing every scar she could find. The flinching was long gone. Lauren eventually moved to Camila’s thigh. The touch equally soft as the ones on her scars and it brought a wave of heat between Camila’s legs.

She whimpered when Lauren ran a tongue up her inner thigh and on to her stomach. Lauren let out a content sigh as moved back down and hovered over Camila’s wet center. The smell had been heavenly and sweet, a tantalizing aroma that Lauren couldn’t wait to taste for the very first time. The sight of Camila’s soaked bronze flesh only increased Lauren’s desire to taste her.

The way Lauren hovered over it, basking in the smell had left Camila embarrassed, but had increased the amount of fluid. Lauren pushed Camila’s leg up, kissing the back of her knee to try and calm her desire. It did little to ease her. She placed Camila’s leg back down and rested her forehead against her knee.

“You’re beautiful.” Lauren stated. “The way you’re looking at me. How you willingly give yourself to me. I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as this. Now I get the privilege to taste you.”

Lauren pushed the outer lips apart with her thumbs and went down to lick Camila’s clit, causing her to fill the room with a loud shriek. She sucked on the small bud before releasing it and sucking on Camila’s outer lips. The tender fleshy part of her womanhood soaked in her arousal.

Bucking her hips, Camila arched off the bed and sought after Lauren’s hand, locking it into a tight grip. Lauren used her right hand to keep Camila’s hips in place before she pushed her tongue inside. The velvet walls of Camila’s center clenched around Lauren’s tongue before relaxing.

Lauren sat back, her lips coated in Camila’s cum and she pressed her forehead against Camila’s stomach.

“Fuck.” Lauren chuckled. “You taste delicious.”

Lauren pushed her tongue back inside further into the depths of Camila’s center where she felt the familiar hug of Camila’s inner walls wrap around her again. Lauren licked at the soft tissue before pulling out and sucking on Camila’s clit again. The clear liquid smeared along Lauren’s face.

“M-Miss!” Camila cried. “I-”

Sensing Camila was about to cum, Lauren removed her tongue and pushed her middle finger inside. Camila whimpered. Lauren switched between her finger and tongue several times, enjoying the way Camila was withering on the bed, begging for an impending orgasm.

“Please?” Camila pleaded.

Lauren grinned and scooted up to bite Camila’s bottom lip before pulling it then sliding back down. She pushed her tongue back inside, watching Camila thrash and moan. Lauren wouldn’t be able to have enough of her. Feeling Camila’s thighs tighten, Lauren pressed a finger on her clit and rubbed it in tight circles as she thrusts her tongue in and out, eager to flood her mouth with Camila’s release.

With one sharp cry, Camila’s thighs clamped on to Lauren’s head and her hips thrashed into Lauren’s mouth. A gush of warmth filled Lauren’s mouth and she eagerly licked and sucked up what she could. Lauren sat up, wiping away the drops of cum from her face and settled beside Camila.

She had waited for Camila to calm her heaving chest, carefully watching her in awe. Aware of her surroundings, Camila rolled over to her side and looked into Lauren’s star struck eyes.

“Good?” Lauren asked.

Camila chuckled and nodded. “Oh yeah.”

Seeing Lauren move up to lie on her side next to Camila, she reached out to run a finger along Lauren’s stomach then gripped her penis. “Are you…”

Lauren removed her hand.

“I’m fine.” She assured. “Right now you need to rest.”

A flush of disappointment came into Camila’s stomach. She knew demons had a quick recovery time. Camila raised a brow in uncertainty.

“Really.” Lauren nodded.

She curled up next to Camila and pulled a blanket over them.

“Sleep.” She instructed.

With a big yawn, Camila rolled over to have her back tucked into Lauren’s front and rested her head on the pillow. Lauren smiled as her arm went around Camila and she kissed the back of her neck before closing her eyes, hoping to dream about the perfection that is Camila .

#lauren g!p #series #update #submission

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