#the fatigue and irritability are kicking my ass today

[fluidstatick]

.

[nakaleawesome]

The amount of concern my grandma has with my unshaven legs is ridiculous.

"Don't you wanna be more feminine and please your husband?"

No and he doesn't give a shit

[scaryscarecrows]

I'd Crawl on Broken Glass to be the One That Laughs Last

Gotham’s gone straight to Hell in a handbasket. Scarecrow’s dead, which is no loss, but Bruce is missing, Arkham blew up for reasons unknown, and the Arkham Knight’s Militia is still in control. Oh, sure, there’s a fair chunk of them in lockup, but they’ve been getting steadily more riled as the days wear on (three days since the Asylum, their boss has to be dead, who’s in charge now?), and the tanks are still running patrols, the bombs are still in the road, and there are checkpoints and watchtowers everywhere.

Jim thinks they’re waiting for something. There’s been no assault, not like he thought there might be. The street thugs and any uncaptured Rogues are still allowed to run wild, though the watchtowers have been spotted taking shots at something big flying around out there. Honestly, they’re even leaving the police alone, for the most part...but they will still shoot at the cars if they get too close. It’s like they’re on babysitting duty or something until the Knight gets back. It’s unsettling.

He’s out doing a little exploration-he doubts they’ve killed Batman, or they’d be gone, but Bruce still isn’t around-when something drops onto the roof of his car. He hits the brakes, tires screeching, and narrowly avoids sliding into a tank crossing the road.

Breathe.

Jim has no time to go for his gun before the driver’s side door gets ripped open by what Jim can only describe as the Hulk. The man outside is only a little smaller than Bane*. There’s a rocket launcher on his back and Jim’s sure he’s not the one that landed on the car, because the car would be a pancake.

He’s proven right a second later when the polar opposite of the giant jumps down. That said, this guy might be tiny, but he moves like he knows half a dozen ways to kill you. The cherry on the disaster sundae? Both of them are wearing army fatigues.

Militia. Shit.

“Boys,” he says, already planning on how to get that rocket launcher from the big one, “don’t be stupid.”

The little one doesn’t say anything. The big one laughs and before Jim can move, he’s been pulled out of the car.

“Boss wants to see ya.”

So they have a boss. Who. Who is it? One of their own? Riddler? Penguin? Goddamn Deathstroke? Who is his new problem?

“No.”

“Sorry.” The man does sound mostly sorry. “Not really askin’. C’mon.”

Jim tries to slam his elbow into the man’s collarbone. He doesn’t even really get to move before the little guy grabs his arm and wrenches it behind his back. Not hard enough to dislocate it, but hard enough to be a warning.

“We don’t want to have to hurt you, Commissioner,” the big man says. “We’re just picking you up.”

“Go to Hell.”

A gun presses against his back. Fine. He’ll go. But he won’t like it.

* * *

He’s disarmed, bundled into an APC, and blindfolded. After way too many sharp turns and double-backs, he’s...somewhere in the underside of the city. He’s thinking over near Drescher.

Wherever it is, he’s pulled out of the APC, taken inside somewhere, and handed off to new hands. When the blindfold comes off, his kidnappers are nowhere to be seen.

The men in charge of him now (and only for now, give him time…) are less...unnerving...than the other two. One is wearing the white uniform of a medic, and the other is having a snack. Cashews? Cashews.

The medic is a man on a mission. Jim doesn’t even manage to get out a, ‘you’ll be sorry’ before the man’s turning on his heel, jaw working furiously, and snapping, “Come on.”

“Where are we going.”

“Boss wants to see you, won’t listen to reason. This way.”

He stalks off and the snacker chuckles.

“Cashew?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” They follow the medic down a crumbling hallway. “They didn’t scare you too much, did they?”

“What’s with the good-cop-bad-cop routine?” he demands. “Is your friend up there gonna come back and threaten to carve my face off?”

The man just laughs.

“Probably, but he does that to everyone.”

“Sometime today!”

Huh.

Jim thinks they might be in the old mall. Scarecrow had been driving that way when something had happened, and, well, if Jim were going to have an evil base of operations, this would be a good one. Lot of ways in and out, nobody ever comes down here anymore-too dangerous-and it’s big, big enough to hold tanks and soldiers and whatever else these boys have. When they round a corner, he sees a familiar logo and decides that yes, that’s where they are. Hm.

They round another corner and end up in the back of the building. Jim’s not sure what this was, but there’s a corridor lined with doors. The medic stops in front of one and turns, hands clasped behind his back.

“Twenty minutes and no more,” he snarls at Jim. “You’re lucky you get that many minutes. You try anything, you might live to regret it. Might. You tire him out, out you go, I don’t care if it’s been two minutes. Don’t touch shit, don’t knock shit down, don’t--”

“I think he’s got the picture,” his other escort soothes. “Don’t terrorize him.”

“Humph. With the amount of work I had to put in to keep his dumb ass alive, I’m entitled to terrorize people.”

“Still.”

“And I’ll tell you something else. You lay a finger, one solitary finger on him, you so much as breathe too hard--”

“There won’t be anything left to bury,” the other man says, smiles with all his teeth. “Here you go, Commissioner.”

“Twenty. Minutes.”

And then he’s shoved into a room with--and good God, how--the Arkham Knight.

The Knight is lying in bed. He looks the worse for wear, but Jim can’t quite muster up pity for him. This...this is his fault. Gotham, Bruce, Barbara…

He swallows down the rage. Not because it’s the right thing to do, but because the Knight’s not alone. Jim supposes they wouldn’t just leave him unattended, not with those injuries, but still.

The Knight doesn’t seem to notice Jim. He’s certainly not looking at him. He’s looking at the laptop the other man has. Right now, at this exact second, he looks like a sick kid, wan and tired, eyes fluttering like he’s fighting to stay awake. But he’s not. Robin or not, he’s...the Knight’s not that boy anymore. Robin wouldn’t have done this, any of this. Robin’s dead.

“Sir.” The other man here isn’t wearing a uniform, he’s wearing jeans and a raggedy flannel that hangs open over some sort of band shirt. But his bearing is still that of a soldier’s, and the rifle leaning against the wall by his chair is top-of-the-line. “Gordon’s here.”

“Hrm?”

“Remember? You wanted to see him.” The Knight blinks a few times, heavy and confused, and tries to lever himself up before his companion reaches over to pin his shoulder. “Don’t do that.”

More confused silence. Now that he’s moved his head, Jim can see his pupils are blown wide. That’s not a surprise. He’s pretty sure he was in Arkham when it came down, and he hadn’t looked well before that.

Serves him right, he thinks, remembering the cuts on Barbara’s cheeks and chin. Serves the bastard right.

He keeps his mouth shut. The laptop has been closed and set aside, and the rifle is now in its owner’s lap. It’s casual enough, but the threat’s there all the same: you’ll go through me to get to him.

He wonders, a bit, what drives these men. He doesn’t really care, but he wonders a little all the same. Even the ones in the cells have been resolute that ‘the boss’ will get them out, that he’s got everything in hand, just you wait and see.

...in their defense, Jim had thought he had to be dead, and yet here he is. So.

“S’right,” the Knight finally breathes. He sounds terrible, and Jim suddenly matches the purple swelling on his throat to handprints. That scares him. Not out of pity or sympathy, but because what little he’s seen of the man says he can handle himself. Whoever did that… “S’right.”

“You up for it?”

He’d better be. Jim was kidnapped off the street for this.

“Yes.” Good. “Glad to see you’re unharmed.”

No thanks to you, Jim doesn’t snap, resolutely ignores the memory of the Knight holding up his hands and telling Scarecrow, voice painfully earnest, to take him and let Jim and his men and Robin leave in one piece. He settles for a curt nod, can’t quite muster up a, wish I could say the same.

The Knight pulls in a painful-sounding breath and drops his head to the side.

“Bring up the footage for Commissioner Gordon, would you?”

“Yessir.” The laptop returns, balanced delicately over the rifle. Jim doesn’t know if he wants to know what’s going on. “Hang on...give it a sec to load…”

The Knight moves and visibly bites back a wince, but the new angle means that Jim can see the full extent of the bruising on his neck.

“There we go--you okay, boss?”

“Ribs,” he breathes. “They don’t like it when people zipline into them.”

What.

“Need me to call--”

“No.” He swallows hard and beckons Jim closer. “M’fine. Just sore. And stiff.” He clears his throat, grimacing. “You worry too much.”

“I worry exactly the right amount.”

“M’just not used to being still this long--”

“Deal,” his friend says sharply. The Knight just grins, but that annoys the other guy. “Did you miss the flatline bit?”

“Technically?”

“I--never mind.” He makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “Never mind...okay, all set.”

He turns the laptop around and Jim hesitates before perching on the very edge of the bed. Nothing terrible happens to him.

“This is footage from my helmet. How it kept going after that level of trauma, I’ll never know, but my IT department managed to recover it remotely.”

The footage picks up in a dark area, abandoned sewer network or something, probably, and it’s glitchy and stuttery.

Bruce has been caught on camera before, but not like this. This is...savage, animalistic. He comes out of nowhere, dodging gunfire and seemingly oblivious to the shouts of surprise, and moves in via a flying kick to the camera itself, which goes white and static-y for a second. A few of them come up behind him and suffer backhands and powerful kicks for their troubles, and then Bruce fills up the frame, shoulders positioned like he’s got his arms out and...and...

He looks at the Knight, looks at the bruises around his neck, and looks back at the screen in time to see Bruce going down and being dragged backwards.

“He do this to you?”

The look the man gives him is so reminiscent of the little boy Jim remembers that it makes his head spin. It screams, I know you’re not really that stupid...right?

“Well, I didn’t do it to myself.”

“--okay, sir, I’m just gonna…”

The helmet moves and Jim spots the medic from earlier before it gets set on the ground, facing Bruce. Bruce is chained to a pipe, seemingly unconscious.

“Don’t talk, just nod. Can you breathe okay?”

There’s an obvious cut--they don’t want to share it all, apparently--and then Bruce stirs and starts...giggling. Jim knows that giggle.

“What the hell.”

The Knight shudders and burrows under his blankets.

“It’s complicated. We’re reasonably sure he’s been eliminated, or at the very least contained, but--” A hand moves, presumably indicating himself. “I made it out. He might have, too.”

His friend closes his laptop and sets it aside.

“We’ve got teams sweeping Arkham’s grounds to the best of our ability,” he says. “Unfortunately, we are not a rescue team and as such are not fully equipped to handle the more unstable areas. That said, given the police department’s...track record...we would very much prefer that your men stay out of our way until we either find the individual formerly known as the Batman, or definitively confirm his demise. We’re hoping that at the very least, any injuries he may have sustained slowed him down, but we can’t prove that, given the lack of video footage for the incident.”

“It’s our understanding that Batman has, at least for the time being, lost his fight against the effects of J.” The Knight swallows. “Of Joker’s blood. I attempted to contain him--”

“Contain, my ass,” his friend grumbles. The Knight ignores him.

“I attempted to contain him,” he says again, “via...ah…”

“He blew up the goddamn asylum with himself and Batman inside,” comes the sharp interjection. “In case you managed to miss that.”

Jim had not managed to miss that, thank you very much.

“I noticed,” he says dryly. The Knight huffs a painful-sounding laugh and falls silent.

There’s. There’s a lot Jim wants to say. The Knight was Robin, and Joker killed him (and made sure they all knew it, that tape, good God, he’d sent it to everyone and Jim remembers Dove bursting into tears when she tried to tell him), but he’s not dead now, and look at what he’s done.

Much as he’d like to demand answers--or at least bring half of that up--he won’t. He doubts the man with the laptop will react well; now that he really looks, the man’s tense, clearly poised to move if he has to.

Jim can probably take him. He absolutely can’t take the others that will come at the commotion.

There’s a small dinging sound, and silence, and then an urgent, “Sir. Sir.”

“Hrm?”

“We got something.”

The Knight blinks a few times before half-surging up and demanding, “Let’s go, let’s go, then, help me up--”

“Chair or Trent?”

“Neither--”

“Chair or Trent.”

“Chair,” he grumbles after a second. “But I can walk on my own--”

“Yeah, but if the doc sees you, he’ll be mad. Here it is.”

Jim moves, semi-prepared to offer to help but not really wanting to, but they must have a system, because the Knight’s in the chair with a blanket in short order.

“I feel like a cheap Bond villain,” he’s complaining now. “One that rolls down a ramp into an electrified pool or something.”

“Maybe next time, you’ll consider your life choices, sir.”

“They weren’t supposed to come back to haunt me!”

“I know, sir.”

“Christ...what do we have.”

Should he…? Sure, apparently.

What a day. He needs a drink. A good strong one.

“My understanding is it’s better seen than explained, sir. No body, I don’t think.”

“Fantastic...the bastard’ll survive anything.”

Jim privately thinks the same applies to him, but he doesn’t share that thought. He doubts it will go over well.

The computer room isn’t crammed full of people. There’s one guy on the monitors and another one-one of the ones from before, actually, the one with the cashews-lounging in a chair next to him, drinking a Coke.

“What’s going on, you said something turned up--” He doesn’t quite hide a shiver, but when the other people in the room zero in on him, he shakes his head and insists, “M’fine.”

“Boss, I can link this to a laptop if you’re s’posed to be in bed--”

“M’fine. Pull up the footage.”

“You’re not gonna like it,” monitor-guy says, spinning around and wheeling over to make room. “Looks like he got out, same as you.”

“Seriously?”

“Would I joke when it mattered, sir? Here, look. See this?” He makes the screen bigger. “That look familiar to you?”

It certainly looks familiar to Jim. Bruce’s cowl is difficult to mistake, and there it is, crumpled in the rubble. It’s singed, and one of the ears is broken, but it is Bruce’s cowl.

“Damn,” the Knight breathes, and...Jim doesn’t like admitting it, not after tonight, but...he looks so young. A scared little boy, that’s all. “That’s not good.”

“What do we do, sir?”

“We don’t even know for sure if he’s out.” The Knight’s friend leans over the chair to get a better look at the monitor. “Maybe he tried getting out and died, we don’t--”

“I made it out,” the Knight says quietly.

There’s a wave of annoyed grumbling that includes at least one, ‘self-sacrificing dumbass’ and a, ‘in spite of your best efforts’. Jim has to wonder about that one. He can’t muster up that much sympathy, but he does wonder.

The Knight just sighs and adjusts his blanket around his shoulders.

“Fair. Anyways, seeing as I found a way out, it’s not unlikely that he’s done the same, barring the. The possibility of an instant death. I suspect we wound up in a pocket, though, so.”

“You didn’t notice anything on your way out?” Jim demands. “Was he right with you?”

“I was--”

“Concussed and bleeding to death,” a new voice snaps. “And in no shape to be walking, let alone note-taking. What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

“Briefing the--”

“Literally anybody else can do that.” The angry voice belongs to the medic from before. “You don’t seem to understand what ‘flatline’ means, sir, or maybe you’ve just got a death wish, but tough fucking titty, said the kitty, you’re not dying on my watch. Say bye-bye to the commissioner, you’re going back to bed and staying there or on God, I’ll put you in a coma and keep you there until you don’t have so much as a bruise. Do I make myself clear?”

Jim expects argument. None of the Robins ever let Batman boss them around to that extent, and he knows damn well that if he’d backtalked his superiors like that, he’d be in, frankly, deep shit. But the Knight just sighs.

“He’s been here long enough, anyway.” Long enough for what? “Keep your men out of our way, Commissioner. No offense, but Batman existed for a reason. You can’t handle him.”

Jim bristles.

“Can’t handle--”

“You know it’s true,” he snaps, and straightens up, turns to the man with the cashews. “Call everyone back.” All of a sudden that’s no longer a little boy playing Soldiers. That’s the man that crippled Gotham within hours. “I want everyone off the streets and back at base, now. Do not engage under any circumstances.”

“Yessir.”

“Get into the street cameras,” he continues. “If a rat comes out of a sewer, I want to see it. I want whatever drones we have left out and searching, but leave the car alone. That hasn’t worked so far and I’m not losing more--”

He must breathe wrong, because he suddenly starts coughing, harsh, violent whoops from down in his chest.

“Get him back to bed,” the medic orders once the coughs cease. “Or he’ll be Snow White and believe you me, nobody is getting in here to kiss him awake.”

“Jones--”

“We can handle this, sir. We’ll let you know if something comes up.”

“But--”

“You trained us for this, remember? We’re professionals.”

The Knight falls silent, one hand still pressed against his ribs, and finally melts back into his chair.

“Fine,” he says at last. “Bye, commish.”

He doesn’t recognize the men that take him back. The streets are empty, though, barring the patrolling drones, and they make it back to the GCPD unscathed.

Unfortunately, Jim returns to, quite frankly, a disaster. The officers on duty are tied up, and the militia cells are empty. Not a man left. He’s just freeing Cash when the broadcast screen crackles and the Knight appears on it, face serious.

“I mean it, Commissioner,” he says. “Keep out of the way, or I’ll put you in a cell instead.”

“You--”

“Tell Bullock hey for me, would ya?” He leans forward. “Stay safe.”

Click.

THE END

*I’m figuring Bane is bigger than the Giant Mooks because his boss fight consists of you jumping on him to slash his Venom tubes AND because he can and will run you over, while Giant Mooks of any affiliation are not rideable and don’t run.

[levis-hazelnut]

Summary: when you and your best friend, Hanji, were younger, you had made up stories about your dream guys - what they would look like and how you would meet. What happens when the one you had made up appears to be real?

Warning(s): suggestions of sex. please do tell me if there are anymore.

Taglist (closed): @castellandiangelo @fandom-addict19​ @20coldhearts​

Status: completed

part 10 > part 11 > part 12 (final)

series masterlist

(a/n: sorry this is me just being thirsty for levi, it’s completely self indulgent and barely has a plot)

I think what I’m about to tell you right now is probably one of the biggest surprises.

So, you know how both of my relationships never lasted longer than five months? Well, my relationship with Levi has been going on for eleven months now. Almost a whole year. Which means I’ve been living in heaven for the past eleven months.

This man is just amazing in every way possible (but please don’t tell him I said this because he’s going to piss me off). He can pretend that he doesn’t care about anything all he wants because I know how much of a sweetheart he actually is, and I hate him for making me fall even more in love with him.

And another reason why I hate him is because--

That god awful sound of my ringtone screamed into my ear and I knew who it was, seeing as how there was only one person who would call me at eight a.m. on a Saturday.

With a few grumbled curses, I blindly reached for my phone and answered it, “What?”

“Good morning to you, too, darlin’.”

“For god’s sake, just tell me what you want. I’m trying to sleep.”

“I’d like for you to get your ass out of bed since our exam starts in less than twenty minutes.”

... Wasn’t it the weekend?

“... Excuse me? Exam? Since when?”

“Look at your calendar, please, you idiot.”

“I may or may not have put it into my calendar because I relied on you,” I muttered, jumping out of bed and scrambling to find some clothes before quickly brushing my teeth and trying to fix my bed head.

“Also, stop by at the café before you come. I want tea.”

“Are you fucking dumb? I’m not stopping to get you tea when I’ll already be late.”

“It’s on the way. It’ll only add a couple of minutes to your journey.”

“If I’m late, I swear I’m going to--”

“It won’t be my fault if you’re late. Thank you for getting me tea. Love you. Bye.”

He cut the phone before I could even reply and I rolled my eyes, slamming the apartment door behind me as I rushed down the stairs and made my way to the café to get Levi his precious tea since I’m such a loving girlfriend.

With a shrill ring of the bell above the door, my arrival was announced as I looked to the counter to see Eren talking to Levi, with a cup of tea in his hands.

I frowned, marching towards them to slap the back of the raven’s head.

“What the hell?” he spat, flicking my forehead in retaliation.

“What happened to getting you tea, so I can be late to the exam?”

“There is no exam, darlin’.”

“What do you mean? Why did you tell me that there was an exam? Why would you make me lose precious hours of sleep?”

“Seeing as how you don’t remember, I’ll remind you. Last night you asked me to help you study. For the exams. But I didn’t think you’d get out of bed for our study session.”

“Stop knowing me so well and let me sleep. Now, you have to buy me a cof--” I cut myself off when he presented a hot cup to me and the aroma of coffee wafted around my nose, calming me down after I took a sip. “Thank you, babe.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied before turning to the male with turquoise orbs. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“No problem. I also cleared a table in the corner for you guys, so that you wouldn’t get too distracted.”

“Aw, thank you, Eren,” I grinned. “Come on, let’s get this shit over with,” I huffed, dragging the raven towards the table, where we both sat down, and he took things out of his bag before tucking it under the table.

“What do you want to focus on?” he asked, and then glancing at me when I didn’t respond because I was too busy focusing on the black t-shirt he was wearing. Perfectly fitted around his arms, tight around his torso and pecs, exposing the ripples that I love to run my fingers over. And he was wearing a couple of silver rings on his hands, and I didn’t think he’d be able to look more attractive.

“... You,” I replied to his question with a smirk, causing him to roll his eyes.

“I will walk out of this café if you don’t stop staring at me like a freaking weirdo and if you don’t pay attention to what I’m saying.”

“But I’m tired,” I whined, facepalming the table.

“That’s not my fault.”

“I will fucking kill you, Levi. You were the one that decided to call me for five hours last night. And the one who thought it’d be a wonderful idea to wake me up at eight in the morning.”

“... Fine. We don’t have to start straight away,” he told me, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, causing his biceps to bulge even more.

“Don’t sit like that.”

“Why?” he questioned, raising a single brow.

“Because I’m sure you don’t want to get fucked in a café.”

“Why are you always so horny, you freak?”

“You’re asking me that question while looking like that?” I scoffed with the roll of my eyes. “The audacity.”

“Just drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

“I will. By the way, do we have to stay in here? Can we go to the library or somewhere quieter?”

“Why? So you can fuck me?”

“No, you idiot. I just won’t be able to concentrate with all these people.”

“But you’ll get too sleepy if it’s quiet.”

“True,” I mumbled. “Okay, then. Just give me like half an hour and I should be ready to study.”

“What am I going to do for thirty minutes?”

“Maybe talk to your girlfriend, smartass,” I retorted, laying my head on the table again, squishing my cheek against it. There was no response, so the only sounds were the chatter of customers, glass clinking, and air conditioning because of the sweltering weather. I glanced at my boyfriend, wondering why he was silent, only to find that he was gazing at me. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” was his reply, which was unusual, before he took a sip of his tea.

“What are you thinking about?”

“About how we ended up here. Together. In a relationship.”

A tender smile conquered my lips as I reached my hand out for his, interlocking our fingers. “Thank you, Levi. For loving me like no one else did. And no matter how much you get on my nerves, I’m always going to appreciate you being here for me.”

“I’m not good with this shit, so yeah, same thing goes to you,” he said awkwardly, causing me to laugh.

“Can’t believe it’s going to be our one-year anniversary in about two weeks.”

“Going to be a year since I entered hell.”

��Shut up,” I muttered, kicking his shin, despite knowing he was joking.

“... You know what, let’s just go,” the raven-haired male randomly stated, standing up and gently tugging on my hand as our fingers were still intertwined. To my one-word question of: “Where?” he replied, “I don’t know, but I don’t feel like it’s day that we should study. We have plenty of time for that, so let’s do something.”

My hues shone brightly as I grinned and gladly accepted his offer, getting out of my seat and grabbing my coffee as he packed his things away prior to leading me out of the stuffy building, bidding farewell to Eren.

“Let’s go to your place. We’ll make breakfast, have it on the balcony, and do whatever after.”

“'Kay, then. But can we slip in a nap after breakfast because I’m still tired?” I requested.

“Of course.”

So, we made way to mine and Hanji’s apartment, relieved that I didn’t have to study all day today and could simply relax with the raven. That fact made me smile a little as I unlocked the door to the apartment, stepping inside and kicking my shoes off as Levi did the same, following you to your bedroom.

“Ten minutes, please. Then, we begin our date,” I sighed, plopping down onto my bed and he made himself comfortable, shifting my head onto his lap. Then, his slender digits began to soothingly drift through my tresses that were completely tangled, so he had gently unknotted my hair to make it easier to run his fingers through it.

“Remind me to never wake you up this early on a weekend again.”

“I always tell you, asshole. And you never listen to me.”

“Well, I’ve finally learnt my lesson. So, hush.”

After my ten-minute rest, I went to splash my face with water to wake me up a little, while Levi was in the kitchen, preparing everything for breakfast, seeing as how the only thing he ate for breakfast was tea and toast, and I only had coffee.

“Hey, darlin’, what do you want to eat?”

“Mmm, maybe crepes... Let me help.”

So, in the next forty minutes, I ended up with flour on my face and clothes, while that idiot was just smirking at me, and I had slipped because there was water on the floor. And all of it was amusing to my boyfriend, who seemed to be in a great mood since he kept chuckling (not that I was complaining because it was a beautiful sound). The annoying thing, though, was that I was too irritated to mock him wearing my floral apron that made him lose his debonair flair.

“You’re an idiot with her own comedy show,” he teased.

“I don’t know if that is a compliment or not.”

“It isn’t. I’m calling you an idiot.”

“Shut up. You’re the reason I’m covered in flour.”

“Just go sit down and eat. I’ll clean everything up.”

“You better, you clean-freak,” I mumbled, doing as he said, taking a seat at the table on the balcony as he placed down the plates and mugs before sitting opposite me. The sun grinned down on him, giving him an ethereal appearance and making him even more gorgeous. 

There was idle chatter as we ate because I was too exhausted and agitated to carry a proper conversation that had too much information for my brain to register.

Once we were done, the raven stood up to take the dishes to the kitchen and wash them (husband material right there) as Hanji approached me with a yawn, rubbing the fatigue from her eyes.

“How come you’re awake so e-- Oh,” she said when she noticed Levi.

“Yeah, he made me get out of bed early for no reason,” I complained as I stood up to help him. “There’s leftover batter for crepes, by the way.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks. Also, why is there flour everywhere?”

“Because of that idiot.” I rolled my eyes.

“You’re the idiot, darlin’,” he called from the kitchen before appearing before us, shooting an annoying and teasing look my way, and shot him a glare in return.

 From someone else’s perspective that don’t know us, we’d probably look like we hate each other, when in reality, this was basically our love language - annoying each other and glaring.

“I will punch you, Ackerman. However, I need to clean up, so you’re lucky.”

“Not like you would’ve, anyway. And before you say anything else, just go shower.”

Once again, I rolled my eyes but left the room to do as he said, grabbing some clothes and a towel before going into the bathroom. Just as I was about to close the door, however, it opened slightly and Levi stepped inside, shutting and locking the door.

“What are you doing?” I inquired.

“I said I’ll clean everything up, didn’t I? That includes you,” he whispered with a smirk, leaning in to latch his lips onto mine, tugging at the hem of my shirt.

~/~

Soft kisses were pressed along my hairline and my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, down to my jaw and further down to my shoulders. Lips continued to migrate, travelling to my neck where there were soft nibbles and flicks of a tongue against the flesh of my neck.

My fingers were tangled in ebony locks, damp and fragrant from our recent shower, and my nails gently scratched against Levi’s scalp as I drifted my hand through his hair. His touches were light and almost careful, like he didn’t want to hurt me, even though his teeth contrasted that when he sunk his teeth into my skin a couple of times before kissing the spot he bit as a wordless apology.

We were simply lying down in my bed, relaxing in a comfortable silence. I laid on my back with my eyes lidded, while Levi laid on his side, resting his head on my chest as he continued to pepper my skin in soft kisses and gentle nips.

These would always be my favourite moments. Just moments filled with adoration, silent declarations of love, and serenity. No teasing, annoying, or glaring. No retorts, no eye rolling, no grumbles. Only warmth, tenderness, affection.

“Darlin’?” he uttered in a hushed voice, but when I didn’t respond, he lifted his head to gaze at me, finding that I had fallen asleep. His ashen hues were full of fondness, admiring my relaxed visage before he pecked my lips and assumed his original position - his head on my chest and an arm slung over my torso.

While I was asleep, he was on his phone, scrolling through social media, occasionally sighing because he was bored. But he wouldn’t wake me up because I deserved to sleep.

It wasn’t until about twelve o’clock when I woke up with Levi’s head still laying on my chest, however, his grey orbs were hidden. So, with little movement, I attempted to reach for my phone, only to find that his fingers were entangled with mine, which made me smile softly because I hadn’t been holding his hand before I fell asleep.

And when I pressed my lips against his knuckles, his eyes fluttered open to meet mine, and there was a smile shimmering in his beautiful eyes.

“Finally awake, sleepyhead,” he hummed placing a single kiss on my jaw.

“Mhm. Did you miss me?” I murmured, unhinging my jaw and letting out a yawn.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes, putting up an act to support his lie. “No.”

I giggled softly, kissing his forehead. “Whatever you say, babe. Anyway, what are we doing for the rest of the day?”

“I was thinking something outside because the weather’s nice.”

“Oh, I know! There’s a funfair at the park just ten minutes away. Let’s go there.”

“Sure. We’ll leave in about an hour?” he suggested, and I hummed in agreement, tugging my boyfriend closer so I could nuzzle my face into his chest before we got out of bed. “Then, we can come back later and make dinner together.”

“That sounds nice,” I said in a hushed voice, feeling sleep taking over me once again. However, Levi attempted to save me before I completely gave in.

“Don’t fall asleep.”

“Shhh.”

For the umpteenth time that day, the raven rolled his eyes but he couldn’t help the smile that edged onto his lips every time.

He doesn’t know what it was. But every time I would do or say something, even if it was the most stupid and idiotic thing he’s seen, he feels something warm flutter inside. And he realises how much he’s fallen for me, which has changed him. In a good way.

And all this time I thought I was a bad influence.

[shootybangbang]

[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ���em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.

[alkhale]

Crazy (Hausen/Reader) Ko-fi Request

Hi! Im back with a lot of commission for you. I looked at your old post to see the animes that you could know and surprised you have already seen Gangsta. So I would like to know if I can get an Doug x reader or Hausen x reader (or any character of your choice :)).

I love and miss Gangsta so much, hoping for more chapters and episode to eventual come ;-; Here you go!

(Crazy)

Fandom: Gangsta

Pairing: Hausen/Reader

His boots hit the floor in an even clack clack clack. The military issued steel resounding his foremost intent with thunderous arrival.

Several of the guild members glanced up, some half roused from an evening snooze, others just filing back in from a scouting mission or watch, all of them congregated in one of the main room areas. A few veterans watched the hard set of Hausen’s jaw, skittering off to stay out of the Twilight’s way. They quickly tugged wooden chairs back, sneaking off behind tables and ducking down to the counters. Others glanced to the rugged, muscled outline of his shoulders and back and glanced to each other, whispering guesses on who’d be on the receiving end of his obvious malintent.

“Someone really messed up today, didn’t they?”

“Aw, who fucked up?”

“‘s not me man! I ain’t even on schedule.”

One man shouldered his partner, motioning roughly with his chin. The others all looked, stopping at the sight of the crumpled, brightly colored object in Hausen’s left hand.

The dirty blonde ignored the chatter, camo jacket tied snug around the set of his waist. Hausen swept icy blue eyes once across the room, squinting as though in search of something before he scowled, continuing onwards.

The guild members winced when he kicked the door clean open, stepping into the hallway. It slammed shut behind him.

“Aw, shit.”

“Yeesh.”

“Everyone stand clear, this one’s gonna get messy.”

A few bills were tossed into the center of the table. Heads turned, glancing over.

“Sir’s gonna beat their asses.”

“Naw, Ginger’s gonna stop ‘em before anythin’ happens.”

“They break up!”

“Bet!”

Hausen dragged a hand down his face, lips pulled down into a half-irritated scowl at the words flinging from the door. I can hear you, you dumbasses. He’d have them running laps or cleaning out the temporary Twilight housing facilities later.

Hausen had more important business to see to.

He gripped the object in his hand with renewed vigor, storming his way down the hall with purpose. His military Twilight tags clanked around his neck, clinking together alongside with one that didn’t match his own set. A few rungs of doors were open on the way down to the medical wing, Arthur and Lancelot peeking their heads out from where they’d been fooling around in a slumbering Gawain’s room.

“Hey, Hausen!” Arthur greeted cheerfully. Hausen offered him a quick wave. Lancelot peeked out from right beneath his friend, fixing his goggles. 

“Who’re the flowers for?”

Hausen’s scowl deepened. In his hand was a crumpled bouquet, the pretty pink paper wrapping crinkling under the force of his grip. The stems inside threatened to snap, wheezing at the onslaught while the bright, full sunflowers bobbed unsteadily.

A vein throbbed against the side of Hausen’s head. Arthur pressed a hand down over Lancelot’s head, ponytail bobbing. “Did you hear? (Y/n)’s back—”

Both Arthur and Lancelot stopped, blinking at Hausen’s almost constipated expression.

Gawain snorted from his bunk bed, arms tucked under the soft tufts of his pinkish hair. He kept his eyes closed, legs kicked over the restboard.

“I,” Hausen grunted. “Heard.”

He nodded gruffly to them, marching down the hall, dog tags swaying. Arthur and Lancelot blinked once at his back, blinking again when they looked at each other.

“What’s got him in such a bad move?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Gawain yawned. “Go take a nap or something.”

“Gawain, you’re always sleeping.”

Hausen finally drew his boots to a rough halt just before the medical wing’s doors. There was a bit of chatter on the other side, a few of the Twilights on shift working to organize or help out anyone still injured. Hausen waited a minute longer, fingers rolling over the top of the rusted brass knob. The flowers sagged at his side, no longer brimming with the usual energy sunflowers were supposed to.

Hausen rubbed the back of his head, ruffling the short cropped tufts of blonde hair with an aggravated sigh. Did you have to make things so difficult? 

He heard your soft voice, muffled through the door. Hausen heaved a rough sigh, masking it as a grunt as he pushed the door open, hefting the flowers over his shoulder.

The door opened with a little more noise than necessary to announce his arrival. A few of the guild members glanced up, blinking at first in surprise before their expressions dawned in understanding. They became pale, sweat rolling down the sides of their cheeks as they looked first to Hausen’s hulking frame in the door and then quickly to you.

Hausen only had eyes for you.

You were sitting up in the dingy medical bed, another Twilight sitting in the chair beside you with a medical chart. Your hair was pulled back, revealing the scarred, toned column of your neck to Hausen. Patches of open skin between the mottled scars he’d leave trails of kisses and lingering bites when you were a little more willing than usual.

You had a knee propped up onto the bed, the other dangling, wrapped up thickly in a cast. Fractured. He’d already heard the news. Mounds of bandages were wrapped up your arms, a hefty patch of gauze peeking from under the loose white t-shirt you’d shrugged on to hide the brunt of the beating you took from the last mission call. Another set of bandages were patched over your cheek, making you look a little ridiculous.

Dog tags dangled from the thin chain around your neck. Your own Twilight markings coupled with a tag that didn’t match the other one.

Hausen gripped the flowers. The stems snapped inside the paper wrapping.

He waited for you to make the first move, watching in growingly irritated silence as you dully glanced up, expression neutral. You took in his entire appearance, black tank top and camo attire and crumpled flowers, expression never once wavering.

You snorted, looking back down.

Hausen felt a vein pop.

“We’re just gonna,” one guild member started, gesturing vaguely to the door. Hausen stepped aside, nodding. “Go now. Yeah, we’re gonna go now.”

They scrambled out of the room, leaving the two of you to your own privacy.

Hausen flexed his fingers, curling them tightly into a fist before he cocked his head back. He set a hand down on his hip, fixing you with all the you-better-start-talking-right-now he could muster.

You said nothing, browsing through a crumpled magazine in your lap.

“What the hell is your problem?” Hausen exclaimed, throwing his hands and the flowers into the air. You rolled your eyes. “Why are you like this? You’re always like this! Ya like bein’ difficult? You drive me nuts!”

You flipped a page.

“I told you not to take that hire,” Hausen started, pacing around the room as he shook his finger. His heavy steps made the table shake and you kicked your good foot out to stop the empty vase from toppling over. “I told you. But do you listen? No. You never listen. I said don’t do it!”

You said nothing, flipping another page.

“I rank fucking higher than you but you don’t even care!” Hausen snapped. “What’s the point of bein’ your superior if I don’t even get any respect?”

“You,” you said finally. Your hoarse voice was music to his ears, tearing Hausen up over whether he should just take you up in your arms and spend the time doing something else instead of giving you the tongue lashing he’d been rehearsing this whole time. “Told me not to go as Hausen. Not as my superior.”

Hausen went rigid, setting his jaw. You flashed him a defiant look. “‘s that wrong?”

“That’s not the point.”

“‘s totally the point,” you muttered. “Paulkee said it was mine if I wanted it. I wanted it.”

“Then you should’ve asked me to come with you.”

“Ya got other stuff to do,” you said. “And I managed.”

“You look like they threw you through a fucking roof.”

“‘s a balcony, but close enough.”

Hausen growled. You rolled your eyes, turning to face him, expression neutral despite his rippling frustration. You were used to this after all. For all his bravado and cool when it came down to it, Hausen was always the kind of guy to get worked up over the things that needed it less.

Cause he’s a good guy. 

“Going anyway without telling me was one thing,” Hausen said, marching right over to you. The sunflowers bobbed and you shot them a pitiful look. “Ya spit on my boots with that one. But comin’ back and not saying a thing? Ya might as well punch me in the face! What’re you trying to say?”

Hausen stopped, flashing you a dangerous look. He narrowed his eyes, pointing a rigid finger at you. “If this is your own dumbass idea of trying to leave me hanging—”

“Ya sayin’ I can’t break up with ya if I wanted to?”

“You bet your fucking ass I am.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m tired,” you said flatly. “I didn’t want to hear you yell at me like ya are now.”

Hausen made choking motions for your throat. You leaned back, gingerly adjusting your casted foot. “Why do I even put up with you? Sir’s got a better chance of kicking your fucking ass than I do!”

“‘s somethin’ only you can answer,” you said nimbly. Hausen threw his hands back into his hair. You watched him, eyes traveling all over, checking for new wounds, for new scars. When you found none you let your shoulders rest, feeling the fatigue come crawling back.

“Took that stupid mission, never listen to me when I got something to say, dumbass always doing whatever the hell ya want and—”

“I missed ya.”

Hausen stopped. His jaw worked, entire body shifting as he swung his head back to you. Your face was soft, eyes sleepy as you looked up at him. Your taped fingers lightly thumbed your tags, pinching the one that wasn’t yours.

The one that matched with his other missing one, coupled next to your own swinging round his neck.

Hausen narrowed his eyes, watching you suspiciously. His eyes darted once to your fingers, watching you play with the tags.

You could see the moment you’d won him again. The moment he went a little soft, a little proud of his name swinging against the metal next to yours. A shitty, simple little thing that couldn’t compare to what people better off could have for each other—but for you at least, you’d want nothing else.

Hausen really was too good for you. 

“Missed you,” you said again, looking up at him. You opened your arms, the single invitation. Hausen went stiff. “Lots. ‘m sorry.”

A low, tight, aggravated sigh was exhaled through his nose. Hausen rubbed his temples once, shaking his head as though to berate himself before he tossed the poor, crumpled flowers off the side. They smashed into the empty vase, nearly knocking it over as he marched right over to you. 

Your lips already started to turn up into a grin, knowing one of the strongest Twilight’s of the Paulkee Guild was still too good of a man to stay mad when all he wanted was—

Hausen’s body fell over yours in an instant. He gingerly lifted your injured leg, long, calloused fingers moving against your thigh with ease and setting it up behind him onto one of the chairs. He came forward, one arm moving around your waist, holding you there and holding you tight as he surged forward to claim your lips, his other hand coming around and cradling the back of your neck to hold you steady so you wouldn’t try anything funny.

“I don’t even know why I put up with you,” he breathed against your lips, warm and firm and here, here, here right against you. You closed your eyes, fingers dancing over his arms before he grunted and you slid them around his neck. “You drive me nuts.”

“You’re the one who came for me,” you said. Hausen grunted again. Your lips quirked. “You’re too good for me, Hau. You outta run before I ruin you.”

“Yeah,” Hausen said, low, voice thick. He pressed you back into the creaky, cheap medical med, the familiar smells of this place you called home and this man you let hold you, over anyone or anything else in this shitty world. Hausen smoothed his fingers down your cheek, drinking in every last piece of you. “I really should.”

His dog tags clinked against yours, resting over your collarbone as they slid together. 

You simply smiled, shaking your head in pity for the poor Twilight as he slotted his lips over yours, working with all his energy and muscles to snatch your breath away and remind you why you should do nothing else but stay beside him too, remind you why there should be no one else but him for you, the way you were the only one for him.

The way it should be, for as long as you two had in this shitty world.

(Hope you enjoyed! Thank you for your support!)

[weakzen]

No Take Backs

Her offer affords him some fun advantages, Mason supposes.

pairing: female detective/mason rating: m series: part 1 of 7

AO3 version

also submitted for @otomefandomevents​ wayhaven week 2020 ♥ day 1 – dawn/dusk

Mason leans over the walkway railing and takes a long drag from his third cigarette.

He closes his eyes and focuses on the familiar and all-too-brief sting that burns down his throat and explodes across his lungs. Smoke chokes him with overpowering and comforting acridness, blanketing his face in soft heat when he finally exhales.

But it's still not enough to cover the sickly sweetness of fresh-cut grass blasting through the air to coat his tongue.

Or to shield him from the scorching light melting his clothes into his skin. Or muffle the unrelenting, jumbled blare of air conditioners, lawnmowers, TVs, radios, and every other goddamned electronic object in the vicinity.

A piercing shriek from one of the kids playing nearby stabs into his ear and he flinches slightly.

Or that too.

Mason groans as a headache begins to rumble at his temples. He sucks down another long, deep drag and steadies himself against it the best he can. The fatigue makes it difficult. Annoyingly more difficult. Exhaustion weighs on him, subtle yet heavy, trapping his mind and his every little movement beneath a sense of sluggishness.

Though—at least it's starting to lessen somewhat, now that the sun is finally fucking setting.

He ashes his cigarette over the balcony with a flick of his thumb.

And at least it's not as boiling hot as it was earlier, he supposes. And summer's almost over, too.

Thank fuck.

But it'd be better if that storm would finally roll in to cool everything off.

He squints up at the cloudless and faintly hazy sky. Far above the town, the wind continues to whip in from the west. And every time it shifts to slice closer to the ground, he catches the scent of rain.

Sure is taking its fucking time getting here, though.

With a final drag, Mason pushes off the railing to crush his cigarette into the ashtray she'd placed on the windowsill by her door. The one she insisted he use if he 'absolutely had to smoke here.' The one that she grinned over, then told him he needed to stop being a butthead, right before she snorted herself into a cackle at her own stupid pun while he stared at her and wondered why exactly he found her so attractive.

Shaking his head at the memory, Mason lights another cigarette and resumes his perch.

As he waits, the sun slinks closer to the trees. The kids scream endlessly. His headache builds and his cigarette burns shorter.

Obnoxious cawing bursts from somewhere behind the apartments too, joining the rest of the noise crushing in around him. Probably those birds she's always feeding.

Mason rolls his eyes and huffs out another cloud of smoke.

His eyes scan over to the parking lot, to that gleaming silver shitheap of hers, the low sun highlighting every scratch and painting every pockmarked dent in deep shadow.

Where the hell was she, anyway?

Frowning slightly, he glances back at her building, to the grassy courtyard below, the cracked sidewalk, the concrete stairs leading up to the second story, the chipped white railings that bend along the exterior walkways in front of a wall of red brick and a row of doors and windows. His gaze slows as it passes one window in particular.

That nosy fucker is watching him again through a slit in the blinds. He glares hard and directly into the eyes widening behind the glass.

The gap immediately snaps shut.

Mason chuckles a little as the fucker's heartbeat spikes.

Then his chuckle breaks into a loud laugh when he hears the panicked sound of a body crashing into a table.

He takes another drag on his cigarette, smirking as he shakes his head.

But… his amusement doesn't last. And when it finally fades, it just leaves him with a scowl and even more irritation than he felt before.

Where the fuck was she?

…And why was he even waiting for her?

If she couldn't be bothered to show up on time, then fuck it. Her loss. He isn't sticking around. Mason grabs his jacket from the railing, whips it over his shoulder, and strides toward the stairs.

He makes it halfway down them before the realization slams into him that something might have happened to her.

That could explain why she's late today.

His hand snaps out to catch the railing, jerking his movement to a sudden halt at the bottom of the steps. Annoyance twists uncomfortably in his chest, drawing his brow into a furrow when it briefly claws up into his throat.

And if something did happen to her, then it would be entirely on him.

Adam would never let him hear the end of it, just stern glares and disappointed frowns forever—and Mason doesn't even want to think about what Agent Black would do.

And… he doesn't want anything to happen to her, either.

She is one of them after all.

Annoyance still coiling inside him, Mason exhales deeply and almost flicks his cigarette away into the grass.

Then he groans even more deeply and runs back up the stairs to smash it into the ashtray before he takes off.

–o–

He traces her usual route home back to the station, but only finds the night shift volunteer at their desk and Officer Bobblehead in front of the copy machine, singing to herself while she dances to the rhythm of spewing paper.

Scoffing in disgust, he tries the Square next, staying only long enough to guarantee she isn't there before he immediately veers away from the nauseating confection, greasy food, and overwhelming wave of people. He lands at her boxing club after, where there's nothing but stale sweat, grunts, and the echoing cracks of fists hitting bags.

And when he sends her a text to ask where the hell she is, he receives no response.

Mason frowns heavily, annoyance clawing at his throat again as he runs his hand through his hair.

Then he pushes out of town, into the woods, up to the trail that she likes to run by the lake.

Branches whip by him in a blur of green. His feet trample ferns and bounce off moss-covered logs. The rich aroma of damp earth and organic decay invades his lungs as he opens his senses fully to the rustle of every leaf, animal, and insect. The forest howls with life, tearing into him with such a vicious, primal resonance that his body trembles beneath the sheer force of it.

But he pushes on. He cuts through the roar with focus sharpened for one thing only.

Until he finally catches it at the very edge of his hearing, soft and quiet beneath the screaming.

A familiar heartbeat that makes his own jolt in recognition.

Immediately, he turns and streaks toward it. It's calmer than its usual tense tempo, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything good.

He spurs on faster.

Blazing through gaps in the timber and sunken banks of mist.

Over tangled deadfall, slick boulders, and the wide creek he clears easily in a single bound.

Light begins to flicker between the trees. And Mason bursts through the edge of the forest, his momentum carrying him forward—but something even stronger slamming him back, forcing him to skid to a halt, one hand scraping a long trail through the dirt behind him.

Sunset bathes the lake in brilliant red as thousands of sparkles glitter across the water. A felled tree rests on the shore, its trunk worn smooth by time. And in the middle of it, she sits with her back to him, her arms spread out to her sides while her hair ignites like a flame in the light.

Something catches in his throat then.

Smoke, maybe. From that fire up north.

He clears it away and pushes himself up, wiping his hand on his pants. Then he folds his arms, a slow smile spreading across his face.

If there's one good thing about summer at-fucking-all, it's the sleeveless shirts and cropped tops.

His eyes draw over the muscled slope of her bare shoulders and arms, down the curve of her side, briefly dipping into the band of exposed skin above her jeans before sliding back out and around the swell of her ass, only to repeat the journey up the other side. Her hat ruins the effect somewhat, a big black circle silhouetted atop her head that blocks part of his view.

But, all in all…

Mason bites his lip. The image is almost enough to make him forget about how goddamn annoyed she's made him.

Almost.

He kicks a branch out of his way and strides towards her.

“Finally,” he barks out as he nears. “Could've let me know you were gonna be late tonight. Or texted me back.”

She gives him a lazy glance from over her shoulder, followed by an even lazier smile. Oversized sunglasses conceal her eyes.

“Turned my phone off,” she replies, then shrugs slightly. “And I didn't realize we were meeting, sunshine.”

Mason scoffs and stalks across the shifting jumble of rocks and splintered wood that pass for a beach. He tosses his jacket down and plops onto the log beside her, facing the other direction.

“Yeah, not like I don't come over every night to tuck you in when it's my turn to babysit,” he says, glaring at her from over his shoulder. “Some of us have a schedule to keep, sweetheart. Try to be a little more considerate.”

She only laughs, her head falling back with the motion while her tits bounce enticingly. Mason presses his lips together as he watches, his irritation crumbling away.

Just a bit.

“Oh, of course. I'm so sorry,” she says a moment later, her voice even huskier than normal with amusement. She rolls her head to the side to glance at him again, her smile broadening as she tugs her sunglasses down slightly, just enough to meet his eye. “I completely forgot all that smoking and brooding aren't gonna take care of themselves. Next time, I'll be sure to send a text.”

He rolls his eyes and scoffs again, turning away as his own smile pulls at the corner of his lips. “Apology accepted.”

She chuckles and bumps her shoulder into his.

As she pulls away, he follows, spreading his arms out behind himself too, until their shoulders press faintly together and his hand nearly touches her thigh. Heat rolls off her body—and excitement too, a skittering little thrill that prickles electrically across his skin to bury itself in his stomach. She gives no outward indication of it though, other than the smallest hitch in her breath and the gentle sigh that escapes her lips.

Mason smirks slowly, temptation urging him to lean even closer and draw his finger up her leg to put a deeper crack in that facade, but…

He finds himself more content to just leave her undisturbed, to let her keep relaxing into the moment.

…And to enjoy it himself.

Cool moisture drifts off the water behind him, but it flows over his back pleasantly, softened by the sunlight and her warmth. A lazy breeze presses through the air, brushing against his cheeks and ruffling his hair. He briefly catches the tang of rain on it again, before it disappears beneath her scent and the pines and the distant smoke of wildfires.

The forest rustles around them, and his gaze passes over it appreciatively before ambling up the mountains that cradle the lake. The craggy, purple behemoths tower into the sky above, their snow-capped peaks bathed molten orange in the sunset.

He closes his eyes to a vision of their afterimage.

Waves lap against the shore. Birdsong slows in the trees. Her heart beats in a steady, soothing rhythm with her breath.

And that's all he hears.

Even at the very edge of his senses, he can't detect any other people.

He sags slightly as tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying uncoils from around him.

For a long moment, there's just… peace.

And the world isn't scraping him raw.

–o–

He doesn't open his eyes again until some time later.

When she shivers against him and the pink glow of twilight surrounds them both, the first smattering of stars visible overhead.

Mason leans over to let his breath tickle hot along her neck. “Need me to warm you up?” he asks, teasing his lips against her ear.

Another shiver ripples across her body, and she turns to smirk at him.

“Eventually.”

She looks at him for a moment longer, her smirk softening into a quiet little smile, but he can't see anything more of it behind the sunglasses.

“Should probably get home before it gets too dark,” she adds, pushing up from the log.

He grunts in reluctant agreement.

As she stands, she raises her arms above her head to stretch, her joints cracking from the effort. His eyes follow her movement, roaming appreciatively once more along the lean lines of her body, slowly tracing around her familiar curves as he bites his lip. She picks up her ratty denim jacket from where she was sitting on it, shakes it out a few times, and slips it on.

Mason almost groans.

Then she slings her backpack over her shoulder and glances down at him. With a sigh, he pushes himself up to put on his own jacket and join her.

They walk alongside each other in silence, rocks crunching beneath their feet as they follow the dusty, packed trail that hugs the curve of the lake. Frogs croak from the water, joined by the chirp of crickets and the sharp chittering of bats overhead. A sliver of moon hangs in the darkening sky with them, while the air rapidly begins to cool below.

She pulls her jacket tighter and folds her arms.

Without looking, he lazily throws his arm over her shoulder and tugs her closer. A moment later, her arm circles around his waist, her hand slipping beneath his jacket to curl hot against his side.

His lips quirk in a faint smile as she shifts into him, her body heat bleeding through his clothes and into his skin. Her touch always pleases him, of course, but right now he's more grateful for the shared warmth.

Already, the cold slices him deeper. Sounds grow louder. His vision stretches further, into even sharper detail, while his limbs glide with powerful fluidity. And within it all, he feels far more alert and awake than he has all day, his body thrumming as nightfall gradually returns his strength and draws his senses to a heightened pitch.

…Which only makes it even worse when they finally reach the fork in the trail that breaks away towards the trees.

The little wooded path that cuts back into town.

A frown catches on Mason's lips. At least her apartment isn't far from there.

They turn to take it, eventually emerging onto an empty, dead end street.

The springy dirt of the forest floor blends into a blanket of windblown pine needles before yielding to crumbling asphalt that makes their footsteps snap echoes against the buildings. Electricity crackles in the power lines above, surging down to spool in the streetlights with a shrill whine, readying them to spill their ugly orange light everywhere. In the distance, dogs bark, children shriek, sprinklers sputter and hiss, and the din of heartbeats pound against each other, rising in volume, tangling around the tinny blare of electronics, fragmented conversations, grating laughter, shouting, arguments, screeching music and more abrasive noise than he can clearly identify until it all becomes a jagged and overwhelming roar that tears into him painfully.

Mason inhales and tenses against it reflexively, his jaw tightening—

But then Alex shifts closer into him, stroking his side with her hand briefly before giving him a soft squeeze, and all of it just… fades away.

Disappears beneath her touch and her quiet presence and her calming heartbeat.

His brow furrows deeply as something swells in his chest. Something strange and light and somewhat uncomfortable, if only because of its sudden appearance and unfamiliarity, but... it's not entirely unpleasant.

It's not unpleasant at all.

Frowning, Mason drags his hand back through his hair and exhales a quiet sigh.

The weird sensation lingers for a while, floating gently inside him as he uneasily enjoys it—until she suddenly turns sharply, and he nearly stumbles to keep in step with her. Annoyance jolts through him, a reprimand snapping hot and immediate to his tongue, but… then he realizes they've only arrived at her building.

And all she's done is lead them up the walkway toward it.

He frowns, his irritation fading as he blows out a breath.

Then his frown pulls even harder as she disentangles from him.

She shifts her backpack around to unzip the front pouch. And as she does, a black shape swoops down from the trees to land on the wire that stretches between the apartment and the utility poles.

The crow caws down at her.

She chuckles and holds her hands up, fingers extended and empty. “Don't have anything for you right now, bud.”

It caws obnoxiously a few more times, seeming to understand. Then it flies away with a piercing screech and an annoyed flap of wings.

Chuckling again, she shakes her head and pulls out her key ring. “Yeah, you're welcome, you little bastard.”

“Why the hell do you feed those things anyway?” he asks, glancing at her from the corner of his eye as they continue up the sidewalk.

She shrugs. “Because they're smart and a little ridiculous? I dunno, they're fun to watch. I like them,” she says, then purses her lips. “Except for when they're cawing right outside my bedroom window at five in the morning, but… well, even that's a little funny too.”

His lip curls. “Ugh, if you say so.”

They head up the stairs to her door. She stops outside of it for a moment, then turns around to face him.

“You know… I do have something for you, though.”

Mason immediately smirks.

“Yeah? I have something for you too, sweetheart.” He slides his hands over her hips, thumbs brushing over her bare skin, before he hooks his fingers into her belt loops and tugs her closer. “You want it in there—” he asks, his voice rumbling low as he skims his lips along the length of her neck to press a few quick kisses to her mouth “—or out here?”

Her heart beats faster as her lips move to keep kissing him, but then she just smiles against his mouth and breathes out a quiet little chuckle. “Probably in there,” she says, resting her hand on his arm, “but… let's take care of my thing first.”

He shrugs and gives her a parting kiss before he leans away, letting his fingers flick free of her belt loops. “If that's what you want.”

She glances at him for a moment longer, then inhales deeply and shifts her bag around to unzip the front pouch again. Her hand slips inside and returns with an unexpected object that she holds up between two fingers.

He raises an eyebrow.

“A key?”

“Yep.”

“To what?”

“My apartment.”

Mason tenses slightly, shifting his weight.

“Why the hell would I want that?”

“So you can let yourself in.”

He scoffs and glances away, running his hand back through his hair. “I don't need a key to do that, sweetheart.”

“Probably not,” she agrees, and he can hear the faint grin in her tone, “but it would help me out if you did. You're scaring the shit out of the neighbors with all of your skulking and your scowling and your glaring and your general… you-ness.”

A laugh bursts from him and he glances back to her. “I don't see how that's a problem.”

“Well, maybe not for you, but some of us still have to live here.” She huffs a stray hair out of her face and leans against the door, resting her foot against it too as she lets her bag slide to the ground. Then she folds her arms. “You know, I still can't believe no one has complained to the landlady about all of the smoking… and the noise.”

He smirks and chuckles again. “Sounds like I should keep scaring them so they don't.”

She cocks her head and fixes him with a look that not even her sunglasses can hide. His smirk widens.

“I like this building. I don't want to move. And I'm tired of you banging on the door every time it's locked until I come and answer.”

Mason angles himself towards her, licking his lips as he brings his arm up to rest on the door above her head. “Yet you still let me in every, single, time,” he drawls, his voice low and teasing as he grins at her.

She stares up at him. “Do it again and I won't.”

The telltale combination of reactions ping loudly and immediately against him—the nearly imperceptible crack in her voice, the subtle shift of tension in her stance, the faint and brief spike of her pulse.

He leans down toward her, his grin sharpening. She inhales slightly as he approaches, but holds her ground and his gaze. Pressing his face in close, he teases his lips up her neck again, to her ear, her head tilting to the side to allow it.

“You should know better than to lie to me of all people, sweetheart,” he whispers against her, his words brushing hot across her skin.

She inhales again, more sharply this time, as a shiver ripples down her body. Heat prickles across her face quickly after, and he lingers for a moment to savor it before pulling away to enjoy the view of her flushed cheeks.

“Yeah, well…” she begins, then huffs in that usual way she does whenever she rolls her eyes. “If I didn't answer, then you'd probably just creep around behind the building and start pounding on my bedroom window instead.”

“Probably,” he agrees. “That does sound like more fun, now that you mention it. Less of a walk for both of us, too.”

She groans a loud noise of exasperation, but the smile playing at the corner of her mouth undercuts it slightly.

Then, with a shake of her head, she pushes away from the door and holds the key up to him by the tip.  

“Well—do you want it or not, sunshine?”

They stare at each other for a moment. But even with his vision, the only thing Mason can see clearly on her face is the faint movement of her eyelashes brushing against the twin reflections of him and the hand she's extending towards him.

He glances down at the key, and back up to her face.

“I don't need it.”

Her breathing stills for a moment and her lips press together slightly. Something rolls quietly through her chest to bump something uncomfortable into his.

But she inhales deeply and it's gone.

Then she simply shrugs.

“Okay,” she says, her voice unusually flat. And she slips the key into the front pocket of her jeans.

Alex turns away from him—

But his hands snap out to spin her back toward him.

Then they're pushing her hat from her head and her sunglasses up into her hair and curling around the back of her neck and her waist as he leans in to kiss her hard.

His mouth muffles the sound of her surprise, but not the way it reverberates against his skin—and not the heated rush of arousal that quickly follows as she kisses him back.

A moment later, her arms loop around his neck and he yanks her tighter against himself in response. He deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth while his fingers tangle into the soft hair at the nape of her neck. Her arms circle him tighter, squeezing, as she presses into him fully, standing up on the tips of her toes to reach him better, and he slides his palm across her lower back and down to her ass, where he squeezes too, lifting her slightly in encouragement.

She moans into his mouth—and he can't help but do the same in return as her desire crashes into his electrically and bursts pleasure across his body.

Fuck, he wants her.

Mason pushes her against the door, her tits crushing to his chest, his cock grinding into her hips, and he presses his thigh between hers, dragging it upward to the sound of her gasping moan. He captures her lips again immediately, unrelenting, and kisses her deeply while he glides his hand over her bare stomach, across the hot and silky expanse of her skin, before he teases his fingers down the front of her pants.

He slides them in past her jeans, past the band of her underwear, until his fingertips and knuckles brush into soft, warm hair and press on a little further still. She sucks in a breath, her stomach rolling exquisitely beneath his touch as her hips rock forward to match it, grinding pleasure from his leg. He smiles against her mouth briefly before kissing her again, rolling his hips in time with her movement while his thumb dances circles around the button on her jeans. He lets her anticipation spiral with it, winding it tighter inside of her until she's ready to spring.

And when she is, he clutches the front of her jeans and pulls them up into her instead.

She arches against him, a moan tearing from her lips, her pleasure crackling white-hot between them and surging straight into his cock.

He inhales deeply in excitement, breathing hard against her lips, anticipation making his own limbs tremble faintly—but despite it, despite the alluring scent of her arousal on his tongue and how much he wants to stay, how much he fucking wants to push his fingers down even further and slide them back up inside of her, he forces them out of her pants instead, to leave her even more wanting. He teases them away across her waistband as she shakes with breathy, groaning laughter against him.

And then he clenches them hard around her hip when she catches his lip between her teeth and nips down

Pain and pleasure singe fire across his body, burning free a guttural snarl that rips past his own teeth. He smirks sharply against her.

Then goes for the throat.

To that spot of hers they both enjoy so much.

As he moves his mouth mercilessly against her, as she moans and shudders beneath his teeth, as they grind together, her pleasure arcing into him on waves that amplify his own throbbing need, his fingers play against her stomach, teasing along her waistband once more.

Then he carefully slides two of them into her pocket.

And pulls out the key.

Mason doesn't understand why.

But he knows immediately what to do next.

He glides his hand down from her hair, his palm pressed flat and wide, fingers trailing over the bumps of her spine, past her thrumming heartbeat, dipping in to the curve of her back before finally settling on her ass. Once there, he grabs her again, groaning as he squeezes a firm handful of her, partially for pleasure, but mostly to shift her weight as he urges her hips forward. Chills ripple across her body as he continues kissing her neck, grazing her with his teeth, dragging his tongue across her pounding pulse and the intoxicating taste of her skin, until her nipples harden and dig into his chest wonderfully, and her fingers claw into his shoulders, and her thighs clench around his, and she moans so deeply into his ear that he knows she's focusing on nothing but him and the pleasure he's giving her in the moment.

Then—in one quick motion—he slips the key into the lock, turns it, and throws the door open.

A gasp tears from her lips as she falls backwards.

Her pulse spikes, surprise flashing with it as her hands scramble at his shoulders to keep hold. Her foot kicks up off the ground as she plummets, her body almost parallel to the floor before he snaps forward in a flash and whips his arms around her to catch her.

She stares up into his eyes as she jerks to a halt, gaze wide, cheeks flushed, arms clinging to him desperation while she breathes heavily and her heartbeat thunders against his chest.

He just smiles.

And holds her there for a long, enjoyable moment, taking in the stunning view of her knocked off balance in more than one way.

Then he pulls her back upright and against him.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, her hands sliding downward from around his neck to rest on his chest—right before her eyes suddenly snap to the door. He chuckles slightly, and reaches around her to tug the key from the lock, her gaze following his movement closely as he holds it up in front of her between two fingers.

“I guess it could come in handy for some things,” he says, smirking.

She raises an eyebrow and huffs a loose hair out of her face. “Guess so.”

Mason slips the key into the front pocket of his jeans.

Her eyebrow shoots up even further.

Still smirking, he bends to grab her things from the ground, then flings that hat of hers over the top of her head into the living room like a frisbee. She watches it fly by and immediately gives him a look that only makes him chuckle in response.

When he swings her backpack behind himself like he's about to do the same, she sighs deeply.

Then she grabs him by the front of his pants and yanks him inside.

Mason slams the door shut behind them, grinning widely as he tosses her bag away with a heavy thunk and presses himself against her again. Her jacket quickly follows the bag, and he groans appreciatively as he runs his hands over the soft and bare skin of her arms and sides. He grabs her waist, squeezing her slightly as he leans down to start kissing her again—but she only lets their lips brush together before she weaves her head away to fix him with another look, raising a pointed finger between them.

“One rule,” she says, pushing her fingertip firmly up against the bottom of his chin. “You better not smoke in here.”

He smirks and pulls her finger away.

“Can't make any promises, sweetheart.”

Her eyes narrow with dangerous intent—but a gleam of playfulness flickers in them too.

“Then give it back, asshole.”

“Make me,” he replies, his smirk slowly widening. “If you think you can.”

They stare at each other for a moment, amusement twitching at the corner of her mouth as tension builds between them.

“But I have some doubts about your capability,” he adds.

Her heartbeat spikes as her eyes flash wonderfully.

Then her hand whips toward his pocket, but he catches it and spins her around instead. He pins her wrists together against her stomach with one hand as he hooks his chin over her shoulder and holds her body tightly against his.

“Nope,” he growls into her ear, bending them both forward so he can grind his cock against her ass. “It's mine now.”

A frustrated noise rumbles low from her chest, vibrating into his. He chuckles deeply and starts kissing down her neck.

“Fuck you, sunshine,” she says, hissing her words through a laugh as she tilts her head to encourage him. “Give it back.”

“No,” he replies, smiling briefly against her before continuing his kisses. As he does, he roams his free hand down the front of her body, stopping along the way to grope her tits before moving onward to pry her fingers from around her keys. He tosses them away with a jangling clink. “And don't worry—” he murmurs, his voice dipping into a low and rich tone as he slides his hand down to cup the heat between her legs “—you'll be fucking me soon enough.”

Mason rolls his palm against her firmly, excitement swelling between them both as she sucks in a breath through her teeth.

“I promise,” he adds, then nips down sharply on her neck.

She yelps out a surprised moan and arches into him, her thrill of pleasure crackling hot across his skin to buzz euphorically inside of him. He inhales deeply and groans, her scent filling him too, as anticipation and sheer, overwhelming want for her jolt straight into his cock.

He quickly scrambles his hand downward to tear at the laces tying their boots. Another one of her rules. Shoes off by the door.

The last fucking things keeping them here.

As he rips the knots free, as he reaches to peel his boots off and kick them away, she laughs quietly against him, shaking his body with her own while she squirms beneath him in less of less of a struggle and more of a sly, calculated grind. Her movement stokes pleasure as much as it puts him on guard—but not nearly as much as it pulls a broad smile across his face.

For a brief moment, that strange sensation returns, spreading softly across his chest.

And distracting him just enough for her to twist free from his grasp.

She bolts upright and her hand races toward his pocket again—but he recovers faster, swerving his hips so she lands somewhere much better. In a flash, he grabs her by the ass and crushes her against him, trapping her hand between them both directly on top of his cock.

Mason smirks deeply.

“Find what you're looking for?”

Cheeks flushed, she flashes him an answering smirk before giving him a good, long, and very generous squeeze.

“Maybe.”

He can't help the groan that rumbles low in his throat, or the way his eyes shutter closed and his hips roll forward into the heat of her touch.

He also can't wait until his jeans are finally fucking gone and there's no goddamn awful barrier between them.

She takes in his reaction through half-lidded eyes, a smile growing slowly on her lips. “I'll get it back eventually, you know.”

“I wouldn't count on it, sweetheart.”

And with enough said, he curls his hands under her ass and picks her up.

Her arms and legs wrap around him immediately, her lips finding his just as quickly too. She barely manages to pull her boots off with her feet, kicking them away to clatter down the hallway before they're both at the bed and he's leaning over to drop her onto the edge of the mattress. He takes only the time to rip free of his jacket before he presses himself against her again, kissing her deeply as her arms and legs lock around him once more. He remains halfway on the floor as their mouths move together, her tongue gliding hot against his, and his hands sliding across every part of her body he can reach, completely unwilling to move or break away from her at all, even as she fumbles at the hem of his shirt and tries to pull it off him.

Eventually, she succeeds.

And eventually, he moves away from her lips to kiss down her neck, down her chest, her stomach, groping his way along the entire time, until he guides his fingers to finally unfasten the button on her jeans. When he tugs her zipper down after, an idle question rolls across his mind.

One that asks if he can keep her waiting on the edge for as long as he waited outside her door earlier.

Mason smirks into her skin—and yanks her pants and underwear down in one smooth motion.

Then he skims his mouth up her inner thigh, determined to find out.

–o–

Mason returns to the Warehouse around dawn the next morning, his patrol complete.

Shoulders hunched, he swipes his key card at the hidden door before he jams his hand back into his jeans and stalks inside. His other hand remains curled in his pocket, absently fiddling with the key nestled in his palm, spinning it slowly as his fingertips trace idle laps along the bumpy ridges and smooth metal warmed by his touch.

As he passes by the living room on his way to bed, he makes the mistake of glancing inside.

Felix catches his eye and immediately flips backwards off the sofa from his upside down perch. In a flash, he appears in the doorway, swaying off the frame under his own halted momentum.

“What exactly are you so pleased about?” he asks, grinning.

Mason pauses by the door, then shoots him a smirk.

“It was my turn to babysit. What do you think?”

Felix's eyes narrow as a wide and sly smile unfurls across his face. “I think there's more to it than just that.”

Mason rolls his eyes. “Think whatever you want.”

“Oh, I absolutely will,” he replies, his amber eyes gleaming.

Shaking his head, Mason continues down the hallway toward his room while Felix's gaze drills a hole in his back.

“Night,” he calls over his shoulder without looking, raising a hand to wave.

But not the one holding the key.

[twistedcharismaaa]

Lost & Found Pt. 2

Summary: You’re living a suffocating life and you finally find breath in Masego.

Author’s Note: Hi guys! I’m back with chapter two as promised! For whatever strange reason, I’m pretty nervous about this chapter. I hope you guys enjoy! I love you guys and thank you so much for all of the feedback from chapter one! As always, leave a comment for ya girl! I live for the commentary!

“I see Lupita

You know I got the Jones

For my own Rashida

Can you put me on

With Danai Gurira

She stay on my dome”

Ladies violently swarmed towards the stage causing you to stumble forward instantly losing the grip on your phone which resulted in you watching it hit the floor harshly. Discombobulated. Disconnected. And maybe a little drunk since you weren’t much of a drinker. You squatted down and patted the floor in hopes your fingertips would seamlessly come across it. To your surprise, they did. But to your misfortune, some thirsty ass heffa kicked it further away from you.

“Fuck!” you yelled.

And where the fuck is Desmonde you thought.

“Ok ok, I see y’all are live in this mothertrucker. That’s what’s up.” Masego said while adjusting his shades.

He casually placed his saxophone on its stand and put his left hand in his pocket.

“So y’all wanna hear something new?” he continued completely enticing the crowd.

You stood upright and watched him in awe. You couldn’t believe this was the same man from earlier. What the actual fuck. You watched him standing confidently in his expensive velvet threads. A glorious, multi-talented giant he was. He worked flawlessly around his equipment. Conjuring soothing melodies with heavy bass drums that made you want to shake your ass a little. 

“So today I met this shorty. She was mmm. I don’t even know how to explain it. But anyway, I wrote this song about her. I’ll tell you the rest of the story on IG. Alright, let’s go!” 

“Ooh, I saw her and she hit me like (Tadow)

Saw that thing so beautiful (Tadow)

She just hit my heart, ooh (Tadow)

Full force and she got me like (Tadow)”

You smiled and partially covered your lips watching him sing passionately to the crowd. He pulled down his shades and walked towards the edge of the stage. Suddenly, his eyes locked with yours causing a subtle smirk to form on his lips. 

“I be like (Tadow)

Baby (Tadow)

Why you so fine? (Tadow, tadow)

Gotta make you mine (Tadow, tadow)

So hard to find (Tadow, tadow)”

He winked at you and walked back to his music station smoothly. You tore your eyes away from his gaze and smiled to yourself. You looked up once more witnessing him becoming consumed by his music - entirely lost in it. Subconsciously, you bit your lip and tilted your head out of curiosity. It was something about him that turned you on. You couldn’t decide if it was his swag, his vocals, his talent, or his wit but either way, he had your panties dampening from his sweet melodies. Pulling yourself back to reality you wondered if he really saw you or did you just want to be noticed? Could it be possible that this song was about you? No, it can’t be. You’re buzzed, just really really buzzed you reasoned with yourself. Breaking you from your spiraling thoughts, you felt someone grab your arm from behind. 

“C, I’ve been calling your phone all damn night! Why the fuck weren’t you answering?” Desmonde screamed with a concerned look on his face.

“I lost it! And Desmone you need to calm that tone down! I’m fine! Get off of me!” you yelled while snatching your arm away from him.

“How fucking long was that line to the bathroom?” you asked while looking him up and down.

“We should go,” he demanded

“We should.” you spat.

From the stage, Masego inquisitively raised an eyebrow watching the drama unfold between you and your boyfriend. You deserved better but if only you could see that. From his eyes, you were nothing shy of beautiful. Full lips, piercing dark brown eyes, mouth-watering curves, thick curly hair, and he loved the sound of your sweet, light airy voice. From the moment he heard it, he wanted to exercise your vocal cords in the best ways. He wanted nothing more than to cherish you and to pour back into what you lost. And maybe, if you would have him, you could show him what he lacks in this world of fame. After watching your quarrel with Desmonde, he decided that you needed a change of pace, a change of man, and a change of scenery and most importantly he wanted you. Correction, needed you. He had exactly two weeks to convince you, prove to you, and show you that he is worthy of your attention before heading to South Africa to finish the second leg of his tour.

“Alright, alright shut up. Too much new song,” Masego said jokingly as he continued his show.

------

*A few minutes prior*

“Well, this was fun,” Brittany said breathlessly.

“I gotta stop fucking you,” Desmonde said as he zipped up his pants.

“Tell that to your dick and not me,” she said as she fixed her makeup in the rearview mirror.

“This is the last time and I mean that shit,” he said sternly

“Uh-huh.” she answered nonchalantly.

“You don’t think I’m serious? Cause I am,” he responded.

“D, I know you love her. But you don’t love yourself, this is why you’re with me. This is why you’re doing what you do. Sure, you can stop fucking me. But there’s always going to be someone else.” she said as she added the finishing touches to her makeup.

Desmonde swallowed dryly taking in her brutal honesty.

“Why am I doing this? To myself? To her?” he thought.

“Don’t worry, I don’t judge. I’m not perfect either and in time I’ll face my demons but not tonight,” she said slyly.

“I’m going to catch the rest of the show. You might want to go head back to your girl,” she said before getting out of the car.

---------

An uncomfortable silence fell between you and Desmonde. The car ride home felt longer than usual. You cracked your window to let some fresh air inside. You felt like you were suffocating from the inside out. Everything around you seemed to intensify your irritation. Your tight dress, your high heels, the silence, and not to mention Des’ presence. 

“I’m sorry that I snapped at you earlier,” he said while keeping his eyes on the road.

“Why were you gone for so long?” you questioned.

“Honestly, I don’t know... and that’s the truth. I don’t know what I’ve been doing lately or who I am. And I’m sorry I’m so shitty to you.” he said lowly while his hands gripped the steering wheel.

He pulled into the apartment complex and sighed deeply. After he parked the car, he opened the passenger’s side door and opened it for you. With hesitation, you swung your right leg out of the vehicle and then the left.

“Charisma, I am so sorry,” he repeated. 

You swallowed and nodded as a response.

-------

A black satin bonnet covered your delicate curls and a white cotton oversized t-shirt covered your curvy frame. You rested your fatigued body on the cold queen-sized bed and waited for Desmonde to join you in the bedroom. Desmonde staggered to the bed after turning off the bathroom light. He plopped on the bed and grunted into his pillow. You inhaled his fresh scent and smiled at him.

“You drunk drunk?” you whispered.

A lazy smile crept upon his face and as he turned toward you.

“Drunk drunk.” he repeated.

“Des?” you replied while stroking his face.

“Yeah, baby?” he answered while kissing your fingertips lovingly.

“Are you really sorry? You mean that?” you quizzed.

“I am,” he admitted.

“I was thinking maybe we could - that maybe we should have...” you hinted.

“Sex?” he said in disbelief.

“It is my birthday….” you joked trying to ease the tension.

“Charisma.” he said while closing his eyes and bringing his hands over his face in frustration.

“Desmonde, please.” you croaked.

“We’re not as close as we used to be. I think we should try at least.” you continued.

“It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with you-”

“Then what is it?” you interrupted.

“I don’t deserve to touch you like that right now,” he admitted.

“Isn’t that left up to me?” you quizzed.

“I don’t wanna argue. Can you respect that?” he snapped.

You sat up quickly and pulled the covers off of you in utter disgust. You grabbed your pillow and your favorite multi-colored blanket.

“Desmonde can you just admit that you don’t love me anymore? I just need to hear you say it. I know the losing the baby changed everything.” you said lowly.

“Just tell me so I can move on. So you can move on.” you continued.

“I do love you! I love you Charisma … I just don’t know how to love you the right way.” he replied while hanging his head in defeat.

Before you knew it your cheeks were covered in tears. You aggressively wiped your face and nodded in acceptance.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch tonight. And Desmonde?” you paused. “I want you out of this apartment first thing in the morning and I mean that shit,” you said while closing the bedroom door.

-----

*Masego’s Video Post*

“Ok quick storytime. So I was checking into my hotel today. I seen this shorty and she was mmm mmm good. You feel me? Anyways, she’s looking at me and I’m looking at her right? Alright fast forward. So she’s bringing me towels that I didn’t ask for. Hold up rewind, I forgot to mention she works at the hotel. So anyway, she brings me these towels looking all gorgeous. And y’all know me, imma shoot that shot. So I did and I found out shorty had a boyfriend. And that sums up how “Tadow” came about. I made it right after I seen her.”

------

Part 1 Part 3

@l-auteuse @nizzle-mo @jamielennkeeler @thickemadame @ljstraightnochaser @pineappear @thadelightfulone @qweentbh @justanothernerdgirl @big-brows-bigger-dreams @ghostfacekill-monger​ @chaneajoyyy​ @soulfood-fics​ @miss-nneka​ @rosemilage @sarcastic-sunshines @mygirlrenee @keiva1000

[wolf-555-writer]

Outbreak

Kind of got the idea from S2E4 of DC’s Legends of Tomorrow (I know, I know, it’s an old episode). Hope you like it! 

Sara Lance x Reader

Summary: In the future an anachronism is created by the Legion of Doom (Eobard Thawne) to distract the Legends from finding the Spear of Destiny. The team needs to fix this, hopefully in time before someone gets hurt.

Word Count: 4,930

I feel a bit… light-headed, dizzy, nauseous. A violent pain radiates from my forearm through my upper arm and promptly I feel it in my whole body. I see the warm blood seeping out of the fresh wound on my left arm, but I can’t concentrate on it. I’m cold. Strange images flash through my mind and my vision gets blurry. I’m losing control. I can’t… it’s... I fall to the ground on my knees and use my hands to cover my face completely. I start to hyperventilate and don't even notice that painful spot on my knee anymore. Suddenly my body is packed with adrenaline, I sense it from head to toe. I don’t feel like myself. It’s spreading like poison. Poison inside my veins. I can see Sara. She looks worried and doesn’t know what to do. That’s a first. Mick is standing next to her with his usual grumpy expression. I speed towards them. Why? I don’t want to. Not like this. I’m losing control. All I crave is blood. Human blood.

///

“I’m seriously not built for this…”, you pant, exhaling your breath in a strong blow with drops of sweat coating your forehead. “Don't be such a whiner and keep running!”, Sara exclaims while looking over her shoulder with a troubled expression. Both on foot inside a dark, abandoned building with Sara taking the lead. Industrial lights flicker along the route, yet barely providing any guidance for your getaway. “Didn’t they train you for this? In the army?”, Sara mocks, glancing at you but swiftly averting her gaze to something shady in the distance. Her face shows a subtle grin. However, you can sense that she’s scared as hell, just like you are. “The army?! Yes they did, miss Lance. But you damn well know that I was Special Forces”, you scoff. “You make it too easy for me (Y/N)”. Sara laughs, but quickly stops. She doesn’t want to waste any oxygen desperately needed to fuel her even more fatiguing muscles. “I was just making small talk you know”, you mutter, lying, considering your legs are burning as if they’re on fire. “Sure you did”, Sara teases, occupied with figuring out how to open the rusty emergency exit that leads to your great escape. “It's stuck. I can't…. Can't. Get. It. To. Open”, she argues whilst battering the metal structure with her shoulder repeatedly. “A little help please?! (Y/N)?!”. “Um… Sara…”, you whisper with a higher pitch than usual, back turned towards her. “I'm asking for your help (Y/N)!? I can’t get it open. It’s just, stuck”. “Yeah, about that…”. You’re tapping on her shoulder like crazy, similar to an annoying toddler begging for candy from their mom, which causes Sara to jolt her head away from the exit to face you. “What!? We don’t have time for th-”. She immediately mirrors you, locking her eyes on the same spot.

“What the h- You couldn't have warned me earlier?!”, she criticizes, staring with her eyes wide open at the sight of a disturbing image approaching fast. “Well, I-I thought you had it perfectly under control. You know, like always”, you counter while raising your shoulders. “Okay (Y/N), that’s enough ass kissing for today”, Sara declares, lifting an eyebrow. “What- no, I wasn’t- That’s not-”. “Come on! We need to move. Now!”. Sara grabbed you by the wrist, and pulled you with her. She drags you by your arm towards the staircase nearby, being the only way out of this desperate situation. “Faster (Y/N)!”. “Yes, yes. I’m right behind you!”. What should’ve been a simple scouting mission, turned out to be something rather... different. Though, you would never refuse an assignment if teamed up with Sara. Like a well-oiled machine you guys work good together. Flying up the stairs, you take two steps at a time to reach the top even faster, trying to get away from the nearing danger. In between the heavy breathing, faint low growling sounds can be heard as they become louder and louder. It’s not the sound of hungry animals, it’s ...something else. 

“Guys, can you hear me?”, Sara asks over the comms, reaching out to the rest of the team who are all back on the Waverider. “Yes miss Lance, what can we do for you?”, a peaceful, silvery voice answers. “Where are you? Where’s the Waverider? We need you guys to come pick us up. ASAP.”. “Calm down miss Lance, we-”. “Calm down?! You try to calm down while being chased by bloodthirsty-”. In the middle of your outbreak to Professor Stein you trip with your concentration shifted to the ongoing discussion. Irritated, but also jealous at the stay-home-squad, who are probably relaxing or partying right now without their Captain present. Only thinking about it makes you wish you were there too. A nagging pain originates from your knee that just hit the blunt concrete and you reach for it with both hands. Get up and ignore the pain, you repeat inside your head, pushing yourself off the cold ground and quickly gripping the rigid stair railing with your left hand. Wanting to move your leg to take the next step, but you can’t. Someone is holding you back. A frigid hand grabbed your ankle real tight. You try to shake it off in an instant, instead the person is pulling you down. “We’re being chased by-”. “Don’t you dare say it Sara! Stop!”, Stein intervenes, but to no avail, as Sara shouts: “by zombies!”. Hearing Sara’s voice fade away slowly considering you’re stuck. Staring down, rattled, because all you can look at are the bloody, sharp teeth and pale skin of the one hanging on to you. You have never seen anything like this before, only in the movies. Charging up, and with all the strength you got, you shoot your leg down. A powerful kick on the head caused the hand to disappear, and you sprint towards Sara who didn’t even notice you’d fallen behind. “Zombies are not real Sara. I don’t like that word. There must be a scientific expla-”. A static noise replaced Stein’s lecture while the loud beep continues to ring in your ear. “Stein? Professor?! Can you hear me?”, Sara repeats, finally able to catch her breath because she stopped running. 

“Can't get this to door open too!?”, you shout in anger, “Too bad I don't have the power to turn into steel”. “Or wear an exosuit that can blast through these doors…”, Sara adds. “That suit is totally overrated”, you claim, even though it would be of much use right now. “Jealous much? Good thing Ray can't hear you”, Sara jokes while punching your shoulder in a playful way which makes you laugh. Her short touch caused the tension to flow away as you immediately relax. The light from the fluorescent tube attached to the ceiling makes her blue eyes sparkle and her long, blond hair is a little messy due to all the chaos of today. Her skin is glowing mildly as she’s heated up from the amount of stairs you and her just covered. You keep staring at her lovely features for a second. However, it feels like time’s standing still. Sunken away a bit too long, because Sara detected a pair of eyes fixed on her. 

“(Y/N)? What are you doing?”. Sara’s voice snapped you out of your magical gaze and you start blushing a little, cheeks turning light red. A wide grin appeared on her face. “Were you checking me-”. She abruptly turned her head to the left and doesn’t finish her sentence. Interrupted, again, by a bunch of insane, bloodthirsty people. “You try the door, I’ll fight them off”, you command and draw Sara behind you. Close to the exit and away from the approaching wild.

Fighting off the Z’s by pushing them down the stairs, or punching them in the face and then kicking them down the stairs. Whatever works in the moment. Without getting bitten of course, we all know what happens then... 

“Makes it a bit more difficult considering I can't shoot them”, you complain to Sara who’s busy with the door while on occasion looking at you. Without hesitation or an answer, Sara grabs the gun that was tucked in the back of your jeans, which catches you off guard for a second. She takes a step back, towards the danger so to speak, and fires by pulling the trigger without blinking. A loud bang fills the small space and causes everyone to freeze for a moment, even your psycho attackers. Sara kicks the door open and calls your name. Rapidly you follow and close the door in one movement. While catching your breath, you brace the door with your whole body. Tracking Sara with your eyes, seeing her pace around on the rooftop. “What the hell are you doing? I could use a little help here?! Sara!”, you yell, annoyed but also scared while feeling people bang on the door that has no lock anymore since a few minutes ago. “Move! I found something”, Sara demands as she came rushing back with a large wooden beam clutched in her arms. With the door barricaded you both walk away cautiously, eyes fixed on the improvised lock. “Will it hold?”, you ask, voice laced with doubt. “Seems like it”. “Okay… and now what?”. No way out, trapped on a roof in the future. “Guess we’ll have to wait for the team to come pick us up”, Sara concludes, hands on her hips and scanning her surroundings. “Hope it’s not gonna take them long, cause I could use a drin-”. 

A loud noise made you stop mid-sentence and turn around while holding your breath. The wooden beam snapped in half and the rooftop starts to fill with the walking dead. The situation is getting more and more desperate now that you’re boxed in. Both slowly backing up till there’s no roof left. Pressed against each other and the brick wall that prevents a nasty fall on the concrete road way down below. Perfect time to confess those hidden feelings. “Any ideas left (Y/N)?”. “So, Sara… I gotta say something”. “We could use a brilliant escape plan of yours right now”. “Well, uhm, there’s actually something else I need to say”, you stammer with a tight voice, sight fixed on the predators and their hungry eyes, nearing their prey. “What could be more important than, well, not dying?”, Sara asks, focused on you with her eyebrows raised, waiting for an answer. “Well, Sara, I-”. “Yes?”. “I am, um, I’m in love with y-”. The timing couldn’t be worse. Or better, not sure which one yet. Balls of fire hit the roof and keep the psychos at bay as a large spaceship, aka the Waverider, appears above the crowded building. “Somebody need a ride?”, Firestorm proposes from up in the air. The team arrived, just in time. Well, a few seconds later would have been fine too, but can’t complain, right...

///

“Where the hell were you guys? (Y/N) and I were almost eaten by those zombies”, Sara shouts as she enters the bridge, stamping her feet in discontent. “Seems like a normal working day to me”, Mick adds while taking a sip of the beer he’s holding. “Don’t call them zombies!”, Stein repeats again, still in denial about their existence and flailing his arms around to make the point more clear. “The comms went dark, but luckily Gideon was able to track your location”, Nate explains, giving a high five to Ray. “Thank you Gideon”, Sara addresses while leaning against the central console located in the middle of the bridge. “My pleasure, Captain”, the AI returns. Sara sways her head back, eyes closed, and takes a deep breath. “So, the anachronism is zombies. We need a plan”. At the sound of that awful word again, Stein’s expression changed into a fierce scowl followed by a deep sigh. It’s of no use anymore, Martin realizes. He can’t change the team’s mind, so let’s just call them ‘zombies’. “It seems like these people are infected with some kind of virus. A virus I’ve never seen before”, Ray points out as he pulls up some scientific articles. “This virus will cause a massive outbreak worldwide and eradicate the human race within a year, according to this newspaper”, Amaya mentions while reading the information provided by Gideon. “Meaning there is, and never will be, a treatment for this virus, not even in the future”, Nate continues. “So, we need to fix this. Find and develop a cure to fix this anachronism in time so we can continue our search for the remaining pieces of the Spear”. “Sounds like a plan, Captain”, Jax agrees. “What do you need to make a cure for this ‘virus’, Ray? Stein?”, Sara asks as she shifts to the scientists, but focuses her eyes on someone else instead. “(Y/N), everything okay? You’ve been quiet since we got back”.  Sara’s words caused everybody to jolt their heads towards you while you keep looking at the ground with a mindless stare. The silence made you look up and mutter quietly: “Huh, something wrong? Was there a question?”. “Everything okay, (Y/N)?”, Sara restates with concerned eyes. Normally you wouldn’t hesitate to assist Sara in coming up with a plan, which she appreciates more than she’d like to admit. However, not now as she clearly noticed. “Yeah I’m okay. All fine”, you quickly lie, faking a small smile, ‘cause now is not the time. It’s never the right time. There hasn't been a single moment to act on these affectionate feelings you have for the Captain of this ship. Busy 24/7, to save the timeline, to come up with a plan to defeat the Legion of Doom and also trying to stay one step ahead of them in retrieving pieces of the Spear of Destiny. So yeah, how ironic it must sound, considering you’re on a timeship, travelling through time, that there is never, not even the tiniest moment where you can be alone with Sara. Before you can say anything, craving a proper conversation with her about what happened on the rooftop earlier, the team already headed out for the next mission on Sara’s customary one-liners as she announced:

“Let's cure some zombies”.

///

Gideon provided the team with the location of a closed down hospital where the ‘zombie’ virus had to be created. Ground Zero. It wasn’t possible to pinpoint which lab inside the building, so the team had to split up. Amaya, Nate and Jax were tasked to cover the main floor first while Sara, Mick and you started the search in the basement laboratory. Martin and Ray stayed on the Waverider on comms to help guide both teams in recovering the correct substance to assemble a cure. Namely the original virus in its pure form. That was all you remembered anyways, that you had to search for a glass vial. The scientists talked about complicated chemistry and biological words impossible to pronounce. It became boring, so you stopped listening to them after a few minutes. Which probably the others did too. 

“Looks like nobody has been here for a while”, Sara concludes, judging by the trashed lab equipment, broken glass from tubes, vials and beakers that cover the entire floor and the lights that don't seem to work anymore. “This doesn't look like the right spot Ray, I hope the others have more luck”. “Copy that Captain. I'll go and ask them, immediately. Atom out”, Ray replied, confident about the awesomeness of his closing statement. “Why is Ray like this…”, Sara sighs while strolling to the doorway. The penetrating chemical smell that's hanging around makes her want to leave, pronto. “It’s so quiet out here. Guess not a lot of people were infected after all”, you say relieved, shining with a flashlight across the dark, vacated room. A sudden cold breeze sends a shiver down your spine. Maybe it’s too quiet… The sound of glass shattering makes you turn around. “Rory?”. You shine the beam of light on him as if he’s standing in the spotlights. As a reaction he grumbles angry and covers his eyes since the bright light blinds him. “Get that out of my face, Special Forces!”. “See Sara? It ain't that hard”, you tease, standing next to her and ready to leave this scary place behind. She gives you a light punch on the shoulder accompanied by a soft chuckle. “I shall not joke about it ever again”, Sara mocks with the use of a plummy voice and her chin lifted up high. And again you hear a sound and shine on a closed freezer door while stepping closer. “(Y/N), let’s go. This place is giving me the creeps”. 

“Oh- um… that thing I said about not a lot infected and all… yeah, scratch that.”, you mention while slowly backing away from the not so closed freezer door anymore. “Why did you have to say that...”, Sara groans at the sight of people who are clearly infected with the virus. “Karma is a bitch right?”, you ease with an innocent smile while accelerating. “It's not like we haven't run enough today… Come on Mick, let’s go!”. On the run again in a hallway that leads to another hallway, which probably leads to another one. It’s a real maze inside this large basement. The walking dead, who actually walk rather fast, seem to be appearing out of nowhere. Out of every trashed, abandoned room like they were trapped there, patiently waiting for the Legends to arrive. 

“I think we've lost them”, you carefully state after a while, being out of breath, and looking over your shoulder real quick. You want to continue running, but a force drags you to the side. Too soon, you lowered your guard. With an ugly fall you land on the cold, wet ground. Pain fills your body, something stings, but you ignore it. When you open your eyes again you stare into a pair of bloodshot red ones, pupils severely dilated and burst veins. The adrenaline level in your body is rising which makes you act fast, now pushing the creature off of you against an old storage rack which topples and lands on your attacker. Struggling to get up, apparently you were pulled into a storage room and got separated from Sara and Mick. “I need to get back…”, you worry, because being all alone out here is not going to make it easier. Leaning against the doorpost as you’d lost balance. You feel light-headed, probably hit your head on the concrete. Hearing Sara and Mick shout your name, well okay, actually only Sara, as they came back looking for you. Taking a few small steps forward, standing in the hallway again and you stop at the sight of Sara and Mick. “What’s wrong? Why are you guys staring at me?”. “Um… (Y/N)...”, Sara falters while pointing at your left arm. “Oh… Fuck”. 

With every heartbeat it’s spreading more and more. Through your entire body like poison. Sara freezes, she doesn’t know what to do. That never happens. Why now? Usually she doesn’t need to pay attention to you in a way that you’re able to take care of yourself and know what to do without her telling you. Not like Rory, who needs supervision all the time to be kept in check. Or like Nate and Ray who play around too much. Or Martin, who’s way too stubborn, probably because he’s older and wiser, so he thinks. Being the Captain of this team is hard, but you always seem to make it easier for her. You have each other's back no matter what and are on the same wavelength when it comes to strategy or just messing around. But now you are the one in trouble. You've been bitten. She’s too late. All Sara can do is stare at the bite mark on your arm, resembling a vague dental imprint covered in blood. She failed. You collapse to the floor, landing on your knees and place your hands on your face. What is happening? Breathing frequency rising. Something went off in your brain. You lose control. With a burst of adrenaline you jump up and sprint towards your new prey. Towards Sara, who’s completely paralyzed. She can’t move. Rory steps in front of her to hold you off, but you’re faster than him. You want to hurt them, your team members. Want to bite them, tear them apart. Can’t fight it anymore. With every second counting you lose a piece of yourself, until there's nothing left. Maybe for the better, 'cause you won't be able to look at yourself after this.

Like a loose cannon with a bad temper you grasp Sara by the waist, wrapping your arms around her real painful and knock her to the ground. She’s struggling to get herself free and it hurts. It’s as if your strength has doubled. Your hands move to her neck and you start squeezing hard. With blood red eyes you stare at her. No remorse. No respect. No love. Just pure rage. Your eyes are not the same anymore is what Sara realizes. Not the same eyes that were checking her out earlier at the rooftop exit. Or the same eyes that laugh about her jokes, or the ones that have her back in the most difficult situations, like now. She can’t breath and is hitting your body with her arms over and over again, completely helpless. Rory had gripped onto your shoulders to yank you loose. But it’s of no use since you’re still choking her, not moving a single muscle. Her arms move slower and slower… until a brutal kick from Rory made you let go and launched you against the wall. Coughing while rubbing her throat that was closed off seconds ago, Sara gradually stands up. 

“Don't”, is the first word she manages to produce with a sore, aching throat. Intended to stop Rory because he aimed his Heat gun on you, finger on the trigger. He hesitates, wanting to fire, but grunts and eventually lowers the weapon. Though he needs to act fast, as you already bolted towards him, ready to attack. You take hit after hit, but Rory’s punches don’t seem to stop you. Sara needs to flip a switch, get herself together and end this. “Sara! Do something. Now!”, Mick forces as his low voice echoes on the brick walls, desperately trying to hold you back. 

“I'm sorry (Y/N)...”. Are the last words you process before it turns dark.

///

“Brains… BRAINS!!”. “No- no, don’t!”, you scream while defensively lifting your arms up to protect your head. The sound of Sara’s voice, and not the most convenient word choice startled you awake, feeling your heartbeat racing in your chest. “Too soon? I was just joking (Y/N)”. “Where- where am I? Am I still alive? And what happened? I don’t remember…”, you stammer. Shaking and carefully turning your head to see where you are as you’re about to panic. Sara reacts fast and grabs your hands to put your restless arms down. “Calm down. Breathe. We’re in the medical bay, back on the Waverider, okay?”, she eases. A soft, caring tone in her voice, trying to reach you by staring into your eyes as she’d moved closer. “My head is pounding like hell. Worst. Hangover. Ever”, you groan while slowly repositioning your legs to sit on the edge of the reclined chair. “Yeah… that might have been my fault…”, Sara admits as she rubs the back of her neck in shame. A heavy blow to the head with a flashlight was needed to knock you out. She had to, there was no other choice. A hopeless sigh leaves your mouth as you bury your face in your hands. You're cured, the anachronism fixed and the world is saved, for now at least. Everything is back to normal again. But it doesn't feel normal. Avoiding eye contact with Sara at all cost, sight trained on the floor. There is no way you’ll be able to look her in the eyes again. Not after what you’ve done. You can still remember pieces. Flashes of you attacking Sara. 

“(Y/N)? It’s okay”. Sara lifts your chin up, now seated on a stool in front of you. “Hey, you're okay”. “No it's not. I-”. Your eyes start to get watery. “I hurt you, didn't I? Cause I remember…”, you whisper, examining her broken body. With a trembling hand you near her neck, but can’t bring yourself to touch the red, discolored skin. “Nothing I can't handle”. She blows it off as if it’s a small scratch. “Come on Sara. It's not. I-”. A tear rolls down your cheek while trying your best to fight off the other tears heaping up in the corners of your eyes. Sara gently wipes the teardrop away with her thumb, cupping your face with her right hand. She lifts your head up again and gazes in your sad eyes. “That is my fault. I did that. I went insane, like some crazy animal”, you continue, still refusing to look at her as you shift in a direction other than right in front of you. Not able to forgive yourself, feeling guilty as hell. “No, (Y/N)”. She moves your head back with a bit more force this time, not accepting your pity party, and her blue eyes lock onto yours. “It's okay. You're still here. I'm still here”, she expresses genuinely, “and I heard you.”. 

“Huh? You heard me?”, you question with a lost expression. “Yes, on the roof earlier today. Just before the team arrived to pick us up.”. In the process to comprehend what those words mean, still puzzling it all together when you feel a pair of soft lips touching yours. Overwhelmed, but that swiftly changes as you relax and close your eyes. She gets up from the chair and moves her hands away from your cheeks, wrapping both arms around you smoothly. You melt away even more and place your hands around her hips. A soft kiss turns into a more passionate one, as if both were longing for it for some time now. It being highly likely that Sara had these kind of feelings for a while now too. Her warm body is pressed against yours, and you slide your hands up to her waist to hold her even closer. Sara instantly pulled back and makes a soft hissing sound. You moan at the loss of contact before realizing what you just did. “Sorry…”, you apologize, voice laced with guilt, knowing you’re the reason of her bruised ribs. She chuckles lightly, paying no attention to the soreness of her body. 

“You know… there might be a remedy, to ease the pain. Didn’t they teach you that in the army, ‘Special Forces’?”, Sara says with a sarcastic tone. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you like the nickname more when Sara says it instead of Mick. “Remedy, huh? You mean this?”. Carefully lifting Sara’s shirt up and you press your lips on the bruised skin. Then softly on the other side. You slowly stand up from the chair and move up to her neck to give an even more gentle kiss. “And where does it hurt the most, Captain?”. Sara looks pleased, and without an answers back, she kisses you on the lips again with a wide smile. At the exact same time Jax walked in. “Woah... just wanted to check on you, (Y/N)”. He awkwardly turns his head away, not knowing where to look. “All good.”, you return with a grin, because in the corner of your eyes you see Sara. Who’s busy straightening her shirt to appear a bit more decent, considering her important role as leader on this ship. “Yeah, I can see that”, he responds while giving you a hug and continues: “The team is waiting in the Captain’s office. To celebrate”. “We'll be right behind you”, you assure Jax, who’s already marching back to the bridge with interesting gossip to deliver. 

A muffled groan manages to escape as you take a step, feeling the soreness of all the muscles in your bruised up body. “Gotta let the kids know the old one here is alright”, Sara jokes. Beaten up by Mick and Sara in your zombie-state, which you understand to the fullest. If you were in their shoes, you would’ve done the same thing. Then her smile fades and turns into a more serious expression. “You know… I really thought I lost you there in that basement”, Sara confesses, leaving the medical bay beside you. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see what the next apocalypse brings”, you tease, but Sara is not laughing. “I’m serious, (Y/N)”, she presses. “Yeah I know, sorry”. It’s always easier to make jokes then to think about everything that could’ve gone wrong. You were scared as hell. Scared to die. But even more scared of being the cause of the death of one of your teammates. “I can't lose you”, Sara whispers, squeezing your hand lightly. You lock eyes with Sara and stare into hers deeply. “Never”, you promise, as Sara sends you a loving smile in return. Both continue walking and a wide grin appears on your face. Turning to the left, you punch Sara’s shoulder playfully and say:

“You ain't getting rid of me that easily”.

[hitchell-mope]

(Third film. At Evie’s house. Mal has very recently just fainted in midair due to fatigue, turned back into a human, and fell through the sky, landing upside down by her legs on a branch in a tree located in her sister front garden)

Evie (looking disapprovingly you at the elder demigod): you’ve not eaten since breakfast have you?

Mal: if by “eaten” you mean “surreptitiously take swigs of booze from my hip flask intermittently throughout the day” then yes

Evie: I do not

Mal: ohhhh. Then no. No I have not

Celia: and you couldn’t have been more obvious if you tried

Uma: Ceels is right. I saw you. Twice.

Mal: damn you guys sure know how to raise a girl up. Help me down?

Evie: you can fall perfectly well all by yourself

Mal: urgh, fine

(With a little struggle and a quick, extremely high pitched yelp, she shifts off the branch and falls to the ground and land on her back with a pained grunt)

Evie: now was that so difficult?

Mal: dad will judge you eventually. And he may not be so merciful.

Evie: A. He’s not my dad. B. Get up before you’re clothes are dusted beyond repair

(Just then Uma shrieks and throws a frog off her head)

Evie (snickering): really? You’re scared of frogs? Isn’t that part of you powers. Communication with sea life?

Uma: yeah sea life not pond life that jumped up bastard is not my guy

Evie: funny, I’d have thought you’d like them consider you’re dating one

Uma (laughing mirthlessly): and don’t you share blood with him?

Evie: urgh don’t remind me

Mal: hate to break up the familial bonding but is anyone scared and/or allergic to locusts?

Celia: no

Uma: no

Evie: no, why do you ask?

Mal: because a swarm of them is headed this way

(She’s right. A huge cloud of locusts are speeding right towards them. Mal takes out the sceptre and sets it into the ground, sending the swarm away from them)

Celia: what the hell was that about?

Mal: oh I think I have an idea

(Back in the forest)

Harriet: what the fuck

Cj: Jesus

Harry: what is that?

Hades: cinders.

Elsa: what?

Adam: well. You did say I was hiding behind religion

Ben: speak properly or not at all

Adam: you saw the movie, you’ve heard the stories and you have been to church

Jay: you’re joking!

Adam: why would I joke about your imminent destruction?

(Back at Evie’s)

Mal: this is gonna sound patently ridiculous, (she whacks a frog off Uma’s head), but I think, oh god how do I put this? I think

Celia: Red Sea?

Mal: yes! Ohhhh thank god for the youth

Celia: I’m thirteen

Mal: I was hatched old kid.

Evie: what do we do?

Mal: block them

(Back in the forest)

Gil: what do we do

Ben: block them

Adam: if you’d left those things where they belong this wouldn’t be happening

Ben: what?

Adam: it’s an environmental reaction to their abominable presence

Ben: it’s Maleficent!

Adam (snarling): exactly

(This is when “the plagues” happens. After the song the onslaught is still happening)

Uma: fuck lot of good that did genius. Any other bright ideas?

Mal: who has the ember?

Her sister and cousins: YOU DO

Mal: right! Yes. Of course. Hands in. Chop chop

(They all put their right hands over the ember and it starts to glow)

Mal: you've caused our friends pain and fear/we've had enough now disappear

(Nothing happens)

Mal: it’s not gonna work if you’re not gonna help. Again

The sisters rotten and the sisters Facillier: you've caused our friends pain and fear/we've had enough now disappear

(The onslaught ceases. The rogs and locusts turn to ash. Back in the forest the raining fire wafts away)

Ben: Mal

Jay: who else?

Harry: uhhhh, Uma, duh

Lonnie: Uma wishes she was as cool as Mal

Elsa: Lonnie, please, not now

Lonnie: ok. Cool. The girls are at Evie’s house right?

Jay: yeah

Lonnie: good. This Uma chick is with them yeah?

Carlos: ...yes...

Lonnie: aces. I want some words with her

Ben: Lonnie don’t please

Lonnie: no, Ben, I’m sorry. But this chick abducted you, tried to kill you, hypnotised you and tried to capsize the boat the entire student body was on. I think that warrants a dragging. Don’t you?

Harry: if you hurt her

Lonnie: what are you gonna do jar jar? Flirt at me? Yeah didn’t think so. C’mon guys. Oh Ben. Love the wings and the beard.

Ben (feeling his teeth with his tongue): I think I got fangs as well

Lonnie: can you believe this guy. King of an entire nation, almost pure magic and still inordinately adorable. How does he do it? Not as adorable as you though Gilly

Gil: YAY!

(Harry growls in irritation. They start to move. Unbeknownst to them Adam whisked away by purple smoke. Back at Evie’s palace she’s itching to get inside. Sadly for her. She’s got a clingy reptile hanging on to her ankle)

Evie: c’mon M let go. I could always kick you into the foliage?

Mal (reassuming her regular form): I have a bad feeling about who’s waiting for us in there

Evie: it’s Doug. My Doug. I’m sure he’s fine.

Mal: sis look. The way you reacted to seeing Doug in the mirror. It’s gonna be a lot worse to seeing him like that in person.

Evie: so you obviously don’t me all that well then “sis”

(She stalks off inside the house)

Mal: sadly I do know that well. (Turning to the Facillier’s) look. I’m not expecting you guys to go in there with us

Uma (already heading inside): way ahead of ya

Mal: you’re eager

Uma: don’t wanna miss the kaboom

(Inside the house. Evie’s poking and prodding Doug’s dude futilely)

Evie: c’mon sweetie stop playing around it’s time to wake up now

Uma: not as fun as I thought it was gonna be

Mal: she’s in shock. Once her body and brain catch up with each other. It’ll be horrible

Uma: but it’s a sleeping curse. She knows how to wake him up.

Mal: she’s emotionally involved ok? Like I said. Body and brain haven’t caught with each other yet

Celia: oh no

Mal: what?

Celia: uhhhh nothing. Hey, Uma, why don’t we go see the pool?

Uma: what’s that

Mal (following Celia’s line of sight and cottoning on): yes! The pool! The pool is great. And the hot tub is just what someone like us needs after a day like today

Celia: exactly so c’mon sis. Let’s go for a dip

Uma: I’ve spent a year in the ocean. I don’t need to go back into some more water. Now what are you trying to keep me from?

Celia and Mal: it doesn’t matter

Mal (telepathically to Celia): keek her away from the couch (verbally) I’ll try and pry Evie off her man

Uma (her voice very small): no

Celia: ohhhh fuck

Mal (walking over to Evie and gently trying to pull her away): c’mon kiddo. You need a breather

Evie (thickly): no, I’m not leaving him

Mal: you need to eat, you need to drink. If you’re stressing out you’ll be no help to him.

Evie (stubbornly): I’m not leaving

Uma: WHY IS THERE ONLY ONE OF THEM!!!!!!!!!!

Celia: and there we go

Mal: c’mon you can’t help him when you’re like this

(She starts pulling Evie away from Doug. Evie starts screaming and crying begging Mal to leave her there. Celia tries to do the same to Uma who starts screaming and crying demanding to know why only one twin is on the couch. Eventually it gets too much for the temporary queen)

Mal: ok that’s it. Both of you FREEZE. That’s better. Celia. Reconvene in the kitchen

(In the kitchen)

Celia: what is her problem? It’s a curse. She knows what to do. True loves kiss. It’s not that difficult

Mal: well it is if you have their combined dating history

Celia: yeah she dated the dick that’s trying to kill us. Juice please. Thank you. Merlot? Really?

Mal: my hip flask ran out. Fry up?

Celia: sure. Wait what do you mean combined dating history?

Mal: Doug is amazing and kind and attractive and will defend those he cares about to his final breath. But Dopey’s son.

Celia: ohhhh. He’s like dizzy.

Both: kid of a sidekick

Mal: and here. The social hierarchy was: Prince, Princess, hero, heroine, sidekick

Celia: poor guy.

Mal: yeah. So you’ve got. Brainwashed girl who feels compelled to throw herself at a royal douchebag. Douche bag ghosts her. She’s heartbroken, despite me jay and Carlos spending days trying push her to the better and accurate option of Doug,

Celia: as you do

Mal: right. Then you have Doug. He’s Harry Potter and lifes Dudley Dursley

Celia: what

Mal: I’ll let him explain that reference. Anyway. Because of what they’ve each gone through separately. They’re wracked with insecurity. Because there’s that niggling feeling that they’ll get heartbroken again

Celia: so what do we do?

Mal: I need to be the responsible big sister and kick her ass into gear

Celia: and me?

Mal: put a blanket on Squirmy he looks cold and try to make sure your sister doesn’t burn this place to the ground with us inside

Celia: smart plan

Mal: hold on I’m getting a call. Mal here. Jay. You found him! Oh thank god. Good that’s good. Whoever said that about my son needs a kick in the dick. Oops. Sorry hadie. What? Bastards. Squirmy’s here. Asleep and aortaless. But he’s here. Dizzy’s fine. That’s just Celia whooping. Merlot. Well the hip flask ran out. Yes I did. I know I should’ve. But I didn’t. Mom and————whatever she does to him he’ll survive and isn’t her fault. Ohhhh. Oh yeah. Yeah. I froze them. She’s heavy. Not good. At all. Oooh I dunno. Two hours. Surprise? Oh I see. This is why you didn’t FaceTime? Thought as much. Well. See you when we see you. Love ya. Bye. Got all that kid?

Celia: essentially, yeah

Mal: good. Now take Uma’s sword off her. Knowing her she’ll start swinging the nearest weapon once she’s reanimated

Celia: and Evie?

Mal: oooooh. Put a protection spell on Squirmy in case the windows shatter

Celia: done. Ready?

Mal: god no. But when have I ever been?

(They go back to their positions and Mal unfreezes the sorceress and the sea witch. Immediately the two of the resume their breakdowns. Uma peters our first and dissolves into tears. Evie keeps screaming at Mal to let her go until her voice goes horse)

Mal: are you done?

(Evie grumpily shoves Mal off her and stalks outside to the back garden)

Mal: Uma what about you? Need a drink (Evie lets out a skyward scream and the windows all shatter to dust)...Celia honey, could you be very very helpful to your very very tired cousin and clean up the glass?

(Her right eye twitches and Celia reverses tne damage)

Mal: thank you. Uma. Drink?

Uma: mhmm

(She sits Uma at the kitchen island and pours her a glass of wine)

Mal: thought you might be fed up with grog and muskat. The I’m more partial to rosé but red is Gil’s favourite.

Uma: I’m s. Suh. Rry (Celia elbows her in the ribs) I’m sorry

Mal: why? You were stuck with you’re mother for a year. That must’ve been hell for you. At least you know who what was unconscious for it. But you remember everything. If anything it should be me apologising to you

Uma: you said that back on the ship

Mal: and I’ll keep saying it until you tell me to shut it

Uma: Mal

Mal: yah?

Uma: shut it

Mal: ookay

Uma: what’re you gonna do about her?

Mal: I’ll let E cool off then try to talk sense into her.

Uma: shouldn’t it be easy though? TLK. It worked with you and beasty boy last year. So why can’t she.

Mal: I have literally just filled Celia in on their joint history. You wanna know why she’s distraught, ask your sister. Now. Drink.

Uma: mm this is good

Mal: beats grog don’t it?

Uma: yeah. More?

Mal: sure

Celia: I’ll just take a lil snifter of brandy

Uma and Mal: dream on kid

Celia: bitch

Mal: we’re you’re family

Uma: we’re allowed to be

Mal: you know. If Grimhilde hadn’t sent Evie after us. And I hadn’t, you know

Uma: yeah, we could’ve teared the isle up.

Mal: two sets of juvenile delinquents

Uma: one massive conflagration

Mal: more?

Uma: ehhhhh. Go on then

(This is when “old fashioned” happens. After the song Mal stops and looks outside)

Mal: I should probably go check on her right?

Celia: you do that and I’ll stay here

Uma: under the watchful eye of your older sister

Celia: fuck

(Mal goes outside to Evie who’s sitting in the gazebo)

Mal: hiya.

Evie: what’s wrong with me?

Mal: how much time have ya got?

Evie: I’m being serious here. A year and a half with Doug and I can’t say it.

Mal: it took me a while to say it to Ben

Evie: six months. Compared to eighteen that’s pretty damn quick.

Mal: Don’t measure your own relationship with you’re own boyfriend by mine and my fiancé’s. Remember what Professor Porter said in science class. No two people are alike

Evie: Archimedes Q Porter is a living remnant of the Victorian era. And as such. He is full of shit half the time.

Mal: oh c’mon sis. Porter was your favourite teacher. After the other guy got done for exam favourtism. Good job on that by the way. Never liked him. Smarmy ass little bastard.

Evie: it was Doug who told on him. There was literally no way in hell chad got a 100% on a test he never studied for. It also got Royston booted off the board of governors.

Mal: finally. So. Wanna talk it out?

Evie: no. It’s just that

(She sighs. This is when “safer” happens. After the song Evie looks at Mal in shock)

Evie: what?

Mal: don’t kiss him. Let him slumber. When we off the maniacs the curse will end and Doug will wake up. Of course he’ll be heartbroken. But at least you won’t have failed. Right?

Evie: how, how COULD YOU! I can’t just leave him like this. He’s my boyfriend. I love him!

Mal: and there’s your answer. Ouch! Ooo!

(Evie just slapped her around the face. Then she hugs her)

Evie: you’re a bitch you know that right?

Mal: yes. I think you may have mentioned it before

Evie (pulling away): a giant scaled covered purple soon to be shedding bitch

Mal: and your fourth fifths of the way to becoming a suburban housewife

Evie: why is that an insult?

Mal: I dunno. Saw it on a britcom. Noe go. Go girl go. Save your Robert Phillip

(Evie lets out a happy shriek and rushes back into the house)

Vision!Ben: you did a good thing

Mal: just hope the end result is desirable for all concerned.

Ben: understandable. Doug is one if you’re closest friends.

Mal: he’s first and foremost Ben’s in the entire goddamn world. It’ll kill Ben if he doesn’t wake up. Now if you’ll excuse me I gotta go out some ice on my ol’ cheek here. Sorceress packs a punch.

(She walks back to the house. In the mirror world Doug and vision!Evie have arrived back at the mirror in Evie’s workshop. With a front row seat to his own unconscious body)

Evie: she’s here! Oh yes finally

Doug: oh thank god.

Evie: there’s probably still time for a small amount of and I’m looking at your face and I’m seeing that there isn’t.

Doug: I’m sorry. It’s just that I know your true form is me. It’d just be too weird

Evie (same time as him): too weird. I understand. Physical manifestation of your girlfriends subconscious who’s true form is yourself isn’t exactly the greatest claim to fame is it?

Doug:...please don’t make me answer that

Evie: ah yeah. The clone incident. (Perking up). We should replicate that

Doug (talking over her): no we shouldn’t. Never again (he walks right up to the mirror). C’mon E. Please. I know you can do it. Please.

Evie: it will work

Doug: you don’t know that. Neither of us know that. (To the real world). Please Evie. Honey. Just say it. Say something. Please. Or just a kiss. It doesn’t even need any gravitas. Just shove our lips together. That’ll do it. Just please do something. She’s hesitating

Evie: that shouldn’t be happening. C’mon kid. Do it. Oh god. I’m so sorry sweetheart. This is where I leave you

(She turns back into Doug, jumps out of the mirror and cuffs Evie around the back of the head)

Evie: OW! What was that for?

V!Doug: hesitating.

Evie: I’m scared. I love him. But I’m scared.

Doug: oh good god almighty. You’re impossible you know that right?

Evie: mhmm.

Doug: you know what? Fine. Bimble however long you like. I am going back into the mirror and comforting your boyfriend. Auf Widershein

Evie: I’m so so sorry. You deserve better

(In the mirror)

Doug: but you’re the best.

V!Evie: it could take some time dear.

Doug: so what do we do?

Evie: we wait

(This is when “say something” happens. After the song, in the real world, Evie crouches down beside Doug)

Evie: how do I start this? I guess I should just come right out and say it. I love you. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re going through this. I’m sorry I let you stay here. I’m sorry I didn’t stay. And I’m sorry if you ever thought I didn’t love you. Because I do. And I’m kicking myself for letting you stay here. I should’ve brought you with me. Screw the twins you’re more important (she dodges a vodka bottle) NOT NOW UMA! I’M SPILLIMG MY HEART PUT TO MY BOYFRIEND HERE IF YOU DON’T MIND! Idiot girl. The fact of the matter is. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me Doug. I’m sorry it took so long for me to say it. That’s on me. Not you. I love you. I always will.

(This is when “never knew I needed happens”. After the song, she kisses him. In the mirror vision Evie kisses him as well)

V!Evie: see you on the other side my dear one

Doug: you too

(Doug fades away from the mirror world and wakes up in the real world with a jolt. He sits up, strokes Evie’s cheek and pulls her into a hug)

[stellalux-universe]

Notes: 

Whoo-hooo! Look who's back!

I'm so sorry this took so long! December literally kicked my ass, and I tried to write, I really did. But every day I got home from work and literally passed out on my couch... so, yeah, didn't get much done over the holidays.

But I'm back and better and I'm gonna say that I'll update more regularly but we'll see. My goal is at least two chapters a month... but we'll see how that goes -hangs head in shame-

Anyways! Please enjoy and comment if you like! My resolution for 2020, besides writing more, is to comment more on fics that I enjoy instead of telling myself that I'll go back and comment later and then totally forgetting like the trash that I am.

Love you all!

-Partial smut (of fucking course with me) so NSFW friends.

Tag list of gorgeous people who requested I inform them of when I post because they’re the sweetest 😭: @smokeandmirrorz​ @xpoisonousrosesx​ and @duffshairdye​

*Let me know if you would like to be added to a general tag list or just to this story and I’ll so do it!

Chapter 3: Some Like The Evil

The sunlight filtering through the windows and into the bedroom is far too bright to belong to the morning. The intense glare settles over Nikki’s eyelids, warm, orange, and irritating when all he wants to do in the world is keep sleeping. It figures that he would have been too fucked up last night to actually draw the blinds before he fell into bed.

He has nothing to do today, one of his last days off before rehearsals and preparations kick into high gear for the tour so he fights tooth and nail against returning to consciousness, desiring nothing more than to sink back into that blissful haze of slumber but it’s of no use. His mind is slowly becoming more and more aware of the world around him and as he drowsily blinks his eyelids open, he groans in annoyance when his eyes burn with the transition from darkness to light.

He wants to raise a hand to cover his eyes but as soon as he tries he finds that he can’t lift his arms, more than that, he can barely even twitch his fingers. The shock wakes him up completely enough to realize that his whole body is heavy, weighed down like lead, and an exhaustion he’s never known is suddenly apparent to him. He’s been tired before, even been exhausted before after a killer show and a long night of partying, but the bone deep fatigue that makes him struggle to even minimally move his body is unlike anything that he has ever felt before.

For a moment he thinks that he’s maybe come down with something and gotten himself seriously sick. It’s the only explanation that his tired mind can come up with because he didn’t do anything last night to explain why he’s feeling this way. He wracks his brain, going over the events of the previous day to try to find a reason for why his body feels like it’s about ten times heavier. He had felt fine when he got home, he had fucked around a bit and watched some tv, went to his studio to try to write a bit, got frustrated over not being able to write a damn thing, drank a third of a handle of Jack… passed out and went to bed. Standard practice for a night in.

But then, unbidden, his brain flashes a series of images as he tries to pinpoint an explanation; curly hair and glowing eyes looking up at him from beneath dark lashes, long slender back arched beneath him, red lips and a wicked smile and sharp teeth… no, not teeth, fangs. Fangs that sunk into the skin of his shoulders, horns tucked in amongst wild wavy brown hair, a tail that wrapped itself around Nikki’s thigh as he fucked the gorgeous demon from behind, and claws that tore down his back as he nailed him with his legs wrapped around his waist.

Remembering his dream is nothing but bitter sweet but he’s torn out of his thought process when a soft noise starts making itself known to him. That’s when Nikki finally looks down and very nearly has a heart attack at what meets his eyes.

It’s nearly impossible to him and for a second his mind is blank, he’s holding his breath and everything just stops because there, laid out and curled up on his chest, is the demon from his dream. Nikki almost thinks that he’s still dreaming but the haziness that had been over him the previous night is gone and his clarity tells him that he is more than definitely awake which also makes him realize something else.

Last night was absolutely, startlingly real.

It wasn’t a dream, or an alcohol infused fantasy, it wasn’t even a hallucination. He really spent all night fucking a demon and what’s more, it had been the single best sexual experience of his life. Even now, looking down at the demon purring, absolutely fucking purring, as he slept on his chest, Nikki thinks that he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life. In the sunlight pouring over them he can see that his long curly hair is actually a dark brown instead of black like he thought last night, his skin is olive toned and lightly tanned, one hand cutely curled up by his pretty face.    

None of that seems to stop the steady panic filling him though, and he has to look back up and away from the demon, Tommy- his mind supplies out of nowhere, and try to calm himself down before he loses it.

For all that he found witchcraft and religion monumentally interesting, he didn’t actually believe a single word of it. He’d had friends growing up who went to church and his grandparents had of course tried to get him involved with theirs as a way to alter his behavior during his childhood but Nikki had made his peace with the fact that there was no way any type of god existed a long time ago. He was drawn to Satanic imagery for the pure aesthetic and used it in his music and his performances as a metaphor for rebelling against the norm, and as a fuck you to general society of course. It was dark and twisted, often how he felt himself, so of course he gravitated to it but that was the extent of his involvement.

This challenges everything he knew, everything he thought he believed and didn’t believe in because if the demon on top of him right now was real, does that mean that everything else is too? Are there angels, and a God and heaven and hell? Is there a Satan and what does that mean for him if there is? Is this creature going to wake up and just slaughter him, right here in his bed in the bright light of day and send him to hell where he undoubtedly belongs after everything he has done in his life so far? Surely fucking a demon and going multiple rounds would be a sure way to get barred from heaven even if nothing else that he has done had.

He struggles to move his body again, breathing and heart rate fast in his alarm, but he can’t do much more than squirm uselessly as his body is nearly completely unresponsive. He’s so busy fighting the muscles in his limbs to try to get them to just move that he doesn’t even notice that the soft purring has stopped until he happens to look back down to try to figure out what to do about his paralysis and sees the demon glaring up at him from beneath the fringe of his bangs and if Nikki could have jumped in his surprise, he would have.

As it is, he just freezes, green eyes wide as he watches the demon blink sleepily and sit up, both hands resting on Nikki’s chest so he can arch and stretch his back like a cat on top of him and it’s because of that movement that Nikki realizes that he’s still inside of the demon, Tommy straddled across his lap and still impaled on his now soft cock and while the idea of the creature falling asleep with Nikki’s dick inside of him is obscenely hot, it does nothing to quell his current panic. He’s definitely going straight to hell for this.

Tommy finally settles on top of him, sitting up straight on Nikki’s hips and tilting his head curiously as he looks down at him and Nikki really needs to stop thinking that this literal demon is cute right now before he has an aneurysm.

“Well, you woke me up with all your panic, so you want to tell me what’s wrong Nik?” The demon actually has the audacity to look annoyed with him, big brown eyes narrowed and actually pouting as he looks down at him. As if Nikki wasn’t having a life altering existential crisis right now.

Nikki can’t even say anything for a moment, wide eyes moving over the little black horns and the thin tail that’s now lazily whipping back and forth behind Tommy, mouth opening and closing without a word coming out because he honestly does not know what to say.

Tommy gives a little sigh of exasperation, leaning over him to flick his nose in an almost playful gesture and saying, “Hello, earth to Nikki Sixx, you alive down there dude?”

That’s enough to jolt him out of his daze, swallowing his nerves and just muttering a quiet, “You’re real.”

Tommy sits back up at that abruptly, the demon looking down at him with wide eyes and Nikki notes how brightly they shine in the light of the sun, the red glow that he’s seen a couple times gone for now, before Tommy is actually laughing. It’s a boisterous, happy noise and it almost makes Nikki smile just to hear it but he’s far too incredulous to do so at the moment.

“You really didn’t summon me on purpose did you?” The demon asks with laughter still in his voice, red lips pulled back into a wide smile that shows off one small fang as it peeks over his lip, giggling again when Nikki shakes him head mutely, “You really thought last night was some sort of fever dream or something then huh? Dream of fucking demons often, Nikki Sixx?”

Nikki is sputtering at the teasing, terrified or not, this demon was making fun of him and embarrassment is not a feeling that Nikki likes, “I don’t- I just- fuck, you’re a literal fucking demon, like a real demon, a ‘from hell’ demon. You could literally kill me right now, easy, and I’d go straight to hell-”

Tommy moves swiftly, grabs his hands and pins them to the bed above his head, bending down to nip at his already sore bottom lip, “Cool it human, if I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it last night.”

That doesn’t exactly inspire much relaxation for Nikki, however, as the demon basically just told him that he more than definitely could kill him but Nikki is already moving on to the next issue at hand, “I fucked a demon.”

Tommy gives him that same sultry smile from last night and Nikki’s eyes widen when he feels his cock twitch from where it’s still buried inside of the creature. The demon nuzzles into his neck then, nipping at the sensitive skin behind his ear and giggles again, “Yes, you really did, multiple times.”

Nikki unconsciously tilts his head a little to the side, unintentionally giving Tommy more room to mark up his neck even as he says, “That was you, you did some sort of fucking demon magic to make me fuck you.”

Tommy pulls away at that, letting go of Nikki’s hands and sitting up straight, looking down at Nikki with an extremely offended expression on his face, “You got hard for me all on your own Nikki Sixx, I just kept you that way for longer than you’d usually be able to last.”

Nikki can’t argue against that, because as soon as Tommy says it, he knows it was true. He thinks about how he had entered his bedroom last night, seeing Tommy spread across his bed just like the dream he thought that it was. He had started getting hard just looking at the demon.

Tommy glares down at him, that red glow from last night back in his eyes, claws scratching lightly down Nikki’s chest as he dips down and bites lightly at the bassist’s lip, “I didn’t make you grab me by my hair and fuck my mouth until you were cumming down my throat.”

The bassist groans, both at Tommy’s ministrations and the images his words conjure up in Nikki’s mind. He should still feel afraid, but something about Tommy is just so appealing to him that he feels that fear slipping away easily. And why shouldn’t it? Nikki has always loved dark and twisted things.

He watches with hooded green eyes when Tommy gives him a wicked grin, the demon running his lips softly over his jaw as he starts to gently rock his hips against him, “I didn’t make you fuck up into me as I rode you, or make you put me on my back and fuck me until I was crying, and I definitely didn’t make you wrestle me onto my hands and knees and fuck me from behind. That was all you Nik.”

Nikki groans again as he feels himself hardening inside of Tommy, the demon making small little whimpers as he feels it too, “I can’t go again, fuck, there’s no way.”

Tommy straightens up on top of him, hips rolling down and curls swaying with the movement of his body as he laughs breathily, “It feels like you can Nik, and this is all you too, no demon magic involved.”

“Fuck, Tommy, I can’t even move my fucking body, I can’t fuck you again. What the hell did you do to me?” Nikki grunts out, trying his hardest to move his arms, or legs, anything.

The demon on top of him slows his movement then, hips gently grinding and Nikki is surprised to see the light blush light up Tommy’s cheeks as he answers, “I- I may have taken too much energy from you last night, I’m sorry.”

Nikki looks up at him in confusion, eyes questioning as he asks, “Just what the hell does that mean?”

Tommy’s blush deepens and Nikki can’t help but be endeared at the slightly flustered disposition he’s portraying. He probably shouldn’t find it as cute as he did, but it was just so different from the absolutely playful, seductive behavior he has had up until now, Nikki just can’t help it.

“Well, I’m, I’m a sex demon right? An incubus, succubus, whatever the hell you humans call us, I get nourishment from, well from-”

“From sex.” Nikki finishes for him, finally understand a little bit about what was going on, honestly relieved that he wasn’t just dying or something more dramatic.

“From sexual energy, yeah.” Tommy nods, eyes wide and still blushing as he looks down at Nikki, “I don’t really need that much, but you were just…”

Nikki raises an eyebrow at the demon as he trails off, waiting for him to continue as Tommy’s expression becomes downright petulant, “Yeah? I was just?”

Tommy huffs out in frustration, looking away as he rocks his hips a little more insistently and whines as he completes his sentence, “You were just so good, I couldn’t stop.”

The statement and the movement of Tommy’s hips on top of him have him hissing out a curse, he’s fully hard now and at this point he couldn’t care less about Tommy being a demon or what that means for his whole philosophical outlook on life. He just wants Tommy again, as crazy as that is, and he fully accepts that for right now.

“Tommy…” Nikki groans, trying to get the demon’s attention from where he’s losing focus as he grinds down a little harder. “Tommy! Fuck, I still can’t move!”

Tommy’s eyes flutter open, the little whines that had been escaping his lips pausing as he slows his movements again and looks down at Nikki with wide eyes, “Oh… OH! I can fix that.”

The demon is suddenly biting down on his own lip, catching the flesh with a fang so that blood starts seeping slowly from the wound before he’s leaning down and kissing Nikki deep and ravenous, pulling Nikki’s tongue into his mouth to encourage the bassist to explore. Nikki does his best with the limited movement afforded to his body but as he tastes Tommy’s blood he can feel his muscles start to respond, energy flooding back into his limbs until he’s able to bring his arms up to wrap around the demon and roll them over, hitching those long legs up around his waist and thrusting into Tommy’s tight, wet heat with a groan.

Tommy’s reaction is instantaneous, arching his back sharply and sinking his claws into Nikki’s shoulders as he cries out Nikki’s name. The demon rolls his hips into the bassist’s thrusts greedily, tossing his head back when the human surges down to bite and kiss at his neck, “Nnngh, Nik, Nikki, oh, y-you’re going to use up all of you-your energy again.”

Nikki can’t help the grin that pulls at his lips as he straightens to a kneel, holding Tommy’s hips up as he pounds into the demon beneath him. The obscene moan he gets, the way Tommy’s eyes roll back and his hands pull at his own hair makes him groan at the arousing display he makes, “Fuck babe, I don’t care. If, if I’m ruining my chances of getting into heaven I ain’t gonna half ass it.”

The demon moans again before giggling, reaching up to grab at Nikki’s hair and yank him back down, licking a stripe up his neck before biting at the bassist’s ear lobe, “T-trust me Nik, fuck, heaven is overrated.”

And Nikki might just be damned already because he believes it. He believes it as he fucks the demon into another screaming orgasm and he believes it when Tommy curls up afterwards into Nikki’s side and rests his head on his shoulder and he definitely believes it when just before he passes out again he manages to catch Tommy muttering, “You really are something else Nikki Sixx.”

He believes in this demon and he really doesn’t care if fucking him means he goes straight to hell when he dies, it’s a sin that is completely worth the punishment.

But when he wakes up again in the early hours of the next morning, Tommy is gone.

[nightsinneverland]

Aura, the Shield and the Sword

Although Aura Storms hasn’t been around that long, she was given certain skills, gifts and wisdom that could fit into several centuries of living. Along with a sword engraved with Nordic and African runes and a dog that holds more to the visible eye, can Aura take any more challenges? Maybe say a soulmate who she thought was dead? Or maybe an entourage of heroes that are constantly in her way?

-

Chapter Three.

4:32 am. My watch reads. Today it matches the blue polka-dotted collar that adorns Brooklyn’s neck. Eternal fireflies in various jars littered all over my apartment, keep my companion and me out of the immense dark as it is still early. 

That, and I forgot to pay the electric bill this time around. 

I heave out a sigh, knowing that the peace that has caressed my household ever since we had that little spider invader will be interrupted soon enough. New wards put into place after realizing the simple rune I made was only limited to two years and has been occupied by myself and Brooklyn for five.

Looking over the medium-sized pot that I’m stirring, throwing in an herb every so often, I think of how much time the little widow has left. 

I wonder how much her body has deteriorated.

After the fifth or so stir from the wooden spoon engraved with small runes passed down from my mother, I look to Brooklyn, knowing he has the final ingredient of the potion.

“Alright, do your thing,” I tell Brooklyn stepping away from the stove, putting the wooden spoon in the sink for later cleansing. “Not too much though. We don’t want her paralyzed. At least not yet”.

Brooklyn snorts and levels me with a look, before he turns to the pot, easily reaching it given his immense size. He is at least two times bigger than the average Great Dane.

I lean against the counter, rubbing the random sprigs of lavender from my fingers as I watch the thick drool mixed with venom drip from his mouth like honey into the pot.

Brooklyn insisted on an antidote for the pest. I scoff.

Her death is a just punishment for breaking and entering and snooping where she doesn’t belong.

Knowing my thoughts based on the look on my face, I receive a sharp bark along with a disapproving stare. I roll my eyes, watching him grab a tincture bottle from one of the open cabinets, walking over to me and shoving it into my hand.

“Alright alright. Fucking pushy ass demon”, I grumble, bottling up the mixture from the pot. Wiping off the excess that dripped down the sides, I set it aside to get dressed and ready for an encounter with a group of annoying ass “heroes”.

-

6:00 am. My black leather watch reads at me. Zipping up by shiny black leather boots, giving me an extra couple inches from my 5’7 frame, I march into the kitchen, downing a shot of vodka for courage and call Brooklyn over.

“Let’s get this shit over with.”

Pocketing the antidote and seeing Brooklyn patter over to my side, I transport us straight into the common room of Tony Stark’s building.

We make it to a solid fifteen seconds before the alarms start sounding and I’m being told by a machine to address myself and why I’m here.

“Security breach. Unauthorized personnel”. A woman’s voice echos through the common room. I smirk and saunter over to the windows, taking in the great view. The sunrise looking pretty damn beautiful from here. I admire the landscape for at least five minutes while feeling the movement through the air.

Still taking in the impressive view, I hear the sound of whirring and I know it’s from one of the Ironman robots pointing a shooter at me a couple of feet away, Tony Stark’s voice coming through the machine. 

“The homeless shelter is on 3rd Ave Miss,” the shooter moving over to Brooklyn, my companion baring his teeth in his own warning. “Although I don’t think they allow dogs this size.”

I turn around, giving him a short laugh, making my way over to my big puppy who is still baring his teeth, waiting for the green light to tear the tin can to shreds.

“Oh silly me! And to think I wanted to give one of ya’ll a present.” I pretend to pout.

More noises come from the machine, the shooter being pointed at us glowing brighter, the heat reaching me. I grow annoyed and irritated. 

“Why are you here?”, Tony finally asks me. The tone of his voice hardened, knowing our little talking game is over with.

I level him with a blank stare, my fingers slowly curling and air casting spells, noticing the Ironman suit slowly powering off and breaking apart to reveal Stark’s face, his eyes widening in shock and slight fear as I start stepping towards him still air casting, his suit revealing more of his body, essentially kicking him out of the suit.

Stopping in front of him and invading his space, I trail my small fingers across his face making him see the runes engraved into my skin. Feeling his uncomfortableness emitting from his pores, it makes me smile.

Keeping eye contact with the Stark, I take a small step back and open my other hand in front of him, revealing the small black gadget that was left in my home.

“I’ve come to return something of your teammates. Why don’t you be a doll and fetch her for me? I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to see me as I have a present for her as well.” I tell the man in front of me, recognition showing in his eyes of who I’m talking about as he takes in the item in my hand.

I watch the rich man gulp and open his mouth, “F.R.I.D.A.Y, wake up everyone. Urgent team meeting. Common room.” I give him a fake smile in response and turn away from him, returning back to the window seeing the sun rising up in the sky.

Brooklyn still has his teeth still bared, eyes intently tracking the stranger in front of him. Ears standing straight up.

-

7:32 am. Not needing a clock already knowing what time it is. I look around the common room, eyes locking with the woman who had enough balls to break into my apartment.

Her red hair looked lackluster, skin sallow and lips cracked. I smile, knowing the toxins from Brooklyn’s teeth were slowly eating away at her.

Serves her right.

Walking right up to her, not even acknowledging the rest of the “team”, I ask her in a firm voice, “What were you doing in my home?”

The neutral facial expression on her face impressed me, but also made me more irritated. Silence emitted from her. I turn around, stepping into the center of the room, standing in front of a white leather couch.

“You see, I know how you’re feeling right now. And I’m going to tell you that you will die unless you have the antidote,” Seeing a tiny telltale flash of fear through her eyes let me know I had her right where I wanted her. 

“Now if you want to keep up with this act which is just gonna piss me off more, go right ahead. I’m sure your buddies here will miss the pussy you throw around am I right?” Her eyes narrowed in response.

“Who even are you?” A voice from my left asked. I side-eye him, taking in his person. Short brown hair, button nose, big biceps, knowing eyes. Must be the archer. I step to him, almost reaching his chin in height.

“Why don’t you ask the little spider?” I challenge him. Not engaging any further, I make my way to the bar, picking up a bottle of very expensive whiskey and call Brooklyn over.

“This is going nowhere and this pissing match is tiring,” Looking over everyone and landing on the redhead. “I don’t lose anything if you die. But they do.” And with that, I transported my dog and me back into my apartment.

I give Brooklyn a scratch behind the ear in thanks and make my way into the kitchen to taste my new handle of whiskey. The antidote chilling in my back pocket under my protection in case we get another visitor.

-

“Why didn’t you just tell her Nat? Do you really want to die!?” Clint asks, his voice almost hysterical. His concern going unnoticed by the rumbling of a quinjet returning.

He looks to Tony, who is sulking over the loss of his premium alcohol.

“Who is this chick?” He asks himself, walking over to his friend, wanting to help her back to her room. Her feet shuffle tiredly. Trying not to start crying, he focuses on getting Natasha back to bed without any issues.

Last time she fainted from the fatigue and was out for two whole days.

I’ll get you that antidote Nat, I promise.

-

Bringing in the last box of files and pictures, Sam wipes his dusty hands on his dark denim jeans, looking around the not so empty apartment he’s helping a friend move into. As he finishes wiping his hands, he slowly looks at his left still feeling the tingle flowing throughout. 

It started after he shook hands with the cute curly-headed girl with the huge dog at the park a few weeks ago and it hasn’t stopped. If he looked close and hard enough he could swear he saw colors flowing through his hand as well.

He brought his hand up to his face to inspect it more closely and wondered if he was going crazy and seeing things that weren’t really there.

A huge hand placed on his shoulder brought him out of his inspecting of his hand. He looked over his shoulder into cerulean eyes and gave them a smile.

Sam turned towards his friend, accepting and returning the hug that was offered.

“Thank you for helping me, pal. I didn’t know who else to ask.” The deep voice filled with gratitude, made Sam feel wanted and appreciated.

“Not a problem Steve. You can pay me back by getting the food bill. I ordered us some Thai” He responded. Taking in the laugh his new friend gave him.

“Sure pal”.

[blehbleehhhh]

I Need You pt. 1💕 (EreMika)

A lovely reader requested a fic a LONG time ago (I'm so sorry!!) where Mikasa gets jealous. My hubby helped me write this one. I'm sorry you had to wait so long lol but here it is! I really hope you like it ❤️ Keep up the requests my loves! Recovering from surgery is boring and I could always use more ideas! There's obviously smut in this. Sorry it's so long, I can't post it all at once, so it’s split in half, part two will be uploaded immediately after this one, and I’ll put the link to it in this as well. Mwah. < part two!

It's been going on for longer than anyone can remember - Eren wakes up early so he can begin the day training with Annie to improve upon hand to hand combat skills in addition to squeezing that in during the day amongst their already chaotic schedules, which unfortunately seems to have created a mutual respect much to Mikasa's dismay, who is sitting on the grass silently protesting not far from where they're training. The girl feels unbelievably guilty for not entirely supporting her friend because she’s all too aware that this is a wonderful opportunity for him, and he has improved considerably in just the short few weeks they've been practicing together. What's worse is how much time Eren is spending with Annie, unknowingly making her genuinely concerned that he harbors romantic feelings for her, which is a thought that Mikasa simply cannot tolerate. The only thing she despises more than the thought of them always being together, would be witnessing their training sessions because she doesn't understand why he didn't approach herself for help. "You are aware that you cannot actually stare holes in the back of her head, right?" Armin chuckled as he turned the page of his book that he literally finished over half of in a short period of twenty four hours, something she always found to be impressive. She happily tore her eyes away from the repulsive sight of Eren getting pinned down beneath the blonde, leaning back against the tree with a long, drawn out sigh and watched with an unreadable face as Armin closed his book over a dried out leaf. He looked up at her with a tiny smile as he connected his hands under his head and lay the book on his stomach, feet already propped up on the tree's trunk. "Seriously, Mika, if looks could kill." The girl only gave a truly somber sigh and switched her gaze to the grass beneath her hands as she brought both of her knees up to her chest, slowly running her fingers through the soft vegetation.

“Don’t you miss him, Armin?”

"Yeah, but it is what it is. You do seem to be angry, though."

"Why would you think that?"

"Well, because you've been giving them the death stare since you sat down twenty minutes ago." His face fell when she slowly shook her head, something she usually does when she's about to cry. "Wait, are you jealous?

"I..." Mikasa sighed as she lifted her head and turned her attention back to Eren, only to see him fling Annie onto her back then climb on top to pin her down, and a cloud of dust surrounding them in retaliation, making her mind cloud with thoughts of being underneath him herself but for a very, very different reason. The sight was enough to set her over the edge with jealousy and make her hands curl into fists. "I have a headache. I think I'm going to head back to my room and lie down until dinner." Armin wore a frown when she looked back at him, undoubtedly because he hates to see her so heartbroken like this. He knows how long she's loved Eren.

“You gonna be okay?”

"Yeah," She offered a small, reassuring smile as she slowly rose to her feet, though she could tell that he wasn't buying it. "I'll see you later." These constant thoughts of Annie training with Eren are making her shake with anger, so she made sure not to look that direction when running for her bunker. Mikasa is fuming now that her mind is stuck on trying to understand why he didn't ask her to help, but most of all, how he constantly evades not giving enough credit to how strong she is. Perhaps the best way to convince him that I'm strong enough without him and his hero complex is to cut him out of my life? With a heavy heart, she entered her bedroom and carefully closed the door behind her, thankful that she could now lie down and place a pillow over her eyes, waiting impatiently for fatigue to take over so she can get some rest. That evening at dinner is when she started to ignore him, beating herself up every second it dragged on because she desperately wants to speak with him and breathe his air, but she just can't take it anymore. She won't take it anymore.

The next day was easily as annoying and difficult for the soldiers like always, but Mikasa had gradually began to feel hurt that he hadn't seemed to have noticed her absence but, little did she know, he's much more observant than she realized. Of course, Eren would notice her absence throughout the day because she's always, always by his side and he's grown so accustomed to her comforting presence, that he's feeling something never really felt for her, yearning - he yearns to hear her angelic, soft voice, to have any sort of contact even if she's scolding him for something reckless that he will most likely end up doing. The young man wasn't close to being sure what had occurred between them that could have made her behavior change so drastically over night, but this act of cat and mouse went on all day and only made it seem even longer. Mikasa won't even look his way let alone speak with him, hell, he's pretty sure that she has been avoiding him completely because anytime she spots his familiar face, she either takes off the other direction, or simply avoids his confused, questioning gaze. And because he would be a liar if he said that this wasn't starting to drive him crazy, he decided to ask her what he'd done at dinner that night. "Hey, are you okay?" Oh, how he's grown to miss those gorgeous gray orbs, desiring nothing more than for her to look him in the eyes again, but she simply breathed a barely audible sigh as she propped her head up on one of her fists with her trademark, unreadable expression, staring down at her tray and silently pushing her food around with a fork. It’s always in her eyes. I bet that's why she won't look at me. Though Eren found the response unsatisfactory, he threw the towel in because he knows how stubborn she can be and there truly isn't any reason why she shouldn't have a few days to decompress. However, on day three of being avoided and ignored, he‘d been stewing most of the morning on reasons why she won't acknowledge him and it made his mind up for him, that he was going to say fuck it and ask her what was going on. That evening he was in the common area with a few friends playing an unnecessarily competitive game of cards, when he suddenly became aware of her absence from the room. With a sigh he added two new cards from the draw pile into his hand. "Anyone seen Mikasa?" His eyes flickered up as he chewed a hangnail off his thumb, glancing around the table to see Jean shrug his shoulders while he drew cards for himself and slowly shook his head in irritation with how horrible that are.

“I actually haven’t seen her much today.”

"I'd go check her room, Eren," Armin yawned as he arranged the cards in his hand and displayed them out on the wooden table, lacing his fingers together behind his head as he balances the chair on its back legs. "Oooh, I'm sorry, Jean, but I'm afraid that I've just kicked your ass again." Jean rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, a little more than annoyed that this is the second game he's lost tonight out of the two rounds played so far.

"How are we sure that you're not cheating?!"

"Because I don't need to cheat in order to beat you. You just suck at this game." 

"I smoked you last night."

"Kiss my ass!"

"Yeah, well," Eren set his hand of cards on the table as he pushed his seat back. "You guys can fight over that. I'm gonna go find Mikasa." He stood up with a yawn and strolled lazily out of the room, leaving the two behind to bicker over how his friend is too intelligent for his own good at times. They could have cared less when he walked away, though he did hear Armin quickly wish him a good night from where he stands in a dark hallway with gray stone walls lit by sconces and a few tall candle stands. Eren counted each wooden door he passed until he was certain that he had reached the right one then gave it a firm knock with his knuckle, surprised when she didn't come to the door to let him in, only informing him in her soft voice that 'it was open'. He opened the door to find Mikasa standing at her window already dressed in her nighttime attire and watching the sun setting in the summer sky, it’s powerful rays reflecting a beautiful range of many different colors. "Uh," His deep voice cut through the stillness of the dimly lit room as he cleared his throat and carefully closed the door behind him. "Hey." But she remained silent, listening to the familiar sound of military issued boots on a hardwood floor as they came up behind her and to a stop. Squeezing her eyes shut she swallowed the tears, feeling both relieved and incredibly distressed that he came knocking on her door, though she shouldn't be too surprised after seeing the confused expression on his face three days prior, when she had accidentally made eye contact after a day of training with the others. Eren felt anxious as he cracked his knuckles, his stomach in knots because he's fretting over what he could have done to make her cut him out, watching in awe as the beauty hung her head with a heart wrenching sigh. "Mikasa?" Her silhouette raised a hand up to push silky, shoulder length hair back with her fingers and leaned over the windowsill to observe the world outside, sighing in a way that sounds as if she's fending off coming completely unglued.

"What do you want, Eren?"

[lallemcnt]

go ahead and watch my heart burn (part four)

“When you look at him you see dark night opening, giving way to dawn.”

— Ibn Said al-Maghribi

-

“Talk to me.”

“You shouldn’t have to reassure me all the fucking time! I’m so sick of my brain and how messed up I am!”

“You’re not messed up, Lucas.”

Lucas is perched on the arm of Eliott’s sofa, head bowed and arms shielding his body. Eliott sits on the edge of the sofa at its other end, the exasperated expression on his face mirroring Lucas’ voice. The distance between them, a sofa separating them, feels like miles upon miles, an impossible space to close. Lucas understands his frustration, he even feels sorry for him, sorry that he has to deal with Lucas when he gets like this: frustrated and insecure, when Eliott hasn’t done anything to incite these feelings, when he has been nothing but understanding, nothing but absolutely caring, nothing but a flame in the dark on the days when Lucas’ anxiety has been particularly debilitating.

He knew this was going to happen, that he would mess it up, he just didn’t know he would only have a month of being with Eliott before it all blew up in his face. Abruptly, the frustration drains from him and he is tired. He moves towards the door, stuffing his feet in his trainers and pulling on his jacket. Eliott gets to his feet, following Lucas to the door, asking in a beseeching voice, “You can’t just leave, we need to talk.”

Lucas doesn’t turn around to address him, simply opens the front door and lets out a quiet: “Let me go” before shutting the door behind him and trudging down the stairs into a chilly late summer day. His shoulders instantly hunch up and he’s blowing hot air into his hands for warmth, not sure where he’s going exactly. Going, he scoffs to himself, more like running, like the coward you are. But the knowledge of his cowardice is not enough to make him go back to Eliott and explain.

Lucas recalls a conversation they had a few days after he told Eliott about his father. When Eliott asked Lucas about his anxiety and how it affected him. He didn’t push Lucas to speak about it or set up some kind of intervention. They had been watching reruns of shitty TV at Eliott’s, as usual, eating popcorn and drinking some kind of nasty-ass beer Lucas has brought over when Eliott had asked him:

“I- Can I ask you questions about your anxiety? I’ve been reading up on it and I know I’ll need to do more, but would you…would you mind that? Because I know it is different for everyone.” His voice was tentative, his hands clenched around his beer bottle as if he was scared he had crossed an unspoken line, entering into unknown territory.

It was completely out of the blue. Lucas wondered if this had been on Eliott’s mind the entire evening, he, himself, felt slightly uncomfortable and nervous, because talking about it never ended well, it only ever crushed his mood, his soul, leaving him disappointed. However, he knew, in his heart, that if this thing between them had any chance of survival Eliott had the prerogative to know, to decide for himself if Lucas was worth all the work, and to make this decision he needed all the facts.

Turning down the volume on the TV, Lucas had shifted to face Eliott, because he could be strong. Hadn’t all his years of quiet survival proven that? He could look Eliott in the eye when he inevitably concluded that it was all too much. That Lucas was not worth it.

“You need to understand that you can’t fix me, okay? I’m always going to be dealing with this and I want you to know that I won’t blame you or hate you if you decide to leave, okay? It is a lot. I know,” Pausing for breath, Lucas had taken a swig of his drink before continuing. “Sometimes I’ll get irritable for no reason, at myself and at you. I’ll be snippy. I won’t want to talk to you. When we’ve planned to go to a party or out for dinner, when the day comes round the thought of going may make me feel physically sick and I won’t want to go because I’m terrified of meeting new people or being left alone at a party with nothing to do or no one to talk to. Sometimes I’ll put off doing things and stay home for days because the idea is a lot more peaceful, comfortable and safe than going out.

“And you have to know, it won’t be your fault. I just need space sometimes. There’s something else, too. It’s hard to explain why…there are times when I think it’s because of my father, but I can be touch averse too, casual touches will annoy me and turn my mood sour. I used to be this really affectionate kid, and I still crave touch, but I also hate it at times.”

Eliott nodded thoughtfully along as Lucas spoke; being given the opportunity to explain how he feels and be heard was everything. Everything and more. More than he ever imagined he would be lucky enough to experience.

He doesn’t even know how this afternoon’s argument got heated so quickly, but when he reaches that level of frustration he can’t be talked down, no placating words can calm him, and Eliott contradicting him, telling him he wasn’t messed up made him more angry, and Lucas also knew that while his head was telling him to yell and slam the door and tell Eliott that he will never understand, that he doesn’t get it, that this will never work between them, his heart was whispering for him to get out of there, to cool off, before he said something he would regret.

He knew why Eliott was frustrated, Lucas had been closed off for the past week, refusing to confide in Eliott who had asked him several times what was going on. He was clueless, unsure if he was the problem. Lucas could have easily reassured him that it wasn’t him, but he was feeling mean and bitter. Communication. The age-old issue that tore couples apart on the daily. He knew Eliott would be struggling to understand if the issue was anxiety-related or if Lucas was just being an asshole, which he was want to be every now and then, but that only made Lucas more irate.

Walking along the Seine, Lucas kicks out at a rock and then another, physically exercising his annoyance. The thing was, deep down is wasn’t just anger he felt, it was fear and shock and insurmountable shame, and even the thought of explaining this to Eliott- it is enough to make him sink down on a bench in fatigue, because hasn’t he told enough secrets for once? Hasn’t even opened himself up to pain over and over again these last few weeks? So, seeing what Lucas saw in conjunction with someone else being worried about you and constantly asking if you are okay when you most definitely are not is too much. To be worrying about someone else’s feelings when you are consumed by your own mounting despair is enough emotional grievance to knock you out for a lifetime.

Today at 13:15

Le gang

yann: my dudes who’s up for a night of gaming at mine? bazzz: HELL YES I’M IN arthur: idk i’ve got this huge essay to get done by tomorrow arthur: and i haven’t started yet bazzz: yikes arthur: lucas!!!!!! have u done it yet?? bazzz: come on we haven’t hung out in ages bazzz: are you’ll really choosing work over spending time with ME?! yann: i have bEER arthur: bold of you to assume i’d bunk of uni work for beer bazzz: we’ve got arthur! yann: lulu! where u at? arthur: lulu! bazzz: lulu!

Lucas clicks off the chat, puts it on silent and pulls up Manon’s.

Today at 13:27

Manon

lucas: hey u around? Manon: hey!! Manon: yeah i am Manon: what are you thinking? lucas: ummm wanna go for a walk? Manon: i’d love to

After deciding where to meet, Lucas begins to stroll across one of the many bridges that cross the river. In an attempt to clear his mind of Eliott and their argument, he marvels at the beauty of his city, at all the history that these old and ornate buildings must contain; the grey water washing by them, dividing banks and creating islands. He walks by children already wrapped up in coats and hats but licking away at vanilla ice-creams. There are two men in suits locked in a heated exchange, jaws tight and eyes narrowed. A couple up ahead leans against the side of the bridge, entangled in each other’s arms, blonde hair whipping against their faces: Lucas looks away quickly at the surge in his chest. And just beyond them, he spots a red pea-coat: Manon. Dressed in woolly tights, her brown hair tied in a loose braid, she clutches a paperback book in one hand, her elbows rest on the off-white arm of the bridge, discoloured by the grim of urban life.

When they meet, Lucas falls into her outstretched arms as though this place, here, is a refuge amidst a storming sea. He doesn’t cry, but he remains there for a while. If Lucas had to describe Manon he would wax poetic about her. She’s closer to a sister to him than a friend, but then who ever said a person couldn’t be both to you?

Drawing away from each other, they smile and return to look over the bridge where Manon rests her  book. Lucas observes the cover and the authors name as recognition hits and he’s turning back to Manon, incredulously, as he exclaims, “No way! What the hell? Is that the last book?”

Manon is grinning and holding it up to Lucas’ face. “Yep! Had to pre-order it and everything. Just went to pick it up from the shop, actually.”

“I can’t believe it. We waited, what, five years for it and now it’s actually here? Fuck.”

When they were twelve, there was this fantasy book series everyone was reading about magicians and vampires, empires falling and rising, quests for lost artefacts and stolen celestial swords. Suffice it to say, Lucas and Manon were obsessed; they would queue up outside the bookstore for midnight releases with Manon’s older brother and parents, they would have reading parties together on weekends, but it was also one of those series where the last book kept getting pushed back until it’s release seemed a fallacy, but after seven years, the final book was out.

Lucas grabbed the book proffered to him and scanned the cover and back, flipping the book open like a fan. The smell of newly printed pages ready to be devoured and loved was an inexplicable bliss. He placed it in reach of Manon whose back was against the bridge’s sides and face directed towards Lucas, her blue gaze is searching. He pretends to be interested in the boats disappearing beneath him, but he’s forgotten Manon can out-wait him, she has the patience of a saint. What’s more is she has always thought of Lucas as a younger brother despite their birthdays only between two weeks apart — one week, six days, two hours and 19 minutes exactly if you ask Lucas — making her infinitely more willing to spend minutes, hours in silence until he is ready to open up or can’t stand the silence so he fills it meaningless words which eventually unwinds into the deeper stuff, because Manon makes the time to be there for everyone she holds dear. Lucas is one of those lucky people, he knows that.

In this way, while the wind insists on dispelling summer in favour of autumn, as Manon waits out Lucas and the sky grows grey in alliance with the wind and the Seine leads its placid journey, winding around the city, Lucas voices what has got him all twisted up inside for the past week, the catalyst for this argument with Eliott.

“I think I saw my father last week. At uni.”

This shocks Manon. Although he isn’t directly looking at here, out of the corner of his eye he sees her blanch at his words, she turns around, standing beside him as though in solidarity, as if she would be able to protect him from what has already happened. His heart clenches at this.

“How are you feeling?” She asks.

Bringing his hand up to chew his thumb nail, Lucas shrugs, which is ridiculous because he knows how he feels, he’s been sinking in this tumult of negativity for seven fucking days.

“You know what I wanted to do? I wanted to go up to him. I wanted to look him dead in the eyes and see if he would even recognise me, to ask him how he could do what he did and claim it was love? How you can do that to someone you’re supposed to love unconditionally? What did I do exactly to make him hate me so much? What did I do? I want to know so I never do it again, so I don’t provoke that kind of behaviour-”

“Listen to me, Lucas. No,” Manon is shaking her head and holding Lucas own between her hands so he is forced to look at her while she speaks. “You did not provoke anything, you hear me? I can’t explain to you why he did what he did to you, why he hurt you. But I do know one thing for certain, and I know you’re tired of hearing me say it but I will say it forever if I have to, this is all on him, nothing you did was wrong. It was all him. All him.”

Biting down on his lip, blinks back tears. “I don’t even know why he was there, and I didn’t want it to become this big thing but Eliott caught on to my mood, I mean, how could he not? And I didn’t feel like talking about it, not after telling him about my father, my anxiety. It would’ve just been overboard for him, you know?”

“No, I don’t know. Lucas, he’s there, right? Wanting to be with you. In relationships there are times where you don’t want to say how you feel and you don’t want to express the messy shit, but Lucas, if this is going on for an extended period of time you have got to let him in. It’s unfair otherwise. You’re part of a team now.”

Lucas sighs.

“Unless he’s been an asshole and said something-”

“No! He hasn’t-”

“-because then I’ll be having words with him.”

That brings a smile to Lucas’ lips. Hearing Manon threaten someone — even thinking it sounds ridiculous in his head — is always a shock because she’s Manon, always flocking to make sure everyone is okay, wearing their coats when it’s cold, ensuring everyone has a ride home after a night out.

“No, he’s great. I’m the asshole, but what’s new, right?”

Throwing an arm around Lucas’ shoulder, easily done because they’re the same height, Manon frowns. “Just talk to him, my love. For him, for your relationship, but, most importantly, for yourself. Now, say this together with me ‘I am not an asshole’.”

Lucas rolls his eyes but Manon is serious. She begins to open her mouth and when Lucas makes no effort to join her she stops and glares, full force, at him until he obliges with another sigh.

“I am not an asshole.”

“And again.”

“I. Am. Not. An. Asshole.”

“Whoop! That is so true, Lucas. You aren’t. Alright, let’s hobble along somewhere, it’s kinda chilly out here. I think my toes are about to stop working.”

“Okay, okay.”

Linking arms, the two friends find a coffee shop to sit at, a feat on days such as this when everyone is seeking the warmth of the inside, clutching warm mugs of hot chocolate between their hands they speak of lighter things, less serious but just as important.

-

By the time eight o’clock rolls around, Lucas is feeling hopelessly guilty about leaving Eliott’s place that afternoon. Manon’s words play on his mind: You have got to let him in. It’s unfair otherwise. You’re part of a team now. But because he’s the king of avoidance, Lucas has agreed to go to Yann’s for a gaming night and he’s rationalised to himself that that is okay, because he hasn’t seen the boys in a while and he misses them and Eliott is probably off hanging out with Idriss and Sofiane, so he’s okay and they can speak tomorrow. It can all be sorted out tomorrow.

On his way over to Yann’s, he begins typing an apologetic text to Eliott, it screams pathetic and cheap, everything he should say in person. Cursing in frustration, Lucas deletes it all, at least he tries to and he does erase most of it but his thumb slips onto the send button in his frustration.

Today 20:04

eliott

lucas: i’m

FUCK.

He shoves his phone into the front pocket of his grey hoodie, and of course this happened, he really can’t catch a break can he?

He gets no response. Radio silence. Hopefully hanging with le gang will be distraction enough.

For the first hour Lucas is caught up in the fervor of his friends’ excitement about a new season of a TV show about a family gang in Birmingham, England on netflix. They settle on Yann’s sofa, pulling up beanbags and lazy-boys to rest their feet on; despite their apparent enthusiasm they talk through the entirety of the first episode, making poor imitations of the Birmingham accent, Baz laments about how attractive the leading male is and Lucas can’t do anything but agree.

As the night goes by, however, Lucas becomes restless, he plays one game with Yann and then a team game with Arthur and Basile. He drinks flat coca-cola and chooses the music they listen to, but there, in the background of everything is Eliott’s face when Lucas left. When he is choosing the next song to play he thinks back to the many nights when they would talk on the phone before bed and Eliott would play Lucas the piano music he had grown to love, sometimes falling asleep to it, lulled by tender notes and impossibly smooth melodies. He should be there. With Eliott.

So he leaves, apologising profusely, promising to meet them at lunch on Monday, his mouth agreeing to anything while his one-track mind retains its steady focus on one boy. He is running in the dark, the sky jet-black where weeks ago the sunset was only beginning be set. Impossibly, a few stars peak through the light-pollution endemic to most cities and the moon is there, coaxing him on his way, as if to say hurry hurry you’re almost there. Out of breath and surely sweating Lucas does not stop. He doesn’t text Eliott; he will wait outside his place until he comes home, he will wait forever if that is what it takes.

Lucas is anxious now. He presses the buzzer for Eliott’s door, hoping against hope that he will be forgiven for walking out.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Lucas.”

Silence.

Lucas is there on the steps, panting from his run, his heart galloping in his chest for more than one reason he can count. It feels like an eternity before he hears the tell-tale sound of the front door buzzing and he’s pushing it open, climbing up the stairs to Eliott’s door. It is down the end of the corridor, the last one on his floor, and Eliott is there, in the doorway, watching Lucas as he walks towards him and it is agony: he can feel the guilt’s full force curling in his stomach. Lucas is suddenly self-conscious, he wants the floor to swallow him up. His steps are hesitant. He stops a few feet away from Eliott. Wanting to hug him.

“Can I come in?” His words are stilted, coated in uncertainty.

“Why are you here?” Eliott looks tired.

“I want to talk.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t budge a single inch.

Looks like Lucas is going to have to do this here. In the hallway. Where any number of people can just walk by. At least Eliott hasn’t shut the door in his face.

“I’m sorry. For shutting you out, refusing to talk to you. For being mean,” At this, Eliott’s composure starts to falter, Lucas understands then that his annoyed posture was all an act, possibly an attempt to guard himself from hurt, and that nicks at his heart a little. “For walking out earlier, I should have stayed. I’m just really sick of feeling vulnerable all the time, I feel like I can’t catch a break and then I take it out on you by being cold.

“I saw my father last week, unintentionally, he was at uni and it’s the first time since he left that I’ve laid eyes on him. It brought back all the shame and humiliation. I wanted to walk up to him, like I’ve imagined doing multiple times over the years and confronting him, but all I could do was run the other way. I hate that this man still has this power over me. Anyway, that’s not the point, the point is that I hurt you-”

Eliott is stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Lucas, pulling him into his apartment and holding him against the door.

“Please don’t be mad.” Lucas’ voice comes out muffled against Eliott’s chest.

“I’m not mad. The truth is I’d rather be annoyed by you than not have you at all. I want to know when you’re in pain and why. And you were, I could see it and it hurt to know you were fighting something on your own. I am so sorry, Lucas.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.”

“Remember what I told you, yeah? You are not alone.”

Lucas’ heart clenches at those words. How does Eliott think of and say things like that, so sincere like it is effortless, like it costs him nothing but the air he breathes to say them.

He pulls back from Eliott, head tilted up against the door. “You need to stop that.”

“Stop what?” Eliott cups Lucas’ face

“Saying those romantic things.”

“And you need to know that you have nothing,” He says fiercely. “To be ashamed about. You are not what happened to you. You are magnificent, and I can’t believe how lucky I am that you choose to be with me.”

“I love you.” The words slip out, Lucas widens his eyes and Eliott is laughing at Lucas’ brazenness. Simultaneously, his eyes shift and brighten, as if Lucas’ confession has changed the very colour of Eliott’s eyes, as if those three words have changed him.

A kiss, soft and tender. ”Not as much as I love you.”

Another kiss just as tender and slow, torturously slow. “Yeah, yeah. Now carry me to your bed, please.”

They stumble there, stripping off their clothes as much as they can while kissing and touching each other. As soon as Lucas hits Eliott’s bed though he is enraptured by the softness of his duvet and pillow and he sighs contentedly.

Eliott looks up from where he was kissing down Lucas’ chest and lets out a disbelievingly laugh when he sees Lucas snuggling into his pillows. He crawls up Lucas’ body until he is caging him in and looking directly down at him. Eliott, straddling Lucas’ hips now, plants a hard, searing kiss on his lips which Lucas is all too happy to reciprocate, clutching Eliott at the hips.

“You are ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously into you.” Lucas winks.

Eliott rolls over, laying his head on Lucas’ chest. “You’re tired.”

“Yeah…Your bed…Morning sex, instead?”

“Sure.”

From his position on Lucas’ chest, Eliott caresses Lucas’ lower stomach, running his fingers lightly over the skin, raising goose bumps in their wake.

Je t’aime.

Moi aussi.

[soysaucevictim]

First week of new stuff.

(And having a hard time for different reasons...)

-

June 27

Somehow managed to get up before 11AM.

Played Gemcraft for a few hours before making today’s HF Dinner. Steak with mushroom cream sauce. Dad enjoyed it and I liked it well enough. Pretty happy with that and getting the dishes taken care of afterwards.

After a bit of time to digest my food, I went into today’s exercise.

First, today’s DD. 40 reverse angels with EC. Took a bit of mindfulness to negotiate floor space. Hand clipped against desk and chair leg once each... but oh well. Kept the arms above floor. Just about doable.

Second, Day 1 of the 1′ Cardio Challenge. I think this would be a good bit of cardio and warm-up for my program work. Today was 1′ jumping jacks. Managed it in one go, with 69 reps by the end. Will endeavor to track my performance like that for the whole thing~

Last, Day 1 of the Xpress Tone Program. This is a weight-training program. Grabbed my brother’s dumbbells, couldn’t find the 3 lbs plates so I just went for 2x5 for each hand. Wasn’t sure if I should do it circuits or straight sets, but the way the page is formatted made me settle on former (IRONBORN did explicit straight sets.) I also endeavored to record my “to fatigue“ numbers here.

Alternating bicep curls: 30-26-20-16-12

Tricep extensions (I liked that we could brace the elbow for this one, these are always a bit hard on ‘em): 10+10, 8+8, 6+6, 4+4, 4+4

Spent some time chatting and wound up pulling an allnighter playing KH.

-

June 28

I spent a few hours this morning to finish playing some KH. And cleaning up after Dad made a mess with some food. Sleep deprivation probably didn’t help with my headspace, was irritable and anxious about Dad’s decline from lapsing on his meds...

I then took a couple hour nap, before exercising.

First, today’s DD. 1′ raised arm circles with EC. I counted 118 reps by the end. Very close to 2/sec. But still a relatively breezy one.

Second, Day 2 of the 1′CC. 1′ butt kicks. One go, 140 reps. I was happy I managed to stay over 2/sec with this one. That was a pretty brisk pace to go at!

Last, Day 2 of the XTP. Leg day, particularly aerobic on top of the challenge.

Forward lunges (I chose to alternate sides): 30-24-20-16-14

Goblet squats (wound up with the same numbers): 30-24-20-16-14

Because of the hour we started and my headspace (was rattled by bro yelling at dad), we didn’t do a double feature tonight. Just watched a documentary about the Fyre Festival... it was fun to just be entertained by that travesty.

Spent sometime on YouTube before sleeping. Red zone... but before 3AM was a modest accomplishment, by recent standards..

-

June 29

I somehow woke up a bit after noon.

I spent most of my day BSing with Gemcraft because I’ve been having pretty bad brain days thanks to mistake the VA made with Dad’s meds a bit over a week ago. He’s been so restless and unfocused - he couldn’t play cards, today. (I didn’t really want to, and I had I feeling it would be futile as a distraction for him... but I felt I should try, it was Grandma’s idea.)

Took some willpower to get on with my exercise, given that...

First, today’s DD. 40 reverse plank kicks with EC (20/20). Fairly breezy.

Second, Day 3 of the 1′CC. 1′ march twists. One go, 77 reps. Manageable one to do non-stop, but it can be difficult to go too fast at risk of slamming the knees against elbows. :P

Last, Day 3 of the XTP. This kicked my ass, in particular, the weighted knee-to-elbows were awkward. My numbers were:

Upright rows: 15-10-8-8-6

Bilateral bicep curls: 8-5-4-4-3

Did poke an outline for a potential future fic before getting to bed. Later than yesterday.

-

June 30

I woke up after 11AM.

As far as exercise went, all I managed to get done was today’s DD. 50 squat step ups with EC (20/20). Just about manageable.

Most of the rest of my day was spent chatting and gaming. Got to bed a little earlier than yesterday, but still in the red zone.

-

July 1

I woke up a bit before noon, today. Somehow.

After a couple hours of circular emotionally taxing conversation with dad... I didn’t think I could rightly muster enthusiasm/attention for anything.

But chatting with a friend and taking the dog for a short walk was nice to break things a bit so I could do my exercise today.

First, Day 4 of the 1′CC. 1′ split jacks. One go, 72 reps this time. Pretty intense pace, happy I managed >1/sec.

Second, Day 4 of the XTP. I suppose it was a rest day, manageable tendon work this time around. Strictly bodyweight stuff but it definitely took a bit of willpower to get through the leg extensions part, swings/hold was a nice relative step-down in intensity though.

Last, today’s DD. 3′ half jacks with EC. I managed to lock in a pace of 1/sec and wound up with a little more than 180 reps.

I decided to spend the next couple hours to distract myself productively by giving the bathroom a deep clean. Exhausting and got to sweating buckets. Though it needed to get done, I kind of regret not going with my bro when he took Dad to the hospital.

Between COVID visitor policies and HIPPA and the circumstances of his admittance - the fucking hospital system has been giving us a fucking headache wrt information. =_=

After the hospital, spent rest of my night chatting and gaming. Got to bed earlier than yesterday, red again, but whatever.

-

July 2

I think I woke up around 10AM. Was half expecting to go with Grandma to check on what the hell is going on with Dad.

Still fucking stonewalled.

Was too fucking angry and exhausted to do much more than game and watch YouTube.

I went to bed in the green zone because I was way too fucking depressed at that point to be able to make myself stay up. Exercise be damned.

-

July 3

I woke up after 11AM.

Did some gaming before making today’s HF dinner. Chicken sausage, couscous, and kale soup. We liked this one well enough, I liked it’s taste but especially it’s simplicity. Given my spoons situation.

After a bit more games and dishes, I caught up on some of my exercise.

First, yesterday’s DD. 1′ squat hold with EC. Slow steady breaths is always key. Took a good amount of willpower to get through it, but happy I could.

First, today’s DD. 1′ chest squeeze with EC. Same note about the breathing. Arms definitely got to trembling in the later half.

Second, Day 5 of the 1′CC. 1′ seal jacks. One go, 68 reps. Having “Rhythm Redux“ play made me find a nice groove.

Second, Day 6 of the 1′CC. 1′ high knees. One go, 150 reps. I’m glad that I could stay over 2/sec today.

Last, Day 5 of the XTP. Arm stuff. I’m going to endeavor to try to continue improving my PBs for this program and did more of the following than from Day 1).

Tricep extensions: 10+10, 10+10, 8+8, 6+6, 6+6

Alternating bicep curls: 34-30-24-20-16

Last, Day 6 of the XTP. Leg day. I’m probably going to question doubling up today... because stacking this on top kicked my ass. :P

Forward lunges (alternating): 34-26-22-18-16

Goblet squats: 32-26-22-18-16

I spent the rest of my time playing KH Re:CoM. Stayed up pretty late doing that.

[iatethepomegranate]

Homecoming Chapter 22

@iontorch @dick-rarepairs

See notes for story masterpost and AO3 links.

Pairing: DickTiger

Rating: Teen (this chapter)

Length: 3k

Summary: Dick and Tiger settle back into Wayne Manor, but between Dick's new ailment and the secret they're keeping from Bruce, they're just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Notes: I LIVE. Okay, since I don’t trust Tumblr to let this post appear in the tags if I add links, I’m going to add masterpost and AO3 links in a reblog, so check the notes.

***

Chapter 22

As the days passed, Dick waited for another migraine to come along and ruin his life again. It felt like everyone was watching him with bated breath, expecting him to drop any second... Dick most of all. Tim, at least, tried to make himself useful by going over Dick's symptoms to help him figure out his warning signs for when the attack finally did come.

Tiger had clammed up since that last conversation about the shooting. That was never a good sign. The man was a classic bottler when it came to his emotions and wouldn't entertain further discussion. It would all come to a head eventually. Dick was not looking forward to it.

What made matters worse, possibly, was that Bruce was being oddly polite to Tiger. It was possible he genuinely felt bad for kicking Tiger out, but there was also a chance he was trying to lull Tiger into a false sense of security. It wasn't working. Tiger was more anxious than ever. Unless that was Bruce's plan. Dick hoped not. That was a douchey kind of plan.

Dick came to dinner one night in a not-so-great mood. Irritable for no reason. He'd already snapped at Tiger three times in the past hour, and he'd deserved exactly none of them. And his neck was kinda stiff, which made sitting in a dining chair a rather annoying experience.

Tim took one look at him, pausing in the motion of cutting his steak, and said, “You know irritability and neck stiffness are pre-migraine symptoms, right?”

“Who says I'm irritable?” Dick replied, irritably. Internally, though, his mind was a litany of shit shit shit.

“You’ll probably have, like, twelve hours from when the symptoms started,” Tim said, looking back down at his plate. “Maybe more. Hard to say. Try to get a good night's sleep if you can.”

Dick wasn't sure how he was supposed to sleep with his neck like this. Tiger was staring at him, trying to catch his eye, but Dick didn't feel like talking. Especially not after snapping at him so much.

Tiger made a show of shrugging and piling brown rice onto both their plates. Dick also received a generous load of vegetables and not as much meat as he probably would've liked. But he'd already been an asshole today, so he shut up and took it.

Dick excused himself as soon as he was finished, knowing that he was not good company tonight. Tiger, in a fit of masochism, followed him back to their room.

Then, in what could only be a lack of self-preservation, he took Dick's hands and led him to the bed. “Sit. Let me help.”

“Look, I wouldn't blame you for not wanting to be around me. I don't want to be around me.” The words came out way sharper than he'd intended. Naturally.

“Hush.” Tiger knelt on the bed behind him and dug his thumbs into the hardened muscles on the back of Dick's neck. “I forgive you.”

“Ugh.”

Tiger kissed the top of his head. “I am trying to spoil you.”

“I don't deserve it.”

“I do not care.”

Dick shut up and let him rub his neck. It helped a bit. A warm shower later, he felt almost like himself.

Sleep was elusive. Dick kept shifting position, unable to get comfortable. Tiger had ended up on the edge of the bed, well away from his fidgeting. Dick was kind of offended but couldn't really be mad because Tiger had done that in his sleep.

He was still kinda mad.

Dick fell into a fragile kind of sleep eventually, flitting in and out when Tiger got up to pray. He woke in the daylight, eyes grainy and brain fogged. Right. Fatigue. Another fun symptom. Apparently even sleeping made him tired now.

Tiger was eating a bowl of oatmeal on the bed, legs crossed with a huge photo album in front of him. “Good morning.”

“Mmph.” Dick rubbed his eyes, which helped a tiny bit. “Is it morning?”

“Barely.”

Dick used Tiger's arm to haul himself into a sitting position, slumping against his shoulder. “Whatcha looking at?”

“Jason stole a photo album Alfred kept of your first few years as Robin.”

Dick rubbed his eyes again, until he could see the photos. Oh. Oh God. The green underpants. It was actually a leotard at least fifty percent of the time, but no one believed him.

Look, it wasn't that Dick was ashamed of his childhood fashion choices. It was just... well... everyone was ashamed for him.

“Bastard,” he muttered. “I'm gonna show you his album.” He dug his chin into Tiger's shoulder. “Nice breakfast. Where's mine?”

Tiger leaned over and grabbed another bowl from the nightstand. “I was about to wake you. Here.”

There were spiced pears in the oatmeal, which lifted his mood a little bit. But he still felt kinda fuzzy and doubted that would improve.

There was one photo in the album that Tiger paused over. It was a selfie, in a way. Dick-as-Robin making a face in a funhouse mirror. Alfred had seen the mask camera footage and liked it.

“Where is the camera?” Tiger asked.

“In the mask. It was a prototype at the time. The lenses broke constantly so we had to carry spare masks and cowls in our belts.”

“Wait.” Tiger's eyes went wide and his face turned the most worrying shade of grey. “You have cameras in your masks? Does Jason have...”

“Jason has a few,” Dick said. “He only wears the cam-masks when he's working with us.”

“So there is a video of Alia...”

The shooting. Fuck.

“Jason would've thought of that,” Dick said, trying to sound sure, even if he was kinda panicking. “Right?”

Tiger sighed and shoved more oatmeal into his mouth. Good idea. Dick did the same. Soothing his panic with breakfast. They kept flipping through the album with a detachment born out of preoccupation.

As soon as Dick had scraped the last bite out of his bowl, Tiger snatched it off him. “I'll take these to the kitchen. And find Jason.”

“Yeah. Do that.” Dick wanted to trust Jason had remembered. If not... Bruce would have seen the footage by now.

God damn it.

Dick took a piss while he waited and then spent a few minutes flipping through the album, tracking Robin's fashion evolution over the years. And the Discowing outfit. He still thought the high collar was pretty cool, no matter what anyone else said. He just couldn't turn his head as much as he would've liked. Still, some of Bruce's old costumes had the same problem.

There was just something in him that made him desperate to defend even the most questionable of fashion decisions. It didn't matter if he had been questioning them himself. The instant someone else teased him, he had to take it all the way.

Voices erupted in the hallway.

“Maybe I just don't like the way you're trying to corner him.” Jason.

“That is not what I—”

“You're not fooling anyone, Bruce. You've had it out for him from the moment he entered the city.”

“This is not a productive conversation.” Tiger.

“Right?” Jason said. “You prepared to say whatever you wanted to say in front of Dick? You think he's gonna be happy?”

“You're being dramatic,” Bruce said.

“Am I, though? Am I?”

“But if you wish to be involved in this discussion, I have plenty of questions for you, too.”

“I've answered your questions already. Not my fault you didn't like the answers.”

“I am missing some context in this conversation,” Tiger said.

“So am I!” Dick yelled impulsively.

There were a few horrible seconds where no one breathed a word. Then Tiger, Jason and Bruce entered the room. Tiger and Jason at least had the grace to look sheepish.

“Is someone going to explain what the hell is going on?” Dick said. “Quickly, if you don't mind. Not sure how much time I have before my head explodes again.”

“Jason's mask camera footage is missing,” Bruce said. Well. That answered that question.

“I told you already,” Jason complained. “The equipment's been on the fritz for weeks.”

“You should've had it fixed.”

Jason shrugged. “You don't trust me with your stuff and Tim was mad at me again. What was I supposed to do? Steal your shit? I only do that when I'm really mad at you.”

Dick had a distinct feeling Jason was lying his ass off. He also had a feeling Bruce saw right through him.

Tiger leaned against the closet door, arms crossed, watching the exchange with a muscle twitching in his jaw. Dick would trust him on a battlefield, but he wasn't so sure how well he was gonna hold up in a war of words over something he already felt terrible about. Jason wasn't gonna budge. Dick certainly wouldn't. But Tiger...

“I find it convenient that your equipment failed on that night in particular,” Bruce was saying.

“Sorry. I forgot to pencil it in.”

“Do you let your grapnel gun wear down like that?”

“No, because I would die. Again.”

Bruce's face twitched; he hated it when Jason brought up the dying thing. “Jason. That's not—”

“Oh, am I playing dirty again? Sorry. Force of habit.” He was blatantly not sorry. “Sometimes you gotta prioritise the important stuff. You never look at my mask cam anyway.”

“Because I never know when you're wearing it.”

“Then why did you bother looking this time?” Jason was smiling now, but it wasn't a pleasant one. “Seems to me you were looking for something specific.”

“I deserve to know what happened when someone dies on my watch.”

“I told you what happened. Is my word not good enough?”

“No. It's not.”

“Bruce,” Dick said, before this could spiral further, “I was there, too, you know.”

“You didn't see what happened.”

It wasn't worth arguing. Bruce knew what he was talking about. Good old blood spatter analysis, ruining everything.

“I saw Jason holding Tiger's gun.” Dick wasn't about to let this go without a fight, though.

“That proves nothing. And evidence has conveniently disappeared. Where did Tiger's clothes end up?”

Tiger still looked kinda grey from earlier. It was probably best he wasn't talking much, because Dick honestly didn't know if he could keep the lie going.

Jason, bless him, kept fighting. “Well, fuck me for getting him out of that blood-soaked shit. Not like I was thinking about how you were gonna be a giant asshole over this. My bad.”

“You haven't told me where his clothes are.”

“Gone. They were wrecked. Maybe if you'd asked in a timely manner, you could've examined them.” Jason actually sounded convincing. Dick tried not to get his hopes up. Bruce wasn't called the World's Greatest Detective for nothing.

“This is all rather convenient,” Bruce said. “Your spare gun jammed, recording equipment failed and vital material evidence happened to disappear, all on the same night.”

Could they have done this better? Given the circumstances, could they have found a way to keep Tiger out of this without tripping Bruce's coincidence meter? Dick wasn't sure there was. If only Jason hadn't been wearing his mask cam that night.

Still, Bruce didn't have concrete evidence. He just had a pile of coincidences that could mean someone was hiding something. Certainly not enough for a legal conviction or possibly even a trial in the first place, but that was not what they had here.

Bruce didn't need incontrovertible proof to believe Tiger had helped kill Alia. All he needed was enough doubt in Jason's version of events.

“Enough,” Tiger said.

Bruce rounded on him, staring silently. He didn't need to speak. Dick and Jason shared a grimace behind Bruce's back.

“There were three shooters,” Tiger continued, crossing his arms tighter across his body. Dick could see the slightest hint of a tremor. “Jason, Helena... and me.”

Okay, so they were doing this now. Things were still salvageable. Maybe.

“He saved my life,” Dick added. “The three of them only had a split second to do something.”

“Murder is never the solution.”

“Then tell us, O Wise One,” Jason snapped, “what would you have done with fuck-all time to save your favourite son?”

“I'm not his favourite,” Dick muttered. They ignored him.

“I would not have resorted to murder.”

“That's not what I asked,” Jason growled. “Dick is on the floor, literally cornered, back against a wall. Daedalus's gun practically touching him. He won't miss. You have a second to do something and you don't have a good enough angle to hit his gun. If Daedalus takes over Dick's mind, he dies. If the gun goes off, he dies. If you spook the bastard, the gun will go off anyway and Dick dies. So tell me, with all your boundless wisdom, what could we have done in that second to save Dick's life without killing Daedalus? The woman he possessed isn't even a factor. She was a goner already.”

Tiger flinched. Dick wanted to go over and squeeze his hand, but that would just draw Bruce's attention while Jason tried to divert it.

“Remote-controlled batarang,” Bruce replied.

“Yeah, we didn't have one of those. Even if we did, setting it up would take time we didn't have and he probably would've heard it coming.”

“The fact remains,” Bruce said, turning back to Tiger. “You hid this from me.”

“He wasn't even there when I told you what happened,” Jason said. “You gonna get mad? Get mad at the right person.”

“People,” Dick corrected. “I helped Jason mess with the evidence.”

“You were a backseat driver, more like.”

“Stop it,” Tiger muttered.

Dick's fingers were tingling a little, which was not a good sign. He concentrated extra hard on speaking, because he was not about to let this fucking migraine muddle his words while he still had a choice.

“Tiger,” he said, “you didn't want us to lie for you.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “And yet he allowed it.”

Dick put his left hand on the bed, leaning into it to keep his balance. Even sitting was starting to get a little fraught. Fuck's sake.

“Bruce,” he said, “stop it. You've directed exactly none of this pissiness at me even though I was actively involved in the lie.” He had to take a second to get his mouth around his next sentence, holding up his right arm, which obeyed him enough, so they wouldn't talk over him. “That's why we lied. Jason and I knew you would be harder on him than anyone else.”

“Same shit, different day,” Jason said. “He was like this when he kicked Tiger out and he hasn't learned a damn thing.” Jason's voice was a touch louder than Dick's head liked right now.

“Bruce has a point,” Tiger said quietly.

“He's selectively applying that point,” Jason replied. “How about it, boss? If you're gonna be shitty to Tiger, then you should be just as shitty to me.”

“You are not dating my son,” Bruce said.

“I'm a grown-ass man, Bruce,” Dick said.

“And I happen to be your son,” Jason added. “Legally, anyway.”

“You're an adult in control of your own actions,” Bruce said. “You have made it clear that I cannot control you.”

“Uh, hello?” Dick waved his fingers, which didn't really want to cooperate. “I'm the eldest, and you're acting like I'm a teenager with a bad influence for a boyfriend.”

“Difference is,” Jason said, “he actually cares about you.”

Bruce looked like he'd been slapped. “That's not—”

Jason grinned, but it looked more like a grimace. “Am I wrong?”

Bruce was not often a man lost for words. He sometimes preferred to let his actions speak for him, but it was rare that he truly had no idea what to say or do. Witnessing it now was unsettling.

Any other time, Dick might've let Bruce work through it on his own. Things with Jason were complicated, and sometimes interfering made matters worse.

But he was really having trouble sitting up and there was a distinct numbness on the right side of his face, and down his arm. And there was a pounding building up in his head.

In the silence, Dick caught Tiger's eye. The man's features hardened, and he put himself between Bruce and Jason. Probably not the safest idea, but Dick couldn't think of another way. Damn brain fog.

“Enough,” he said. “This is not a productive conversation.”

“You do not get to tell me when I am finished,” Bruce replied.

Jason glanced in Dick's direction. “Yeah? Well, I'm done.” He made a good show of storming out in a fit of temper, rather than giving his brother some space to lie down and die for a while.

“Jason...” Then Bruce followed him.

Well, that was one way to clear a room.

Tiger fetched Dick a glass of water. Apparently a pack of straws lived in Dick's nightstand now. He wasn't sure when exactly they appeared, but they made drinking a little easier with only half a face.

“Anything else you need?” Tiger asked softly.

Dick got him to help him into the bathroom. He wasn't sure how much he'd be moving in a few minutes. He also may have thrown up in the sink a little bit while he was in there.

Then Tiger helped him lie down. “There is a pager here,” he said, lifting the little thing from the nightstand. “Do you want me with you? If not, the pager will put you in touch with Alfred if you need anything.”

Dick waved him away with his good hand. He didn't want to put Tiger through this if he didn't have to. Besides, when he was at his worst last time, he couldn't even stand the sound of Alfred breathing.

Tiger helped him put a sleeping mask on and placed a bucket on the floor. Then he kissed Dick's hand, leaving him to his misery.