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amjustagirl · 4 years ago

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Summary: She may mean the world to Iwaizumi Hajime but at the end of the day, Oikawa Tooru is his star.

AO3 Link here

Sequel: Broken Compass

She used to think the universe intended for her to literally crash into one Iwaizumi Hajime.

One of her first assignments as a writer for one of the country’s top sports magazines was to cover the Japanese volleyball team’s season, and despite constant reminders from her editors not to screw this up because the men’s volleyball team is crazy popular these days, she manages to trip over her own feet and knock not just herself, but the newly minted team trainer to the ground.

When she lifts her head from the ground, the first thing that hits her mind is - goodness, he’s hot - he’s a veritable god among men, all sinewy muscles and sunkissed skin, and she can’t bring herself to speak as he carefully checks her once over for any signs of injury. ‘Are you alright?’ he asks her, and she nods dumbly as he pulls her to her feet and waves her off with a warm smile. The heat from his hands lingers on her skin long after she goes to bed that night.

They meet again at the next match. He remembers her name, she gives him a friendly wave. Then at the next match, she cheekily asks for his comments and he huffs a laugh as he directs her to the team’s PR manager. By the end of the season, she works up the courage to ask him out for coffee, and he says yes .

Iwaizumi Hajime is everything she dreamt of in a partner - kind, caring, steady, his feet firmly planted on the ground. He always wraps his arm around her to pull her close when they walk along the edge of the road, and indulges her pleas for an extra cuddle – ‘ the last one, I promise! ’ - every morning when he leaves for work. They exchange long text messages late into the night when either of them are on the road, and nag each other for working too hard. When they lay in bed at night, he whispers promises filled with love against her skin, tells her he can trace the constellations in her eyes.

It makes it so easy for her to close her eyes and believe that their love is written in the stars, so a year later when he asks her to marry him, she doesn’t hesitate to jump into his arms and say yes . The weight of the silver band he slips on her finger grounds her with his love, and her heart is full.

She can’t stop feeling like a thief who’s snatched the sun from the sky.

Oikawa Tooru is to be his best man of course.

She knows who he is, she’s covered the sport long enough to have heard about him - the prodigious setter from Miyagi who never made it once to Nationals despite his obvious talent (an exquisitely crafted katana is, after all, no match for the brute force of a cannon), who spit in the face of fate and chased his dreams to sunnier lands.

Iwaizumi has always been awfully fond of regaling her with stories of Oikawa, so much so that she thinks she can piece together their relationship - childhood friends turned longtime teammates, the long suffering ace and the monstrously brilliant setter. She watches his face soften uncharacteristically when he reads news about his old friend winning a match, and hardens when Oikawa whines loudly during their video calls about his bruises and sore knee. She can’t help but think Iwaizumi must have been like Jupiter, a god in his own right, drawn into orbit around Oikawa, a star burning over-bright.

She knows they remain best friends despite their separation by whole continents, keeping in contact via video calls and text messages, playing hopscotch with the time difference. They certainly look like it when they greet each other at the airport, Oikawa trilling a playful ‘ Iwa-channn’ and Iwaizumi grunting at him to ‘shut up, they’re in public, dumbass!’, exchanging back slaps so loud it makes her wince.

‘You must be the poor fiancee’, Oikawa gives her an exaggerated leer as he stands before her, hands on hips. ‘What did Iwa-chan drug you with to get you to marry him? Do you know he snores like a monster in his sleep? You know you can back out before the wedding right? Blink once if you’re ok, and twice if you’re not - and I’ll help you escape from him.’

Before she can respond to that frankly impertinent speech, Iwaizumi roars ‘Shut-up, Shittykawa’, tackling him into a headlock and wrestling him off into their car. She stifles a laugh as they spend the rest of the ride to Oikawa’s hotel room bickering back and forth.

‘How did you manage to pack so much luggage for a two week stay, you vain piece of crap!’

‘I care about my looks and grooming - unlike some of us who skulk around in clothes they’ve worn since high school!’

‘Vainpot.’

‘Beast.’

‘Piece of shit’

‘Meanie’

Iwaizumi alternates between grunting and growling at Oikawa’s nonsense but his eyes are shining (so bright that she can see stars) and Oikawa’s retorts are punctuated with smiles that are impossibly wide. She thinks to herself it’ll be good for Iwaizumi to have Oikawa around.

Oikawa starts to call her ‘ Chibi-chan ’ especially when Hajime is around to be annoyed by it – she admits she’s short, but not that short, it’s just that he spends most of his time surrounded by literal giants - and develops an irritating habit of ambushing her with quizzes about Hajime's likes and dislikes.

'Favourite food?'

'Agedashi tofu.'

'Favourite movie?'

'Godzilla.’

After a few rounds of these pop quizzes, she looks at him like he's sprouted a second head. ‘Seriously, Oikawa-san, we're getting married in less than two weeks. Do you seriously think I wouldn't know the most obvious things about my own fiancé?'

'Don't frown, Chibi-chan, you'll grow wrinkles and look old', he sing songs at her. 'I'm just making sure you're worthy of Iwa-chan's love!'

'Stop bullying my fiancée, Shittykawa, or I'll beat you up so bad you can't move'. Iwaizumi rubs lazy circles against her back, and she leans against him comfortably.

'Aww Iwa-chan, once a bone head, always a bone head’, Oikawa says, scrunching his face into a mock-sniff. ‘Say, Chibi-chan, do you know Iwa-chan would beat me up ‘til I let go all the cicadas we caught, but if they died, he would cry?'

‘Are you calling me a crybaby, Shittykawa’, Iwaizumi growls dangerously, simmering down only when she coos at him, ‘that’s so cute, you must have been such a sweet child’.

Then, sensing that her presence is probably stopping the boys from catching up fully, she shoos them out of the apartment on the premise that they should get some fresh air and cool off but really so they can get some much needed time together. ‘ And stop fighting’ , she calls after them, making good use of the quiet to busy herself with wedding preparations.

When Iwaizumi finally returns home late that night, he finds her asleep on the couch, and with a soft smile he curls up around her. ‘Hajime?’ she breathes, nuzzling her nose into his neck, and he has to bite back the urge to cover her face with kisses, tightening his hold on her instead.

‘I’m back’, he whispers, his breath warm against her neck. ‘Sorry I was out so long’.

‘It’s fine’, she mumbles sleepily. ‘Did you guys have fun?’

‘Yeah - we went for dinner and then Oikawa dragged me to at least five different bakeries to find the perfect milk bread before he was willing to go for drinks’, he complains. ‘And he made me promise to go for drinks with Issei and Hanamaki tomorrow afternoon before we meet with the wedding coordinator’.

‘Mm’, she hums absently. ‘Oikawa seemed a little on edge earlier. I’m glad he calmed down and had fun with you’.

Iwaizumi frowns into her hair, thinking back to Oikawa’s inexplicable needling of her earlier. ‘Sweetheart, if Oikawa is irritating you, I'll make him stop’.

‘It’s fine’, she says, with a little more force than she intended, waving away the concerned look he gives her. ‘He’s your best friend, Hajime. I think he's just feeling a little insecure. You should spend more time with him while you still can’.

He grins and kisses her warmly. ‘You’re too good to me. What did I do to deserve you?’

‘Because the universe willed that I love you’, she answers, as if it were the most obvious thing on earth.

But Oikawa manages to find a way to wreck her well made plans.

Iwaizumi finds her in the kitchen, back turned towards him, and the slam of the dishes on the counter makes him wince. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart’, he tells her, wincing when she shrugs off his hand.

'You skipped our appointment with our wedding coordinator', she hisses, whirling around to face him. ‘But that’s not the worst of it - do you know how scared I was when you didn’t pick up my calls? I thought you got hurt or heaven forbid - got run over by a car and died, Hajime!’

‘I’m sorry’, he repeats, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. 'I got engrossed in catching up with Hanamaki and Issei, and Oikawa stole my phone so I lost track of time. I kicked his ass for it, you could've heard him whining about it from outer space’. He slyly slides an arm around her waist, resisting her attempts to pull away as he buries his nose in her hair. ‘I'll make it up to you, I promise'.

'Make sure you do', she huffs, leaning into his warmth. ‘And what was Oikawa’s reason for stealing your phone?’

‘You know Shittykawa, he probably thought he was being cute. I’ll make him apologise,’ Hajime replies, pressing his nose into the crook of her neck.

She relaxes a fraction, breathing in his familiar scent - fresh linen and pine and home, but that doesn't ease the knot of something - she can't quite put her finger on what it is just yet - weighing down in her chest.

True to his word, Iwaizumi drags Oikawa by his ear to lunch with them the next day, not letting go until he apologises to her with an appropriately chastened expression on his face. ‘I’m sorry, Chibi-chan, I shan’t do it again’, he tells her contritely, but when Iwaizumi’s back is turned, he shoots her a puckish grin brimming with mischief that makes her toes curl.

She ignores him, and lets herself be drawn into the flow of their conversation - Oikawa complaining incessantly about Ushijima Wakatoshi and Kageyama Tobio whom she’s met many times in the past few months and he shoots her dirty looks when she archly tells him that she thinks they’re lovely men, Iwaizumi getting on Oikawa’s case again for not eating enough, for not sleeping enough, barely able to restrain himself from violence when Oikawa responds with a trilled ‘ Iwa-chan, you sound like my mother ’.

The conversation meanders off to their Seijoh teammates she’s not terribly familiar with, so she’s caught off guard when Oikawa abruptly turns to her with shit-eating grin and asks innocently ‘Say, Chibi-chan, what about Iwa-chan caught your eye?’

‘Have you looked at him?’ she says, playfully nudging a blushing Iwaizumi with her elbow. ‘He’s built like a god.’

Oikawa’s smile turns sickly sweet, showing far too much teeth. ‘In that case, I’m surprised you didn’t go for one of the volleyball players instead. Or was Iwa-chan your last attempt? You’re twenty-five this year, after all.’

A glance in Iwaizumi’s direction shows her exactly what she expects - first, his mouth drops open in a wide-eyed, open mouthed gape, then fury burns white hot across his face, and she has to grab his hand before he causes a scene by throwing himself bodily across the table to strangle the smirk off Oikawa’s face. ‘I can fight my own battles’, she mouths at him, willing him to stay in his seat, her hand still pressed firmly against his.

‘Well, you did ask me what first attracted me to Hajime, and I didn’t lie - I was really drawn by his looks’.

She inhales and lets herself be drawn back to the warmth of the memory of tumbling head first into Iwaizumi’s arms, and exhales to look squarely at Oikawa. ‘But then I fell for his kindness, his steadfastness, his patience - and when he told me he loved me, I felt as if the universe had handed me the sun, the moon and the stars’.

Her answer must have touched Oikawa’s shrivelled little heart, she thinks to herself, because something in his eyes shutters and a look of respect streaks across his face. ‘Well said, Chibi-chan, well said’, he says begrudgingly. ‘Iwa-chan is lucky to have you’.

The rest of lunch passes without incident, and when she and Iwaizumi are finally back home, he corners her as she’s about to go to bed and asks quietly - ‘Sweetheart, did you really mean all of that?’

‘Of course I do. I love you, Hajime. Do you need me to count the ways?’

‘Maybe’, he responds playfully, circling his arms around her as she pulls him to bed. She lies in his embrace, ear pressed to his chest and falls asleep to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the ebb and flow of his breath, the rise and fall of his chest.

When Iwaizumi calls out that he’ll be gone to the bar down the street for an hour or two to vet Oikawa’s best man speech, she certainly did not expect him to burst back into their flat with Oikawa held bridal style in his arms. It would have been a comical sight - Oikawa’s bulky frame dwarfing even Iwaizumi, legs looking ludicrously long dangling over Iwaizumi’s arms - but for the frantic expression of Iwaizumi’s face and the desperate way Oikawa clings to Iwaizumi’s neck.

‘Idiot bumped his knee while doing shots’, Iwaizumi explains to her distractedly, as he settles Oikawa onto their couch. ‘I don’t think it’s serious, but I’ll take him to the doctor in the morning to check him out just in case. Brought him to our place since it’s closer than his hotel room, and I can keep an eye on him overnight’.

She hands him an ice pack. ‘Why don’t you two take our bed, and I’ll take the couch? He’ll be more comfortable that way, and you can watch over him at night.’

‘Are you sure?’ Iwaizumi frowns, and she nods, pushing him towards his friend while she turns to fetch a set of spare pyjamas for their unexpected guest. Iwaizumi lifts Oikawa to their bed and together, they strip him of his clothes and, mindful of his knee, gingerly slide him into clean clothes.

‘Iwa-chan’, she hears the lanky setter whine as she makes to leave the room to bring an extra ice pack. Turning her head, she catches a glimpse of Hajime bending over Oikawa’s form. She’s not sure if it’s a trick of the light, but she swears she saw Iwaizumi brush his fingers against Oikawa’s forehead with a quiet tenderness he’s only ever shown to her, tucking his hair behind his ears. For some reason, it makes her heart clench.

She’s gathering the discarded clothes up from the floor whilst Iwaizumi’s in the shower, when Oikawa shoots his hand out to grab her wrist. ‘I’m sorry’, he tells her, a plaintive note in his voice. ‘I tore it up – I should never have tried to tell him.’

‘What?’ She gives him a bewildered stare. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Iwa-chan’, he slurs, and she can smell the alcohol on his breath as she moves closer to him to catch his words. ‘He got mad with me, madder than I’ve ever seen him before.’

‘You mean Hajime? Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn’t stay mad with you, whatever it is you’ve done.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry’, he manages to say, and starts to cry. She flounders, unsure whether to comfort him herself or call for Hajime to deal with him (because she’s not stupid, it’s painfully obvious he resents her), but the look in his eyes is so heartbreakingly vulnerable that she can't bring herself to leave him alone even for a minute, so she sits next to him on the bed, rubbing a soothing hand against his back while he soaks her sleeve with hot tears. ‘You’re drunk and injured, Oikawa-san. You should rest’, she murmurs, easing him back against his pillow when his sobs cease and he seems to calm down.

As she bends down again to pick up his clothes, he gives a cry of alarm and tries to grab her wrist again, almost flipping himself off the bed. Hearing the commotion, Iwaizumi rushes into the room, hair still wet from his shower, barking loudly ‘you idiot’, forcing Oikawa to lie back down onto the bed. She backs out of the room, leaving Hajime to comfort his sobbing friend.

She doesn’t think too much about Oikawa’s strange words, mentally writing it off as another one of his odd little quirks. But as she’s folding up his pants, a stack of torn papers falls out of its pocket, and she thinks she recognises the words ‘Iwa-chan’ scribbled all over it. Though she knows it’s wrong to invade his privacy – especially when he’s in no position to defend it, she can’t help but be curious, reasoning to herself that it must be his best man’s speech, she should at least vet through it once before the wedding.

It isn’t hard to piece the scraps of paper together, the tears uneven, as if made in a fit of panic or rage. It is, as she thought, Oikawa’s best man speech, and it starts out as expected, with well wishes to Iwaizumi and her. But as she continues reading, running her finger over each word, etched so harshly into each page that the ink bleeds, it becomes evident that that isn’t the only thing Oikawa meant to say.

‘I know it’s too late, but I love you, Iwa-chan’, she reads with growing horror on the very last page, a suspicious water stain next to these words. Mind whirling, unable to process what she’s just read, she sits at the kitchen table reading and re-reading his words until her vision starts to blur.

‘There are times I wonder if I chose wrong, if I should have held fast to you, the other half of my soul rather than going off to fight in hopeless wars, because I should have known you won’t always be waiting for me to come home. But I will always love you - like the moon loves the sun, even if I can only watch you from afar, so full of light’.

She should be furious – she should head straight to Oikawa and scream and shout and stamp her foot at him, because how dare he say these things now when he’s had forever to say them to Iwaizumi before she even came into the picture – how dare he wait until she and Iwaizumi are less than ten days away from being wed. But she doesn’t, because deep inside her, she understands.

How can she begrudge his love when they love the same man?

‘Sweetheart’, she faintly hears Iwaizumi say, squinting in the light as he emerges from the dark bedroom. ‘Is everything alright?’ he asks, his voice heavy with concern when he catches sight of her tear stained face.

She wants to tell him that everything’s just fine – but his gaze shifts to the torn papers in her trembling hands and she knows immediately everything is not fine at all when he looks back at her with guilt and anguish branded on his face.

‘Did you know?’ she asks, hating the way her voice starts to break.

‘He told me just now’, he tells her heavily, dropping into the seat across her, his hands cradling his head.

‘Do you love him?’ she demands, ignoring the sob that’s threatening to tear itself out of her chest.

He looks up at her. There are tears in his eyes.

‘Yes’, he admits. ‘I don’t want to, but I do’.

His words knock the oxygen from her lungs, leaving her with a crater in her chest. He loves Oikawa Tooru, this beautiful, brilliant, broken boy, incandescent with the light of a thousand stars.

Where does that leave her?

(Stranded in the dust, abandoned in the dark)

She suddenly feels as if she’s trapped in her own skin, a vise that’s far, far too tight, burning with the need to turn herself inside out. ‘I need to go’, she manages to spit out, stumbling over her feet. He stands in alarm, reaching towards her but she slaps his hand away. ‘Don’t touch me’, she hisses, grabbing her wallet and phone through a haze of tears.

‘Where are you going to go?’ he demands, barring the door with his large frame. ‘It’s late, it’s not safe.’

‘Anywhere that’s not here’, she snarls, trying to shoulder her way through. ‘Let me go, Hajime – I can’t stay here, please, let me go!’ She slams her fists against his chest, collapsing to the floor at his feet when she realises it’s impossible to break through the immovable force that is Iwaizumi Hajime.

‘Let me go somewhere that isn’t here’, she begs him, hiccupping through her tears. ‘You’re hurting me more by making me stay here with him’.

He sinks to his knees to cup her face in his hands. ‘I’m sorry’, he sobs. ‘I couldn’t bear it if I lose you too’.

She doesn’t have the heart to tell him he already has ( because she can’t stay, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts), and when her stillness convinces him it’s safe to turn his back to her for a second, she slips through the door and disappears into the night. She hears him shout her name, hears the anguish in his voice, but she doesn’t stop running until she’s safely ensconced in a nearby hotel room.

Her phone keeps buzzing through the night. ‘Iwaizumi Hajime ’, it reads, ‘Iwaizumi Hajime’, flashes on her screen, again and again. She tries her best to ignore it, turning her phone on to silent mode, leaving it face down on the dresser but she can’t - her ears still echoing with the heart wrenching panic in his voice. So she rolls over to her phone and sends him a text – ‘ I’m fine, go to bed, you have a doctor’s appointment with Oikawa to worry about tomorrow morning’ – quickly switching it off before he can flood her inbox with desperate calls and texts.

She tries her best to fall asleep, but she ends up lying awake, counting the cracks in the ceiling. The air in the room is far, far too still, and she feels like she’s suffocating, buried alive from the sand and dirt and earth pouring into the cavity in her chest. Against her better judgment, she uncorks the cheap spirits in the hotel minibar and pours herself shots, one after another, until she drops off to sleep with a single thought swirling around her head.

The universe isn’t fair - because first it gave her Hajime, then it took him away.

It is noon when she wakes, sunlight streaming mercilessly into the room. She sits up with a groan, rubbing a hand across her face. For a second, she wonders where she is, the monochrome sheets so different from the cheerful patterns she uses in their room, before reality slams into her like a comet to her chest.

Right. That happened .

She can scream and cry and try to scratch the face of fate but it won’t change matters. Hiding away from the world isn’t going to make the cruel joke that is her love life go away, so she grits her teeth and steels herself, washing her face and paying the bill before heading home (though if she’s honest with herself, she’s not sure if it’ll be home for much longer).

She prays to god or whatever deity there is out there (not the universe, it has a funny way of throwing shit her way) that Iwaizumi wouldn’t be home, but whatever it is, it’s definitely not listening because Iwaizumi opens the front door while she’s still struggling with her keys. It takes just one look at him for the pain in her chest to make its presence felt again.

‘How’s Oikawa’s knee?’ she casually inquires, edging around him to slip into the flat. Oikawa doesn’t seem to be around, so she lets herself relax just an inch.

‘It’s fine’, he responds, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘Just needs some rest’.

‘That’s good’, she says absently, heading straight for the kitchen, ignoring him as he follows her steps. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asks, pulling leftover rice and dashi stock out of the fridge. He nods dumbly as she heats them both up to assemble two bowls of Ochazuke . Her heart may be broken, but her stomach certainly isn’t, and she’s not about to let herself wither away. He looks at her dumbly as she slides his bowl at him, and neither of them says a word until she leans back in her chair, satisfied with her meal.

‘Are we going to talk?’ he asks her confusedly.

‘About last night? What is there left to talk about?’ she replies, keeping her composure firm. ‘The wedding’s off obviously, so we need to inform all our vendors and guests as soon as possible. I think I should be the one to move out of the flat – ‘

He cuts her off frantically – ‘What? Why would we call off our wedding? I still love you, and you still love me, don’t you?’

She gapes at him incredulously. ‘Hajime, you told me last night that you love Oikawa. How is our marriage going to work if you love someone else?’

‘But I love you’, he says, his voice cracking. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

No it isn’t, and she’s shaking her head because it isn’t enough, it’s never going to be enough, because he may love her but he’s in love with him – has been since they were little boys with stars in their eyes. And his shoulders shake and it’s his turn to cry because he loves her, he really does, he knows greed is a sin but he wants both him and her, and he wishes that it could be enough.

‘I’ve seen the way you look at him, and I’ve seen the way he looks at you’, she tells him, eyes dry, but there’s a tremble in her voice that she can’t hide - because she’s so stupid, she should have figured this out long before she dug out her heart and handed it to him - but then again maybe she didn’t because she was blinded by staring too long at the sun.

‘You will grow to resent me if I keep him from you and besides, how could I possibly compare?’

Because Oikawa Tooru, blessed with innate brilliance and cursed with a penchant for self-immolation, burns brighter than a thousand stars.

‘I’m sorry’, he tells her, rounding the table to drop to his knees before her, the look in his eyes so heartbreakingly sad that she has to choke back a sob. ‘You meant the world to me’, he whispers brokenly as he buries his face in her lap.

‘I know’, she answers him – and gods, her heart is screaming and it hurts - but she loves him so much she knows it’s only right to let him go. ‘But the world will move on, and you need to chase the stars while you still have them in your sight’.

At this, he lets out a quiet cry, and this time she gives in and joins him, her tears soaking his hair. He wraps his arms around her as she presses kisses into his skin and they stay that way for a while, their limbs entwined, because it finally dawns on both of them that this is it - it truly is the end of them.

The sun may set and the moon may rise, but the stars - they burn bright in the sky.

Her love for him should die (from earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust) – but it doesn’t.

She packs her life into cardboard boxes and shifts into her sister’s flat. Iwaizumi doesn’t allow her to pay for the cancellation of their wedding, takes all responsibility for informing their guests that the wedding’s off - he says it’s his fault after all, and she doesn’t resist, knowing it’s his way of trying to make amends.

His face crumples and he tries to refuse her when she returns his ring, but she insists - because it doesn’t feel right, she can’t seem to smile when the silver band catches the sun's light. He doesn’t tell her he keeps it in a box beside his bed, and opens it from time to time.

Oikawa manages to weasel her sister’s address out of Iwaizumi and appears on her doorstep the day before he’s due to return to Argentina with a bushel of white lilies in his arms.

‘Wait!’ he cries, catching the door with his foot as she tries to slam it into his face, cursing the reflexes of a professional athlete. ‘I won’t take too much of your time’, he promises, and she folds her arms, glaring at him expectantly.

‘I’m sorry. I’ve treated you and Hajime terribly, haven’t I’, he asks her shamefacedly.

‘You have’, she tells him coldly, because she desperately wants to blame him for everything bad that's come her way but when he hangs his head, she can’t help but soften her tone. ‘But I understand, Oikawa. How could I blame you when I love the same man?’

‘I don’t deserve your kindness’, he responds quietly, after a pause.

‘But you have it’, she tells him. ‘So live and be happy, for his and my sake’.

When he leaves, she closes the door and sinks to the floor, burying her nose in his offering of lilies. Its scent is cloying sweet, but she can only taste the bitterness of ash in her mouth.

A year later, and she’s back covering the Japanese men’s volleyball season when she runs into one Iwaizumi Hajime again.

He is the first to speak, asking her a genial ‘how are you’, to which she replies ‘fine’, though she really means - ‘I may be wounded, but I am still standing on my feet’. But Iwaizumi understands - he always does , and they stay silent for a while.

She picks up the courage to ask after Oikawa, and she knows he’s trying his best not to light up as he tells her that though he’s back in Argentina, they’re pursuing a long distance relationship. In turn, she tells him about her new boyfriend, ruefully mentioning that though she tried to stay clear of volleyball boys, Akaashi Keiji not only used to play volleyball in high school, but is the best friend (and former setter) of Bokuto Koutaro, national team player and self-proclaimed ace. He laughs at that - but she does not mention it is a relationship born out of the heartbreak reflected in both of their eyes.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks her before they part. It’s ironic because these are the first words he’s ever said to her, but she swallows the memory and this time she responds truthfully.

‘It’s a work in progress and I’m getting there, one day at a time’.

They exchange bittersweet smiles.

It’s enough for now.

#haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu angst #oikawa tooru #iwaizumi angst #iwaizumi fanfic #iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu fic rec #haikyu x reader #oikawa x iwaizumi #iwaizumi x reader #oikawa angst #iwaizumi x y/n #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi scenarios

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echo-three-one · 4 years ago

Text

Good Day!

As I told earlier, I finished my Soap x Reader Fic and yeah here it is.

I suck at titles and that shows.

Midnight Coffee Rush

John MacTavish x Female Reader

Warnings : Smut. Read at your own Risk or whatever.

Cross-posting to AO3 later 😳

THUD!

You softly slam your head on the desk as you stare blankly at the blinking cursor on your laptop. An article is due next week and you haven't really started on anything yet. Your editor keeps on calling you earlier today on how she can't work on last minute submissions. You assured her that yours won't need that much editing and she trusts you with that, but still, a deadlines a deadline.

Scanning your empty apartment room for ideas, you decide it's best if you take this ordeal outside and look for open places to work on. Coincidentally, the local café "John's brew" happens to open for 24 hours starting today. You feel uneasy at the name of the shop but that won't stop you from your goals today.

After a chilly midnight walk across the streets of your city, you finally make it to the shop, it looks like it can compete with the local Starbucks as its outer layout gives off the same vibe.

You push open the glass doors and the bell chimes from above you, this made the barista at the counter turn his head and greet you with a friendly smile. "Welcome to John's Brew!"

You stand just across the counter as you look up to view what the store has to offer while the barista waits patiently for your order. You order some fancy named coffee, wanting to try out why it has a star next to it's name as the barista, who now you know goes by the name "Gary" based on his name tag, explains that it's their best selling and unique blend coffee. He then passionately tells you how the coffee you chose is created by the owner of the shop and judging by the tone of his voice, he's excited for you to try it for the first time.

"Thanks Gary, here's my card." you reach out for your card and he cheerfully accepts it.

"What name should this go by, Ms. L/N?" he asks readying his marker.

"Just Y/N." you say. Gary raises his eyebrows in confusion.

"Sorry, I'm sure I heard that name somewhere." he dismisses his thoughts and writes your name on the cup.

"We'll you're a barista, I'm sure you've heard a lot of names in your line of work." you jokingly reply. It made him laugh as he gives your card back and you make your way to the corner of the room.

The music is soothing and the ambience is more than enough to keep you going, you pull out your laptop as you start typing ideas for your article.

Gary took the liberty of delivering you your drink saying "You looked very focused" and "There isn't that much customers anyway" and you smiled at the service he's done. He stays for a while insisting that he wants to witness your initial reaction as soon as you taste the coffee. So you slowly blow off the heat and took your first sip.

Your eyebrows raised and your cheeks blushed as the warm beverage tickles your tastebuds a wave of nostalgia brings shivers down your spine.

***

"So, what do you think of this?" A shirtless man with a signature mohawk and scar on his left eye approaches you just as you get up of bed. You remember smiling at the view, his deep blue eyes pierce through yours as he excitedly offers a cup of coffee he claims to mix himself.

"Mmm! This tastes, well... something even I can't describe! It's good? delicious? heavenly maybe?" You giggle as he inches closer to you crawling up the bed and reaching on your face for a kiss, blindly reaching for the cup and putting in on the bedside table.

"Not even the words from your thesaurus can't describe?" He whispers as he pulls the kiss away, eyebrows wiggling. Your heart melts at the sight of him.

"I'll tell you the perfect word when I find it." You giggle as you reach for his face and pull him to yours, as he softly crashes his body on you, rolling around the bed.

***

"Maam?" Gary taps your shoulder and you immediately flinch and turn to him.

"I'm sorry." you laugh nervously.

"It felt like you had a good time going on with that drink. We're having a contest as to which word best describes it. If you want to submit your word, I'll leave this pen and sticky note on your table." he cheerfully explains as the door chimes, making him rush back to his counter.

Shit. You thought to yourself. Of course it had to taste the same, even the name of the shop checks out. Your heart starts to thump louder and louder as you put the pieces together, you convince yourself it's just the coffee, but then again the evidences never lie. John's Brew, that exact taste, no word yet to describe it.

You flinched as you turn to the heavy door slam to your left, just by the counter. A man, walks out of it wearing a very fit long sleeve tucked into business pants, you assume it's the manager. Then again, you see him scratching his head, which happens to have a rather unique haircut. A mohawk. Holy Shit.

***

'Congratulations Ms. Y/N L/N! You have been accepted on the writer program. Please report tomorrow for your orientation.'

The text read just as you wake up. Your face lit up in excitement as you squealed like a kid. Your life would change for the better.

A very wet John MacTavish popped out of the bathroom, his face was full of worry as he quickly wrapped himself with a towel.

"What's wrong?! Something out to get ya?" He asked, a bar of soap on is arms ready to throw to the intruder.

"I just got accepted!" you squealed excitedly at him, hugged him thight not minding how wet he was. He slowly wrapped his arms around you and you felt that you're the only one excited about this news.

"Congrats. But what about your life here? What about me?" he muttered, his facial expressions dropped.

"I'm sure we'll work it out? It isn't that far, right?"

"I'm sure we'll work it out"

"Not now John, I have articles due."

"I'm too exhausted for today, John"

"I'm sorry. I fell asleep."

***

The loud growl of your stomach shocked you back to reality. Come to think of it, it's already 2 in the morning and you're almost through with your article. A muffin won't be that much of a distraction. You turn to the counter and see John catering to a lady on a bright red dress. She probably came from a club and now trying to sober up with a coffee. You pretend to type on your keyboard but secretly view the event from the corner of your eye. They are laughing and he escorted her as she is walking tipsily to the sofa. They exchange some words you barely make out and can't help but feel rage bubbling inside you. But then again, you don't have the slightest audacity to do so. You slowly ignored him while focusing on your job. You left his messages on read and calls on voicemail. You feel guilt rushing through you. Out of impulsive emotions, you quickly decide to finish the article home as you grab your laptop and coffee and rush to the exit.

"Ma'am! You left your sticky note." John's voice echoes across the shop. This made the few notable customers look at the both of us in curiosity.

You slowly turn back to him leaning on the counter, his elbows resting on the counter looking at you, he knows what he's up to. You remember telling him to stop flexing his biceps in front of you in public. It's kind of an inside joke for the two of you and he seems to remember it all too well.

"Your word. For the contest." he points out to the bulletin board of sticky notes on the other side of the hall.

"I... can't think of anything yet..." you stammer as you exit the door, walking as fast as you can away from him.

"Y/N, wait!" he quickly grabs your arm. You almost expect that he'd do this even after all those times.

"John I-" you quicky turn to him, hot tears start forming on your eyes as he pulls you close to his warm embrace.

"Yeah. You've been very busy... I know." He mutters as you sniffle on his chest, smelling his musk that never changed even after all these months.

"Congratulations on your most recent award, you know. Article of the month, and the month before that and that one time you wrote about the wildlife in Africa..." he trails off while rubbing your back as more tears fell from your eyes. He'd been watching your career grow, even after all this time. It somehow feels you don't deserve him. And you believe you really don't.

Pulling away, you looked at him with a smile.

"I'm sorry..." you croak.

"Why are you sorry, Y/N? You met someone else out there?" he asks. Then again, you both didn't really have a proper conclusion to your relationship. You initially felt like you were slowly drifting away from each other as your careers grew, but here he is, having the same sparkle in his eyes as when you last saw each other.

"No... but, it's been very long and I have been ignoring you... breaking my promi-" He suddenly pulls you close and kisses your lips, you deny him at first but you slowly grip his arms and let him have access to your mouth.

Longing is the only feeling you both feel right now as you slowly kiss back and respond to his mouth. His kiss gives you assurance that even after all this time he yearns for you to come back, his assurance that you did what you had to do to get where you are now even at the cost of completely shutting him out. But of course you weren't, you also long for him every single day, but life has to keep going, and you believed that he'd found someone else after all those times. But this moment made you feel wrong about him, and it's now your chance to get things right between the two of you.

"You know, I always assumed you're still my girlfriend." he smirks. He is true though, there was neither a formal nor informal break up effort on both sides, just indifference due to many reasons.

"Well, I assumed you looked for someone else... and I'm to shy to ask how things have been..." you croak, trying not to cry again. You realize your stupidity once more, but he wipes off your tear with his thumb and lifts your chin up to look at him.

"You still owe me a word, you know." he jokes as he walks you back to the cafe, arm wrapped around your shoulder. As soon as you both enter the door, Gary greets his boss while mopping the floor.

"You were right boss, she is pretty!" The barista smiles and gives John a thumbs up to which he replies,

"Guess I'll be back in my office doing paperwork, Gary. You take charge here okay?"

"Yes, Captain!" he jokingly salutes and continues his work.

"You done with that article?" he asks, a tone of concern in his voice.

"Almost.." you reply shyly. You still can't digest everything that happened so far, but your heart keeps on thumping and your mind's been trying to scream something to you.

"You know, I could use some company while I do some paperwork..." the trails off, the tone in his voice shifted into something you felt excited about. Something along those words mixed with that accent sends flutters across your insides.

"If you'd want me to..." you reply as he opens his office door letting you in. It was a small office a sofa just beside the door, two chairs infront of a large office desk filled with scattered papers, ledgers and journals. He quickly folds his laptop and puts it in his bag as you take off your coat, admiring the view. Plaques, certificates and awards plaster across the walls, along with pictures of his staff calendar schedules and some other things scribbled across the whiteboard. He offers his hand and you give him your coat, only to be pinned to the door.

"God, I missed you so fucking much." He breathes as you stare at his cold blue eyes blazing with desire, you know full well where this is going and you have no objections. You wished for this to happen as soon as your plane touched the city.

Unable to form any words, you quickly pucker your lips, signaling him to move closer and kiss you. Now that you're both alone, his kisses felt much more intimate, needier and his tongue explored every possible area he could. You hear the door lock itself and his hand slowly caresses your ass through the tight jeans you're wearing, pressing himself so you could feel the tension growing beneath his slacks. You slowly slide your hand through it and earned yourself a chuckle from him, as he moves his lips below your ear and around your neck, hearing each smack of his lip and sniff of his nose.

You let out a soft moan as you feel overwhelmed on what he does to your body, you couldn't focus on what's going on, your hands rubbing his hard crotch, his hands softly caressing your ass or his mouth doing wonders around your neck. He continues to do this until your pants and whines become erratic and fast and stops just at the right time for you to catch your breath.

You open your eyes to him, who seems to be enjoying your reunion, a sexy smirk across his face. You let out a smile whist still panting, and he seems to like what he sees, letting a soft chuckle.

"I remember that look on you. You're up to something.." He recalls as you push him to the sofa to his side, straddling on his crotch as you unbutton his long sleeves.

He grunts as soon as he plops on the sofa and groans as soon as you slowly wiggle your ass on top of him. You could clearly see the building frustration in his face as well as in his jeans.

You quickly undone seven buttons as he quickly tosses it somewhere and viewed his muscular physique as you sit on him. He became hairier and you find it very sexy, trailing your hand down his body, all while staring at him as seductive as you can. He smiles at the gesture as you slowly unbutton your shirt, never breaking eye contact, until he can't resist anymore and got up from the sofa. He lifts you down and you stand on the floor as he works your way to slide off your jeans. He quickly buried his face on your pussy as soon as he sees it and devours it like a hungry wolf. He never dissappoints as the feeling made you shudder, grabbing onto what's left of his hair in excitement. This goes on up until you softly pull his head out and move to unbuckle his belt, sliding his slacks all the way down as his cock springs free as soon as you take his boxers off.

You stare at him as you slowly jerk your hand around his cock, his eyes almost in a trance, as you teasingly kiss the tip, which was slowly oozing of precum. He grabs your hair and tucks it behind your ear as you slowly swallow his cock, giving him a blowjob that you've always imagined of giving him when you meet again. You're tongue slowly swirling around his length, feeling every vein and skin around it. You countinued mixing it up with your hand and mouth until he groans in anticipation and pulls you out of him.

He slowly gets up and shoves all his paperwork away from his desk and carries you to it, spreading your legs as he slowly pushes his tip on your opening.

You whimper at the first entrance, it felt different than usual, maybe because it's been quite a while since you to have done it, but that didn't stop the both of you from continuing. His eyes mesmerize you as he slowly picks up his rhythm, you can see his chest muscles bounce as he thrusts himself deep in you. He slowly rubs the upper area of your pussy as he thrusts, giving you a sensation that makes you wanna scream in pleasure. But given the circumstances, you only let out small gasps and whimpers. However, his grunts and moans are also getting louder, so you decide to let loose and follow his volume.

"Fuck." You whimper as he continues his fast pace as evidenced by the loud slapping noises. He quickly flips you to the desk and continues to fuck you from behind. Each thrust felt like the desk is inching closer to the wall, you didn't protest as you loved the sensation, how your walls clench as his warm cock slides in and out of you. You feel his motions change and you know full well what that means, you moan softly signaling him thay you're also almost there as he makes his final thrusts and shoots his warm load inside you, feeling the rush of his cum drip as he pulls his cock out.

He pulls you up and reaches for a kiss, a long yet intimate one as you both use the language of kiss to assure that you'll still be the same way no matter how distant it may be.

"See you after my shift?" he murmurs as he puts on his clothes, now all wrinkly and messy.

"Yes." you smile reaching for another kiss.

After preparing to go home, you quickly grab a pen and wrote the word you describe the drink, plaster it on the board and make your way out of the café.

#horRAYfic #codmw #Soap x Reader #john soap mactavish

84 notes · View notes

xiaomomowrites · 4 years ago

Text

homecoming

Genshin Impact | TartaLi/ZhongChi

Summary: “You must not give up now, alright? I, too, wish for Childe to come home. I wish to see him again, and frankly, it scares me how much I want him by my side once more,” Zhongli acquiesces, “I miss him dearly, and all I want is to be able to hear his laugh again. You feel the same about your sister, do you not? But Aether, this kind of loss is something we both must grieve. But what is grief, if not love persevering?”

Aether opens his mouth to begin responding, but his jaw quickly snaps shut as the fate between his palms disappears.

Keqing and Mona gasp loudly from where they sit back at camp. Aether startles, and pulls back to look at him with wide golden eyes.

All four of them look up to the sky, and are astonished to see a single golden star hurtling toward the ground they sit on. Aether gasps, barely containing his scream.

“Oh my god,” Traveler inhales sharply, “oh my god, you-”

“Get out of there!” Mona yells, and suddenly she’s standing up on her chair. Keqing places a steadying hand on the small of her back. “It’s going to crash right into you! Move!”

Or, Zhongli and Aether just want Childe to come home. Their wishes come true.

Find it on Ao3!

A/N: Oh my goodness I wrote this in one sitting before throwing it at my editors and wishing them the best lol. I wrote this in honor of finally pulling Childe, and wow was this a treat to write! And yes, I wrote my own team reacting to Childe coming home. Aether isn't on my team anymore (I benched him back when I was WL3), but I wanted to include him because it isn't Genshin Impact without our favorite traveler. My main team consists of Zhongli, Mona, Chongyun, and Keqing! But now that Childe is with me, he'll be slowly making his way into my main party :)

Just a heads up, Keqing and Mona were written as best friends here, but you can interpret their relationship however you'd like haha

And once again, this fic was inspired by some twitter fanart that I will link in the end notes! Enjoyyyy <3

Aether is especially jittery this morning.

The blond is bouncing off the walls so early in the morning that even Zhongli was taken aback by his energy. The ex-Archon watches him with wary eyes as the traveler paces back and forth in front of the breakfast table, muttering to himself about ‘fates’ and ‘primogems’. Vaguely, Zhongli hears Aether mutter the numbers ‘one hundred and sixty’ and ‘thirty-two-eighty’ as he paces, and the deity ultimately decides he wants nothing to do with what Aether is scheming. The sun is rising and Zhongli has always loved watching the star rise with every inhale. The day starts when the sun wakes up, and it ends when the sun begins to rest. Zhongli closes his eyes, ignoring Aether’s anxious pacing in favor of the serenity of the wilderness they chose to camp out in for the night.

Mona and Keqing clamber out of their shared tent together, pinkies linked as usual. Keqing still dons her elegant silk sleeping robe and her lavender hair spills past her shoulders in cute, candid waves. Her eyes are still slightly hooded with sleep but she’s quick to blink her drowsiness away in favor of the day to come. Mona, on the other hand, is in the oversized tee shirt she bought from Majorie and her usual black tights. Her dark locks are out of their usual twin pigtails and flow down her back, tangled, and significantly less put together than Keqing. She yawns obnoxiously as she shuffles closer to the group.

The astrologist sniffles. “G’morning.”

“Good morning, friends,” Keqing greets with a small smile of her own and drags Mona to sit across from Zhongli. He offers her a smile. Mona blinks in response.

“Good morning, ladies. Did you sleep well?” Zhongli responds, and takes Mona’s glare as an answer in itself. “Still not a morning person, I see.”

“Never will be, Mr. Rex Lapis,” Mona sighs, thanking him quietly for the cup of tea he hands her in passing. Keqing makes a beeline for their makeshift kitchen to make the unruly bunch some breakfast. Zhongli always handles the tea, as picky as he is about his morning tea, and Keqing always handles breakfast.

“I assume young Chongyun will not be awake for awhile,” Zhongli chuckles, bringing his cup to his lips.

Keqing scoffs from the kitchen, “You can expect him around noon, Zhongli-xiansheng.”

Xiansheng.

Try as he might, he’s associated the suffix to a certain ginger. A ginger who he misses dearly, but hasn’t seen since he left for Snezhnaya in a hurry. Zhongli’s heart swoops. He left without so much as a goodbye, leaving Zhongli to pick up the pieces he left Liyue in and the unfortunate state of his heart. The thought of not seeing Childe ever again ate at him continuously until he felt hollow inside, and all he had left was a familiar ache every time the ginger came back to haunt his dreams. All Zhongli wanted was to know if the latter was okay, but with the way he had deceived him, he wasn’t sure if he deserved to know. As someone who greets death as if it were an old friend, never seeing Childe again simply because the circumstances do not allow it upsets him far more than he’d like to admit. Life, human life, was too short for Zhongli to be sitting around wasting time. But no matter how many times he’s preached this to himself, the ex-Archon still struggles with taking the steps to make contact.

How would he even begin, anyway?

The Harbinger was stuck with his Harbinger duties. Childe had a family to tend to and treasure hoarders to chase. It wasn’t like Zhongli could warp to Snezhnaya and sweep him off his feet; that would be inappropriate and selfish of him. And yet the idea of seeing him again, of hearing his laugh, watching him smile, pay for his food with that adorable expression of his, it almost makes him want to leave to see him right now. But he can’t. The situation simply does not allow it.

Right?

“Two minutes!” Aether suddenly yelps, making Mona jump in her chair. She whips around to glare at the overzealous traveler. Keqing’s head snaps in his direction and almost drops the pan she’s frying fish on. She clicks her tongue in mild annoyance. Zhongli frowns, his curiosity getting the best of him.

“What are you so anxious about, Aether?”

“You don’t understand, Zhongli!” Aether whips around, his crazy eyes locking onto Zhongli’s amber irises. “This team needs an archer. We need an archer. This is non-negotiable! I can’t keep bothering Keqing to shoot those stupid water birds if she can’t throw her hair pin that far! We need arrows, Zhongli, arrows!”

Keqing makes a small noise of offense.

His arms flail in the air, desperate to make everyone in the room feel the panic he is currently sinking under.

“Alright, alright,” Zhongli hushes him, unsure of why his friend was so disgruntled in the first place. As far as he knew, it was another normal day full of daily commissions and mindless material farming. “We need someone adept at long range fighting. But what does that have to do with your current state of distress?”

“Mona said that today, his chances are increased by two-hundred percent. Right, Mona?” Aether’s gaze suddenly locks onto hers. She blinks.

“Yeah,” she responds, “but we had this discussion already, Aether, Childe’s rates are increased but that doesn’t guarantee you the fifty-fifty-”

“Childe?” Zhongli interrupts, interest suddenly piqued. “What does this have to do with Childe?”

Fifty-fifty? The more the conversation went on, the more confused Zhongli grew.

“Agh!” Aether scrambles, “I have to go! It’s happening!”

Zhongli watches with twice the amount of curiosity he had two minutes earlier. The mention of Childe has his heart racing faster than he’d like to admit.

Aether frantically pulls out a bag full of intertwined fates and rushes out to the open field ahead of them. The bag is absolutely loaded, filled to the brim and overflowing with these small, circular things that, in his six thousand years of living, he has never seen before. They are colored blue and pink, and they mix together and sparkle so divinely that Zhongli finds himself entranced by their color alone. He has read about them and their uses in the past, but he has never seen someone actually wish upon them.

Mona sighs around her teacup. “He gets like this every time I tell him someone new is coming,” she shakes her head wistfully, “I always tell him to stop spending so much of his mora on these fates! They’re not good for the economy-”

“And what do you know about the economy, Mona?” Keqing chuckles, coming around with plated food for the trio, “you spend the entirety of your paychecks immediately on the newest hot astrology item. Not that they’re not important to you but I’ve told you before that you ought to be careful with how you spend your mora.”

Mona’s jaw drops. “What!” she fumbles, “I am plenty responsible with my mora! And the things I buy are completely valid and of high rarity, thank you!”

“Hmm, is that why you almost starved and ate nothing but mushrooms for three months?” Keqing teases, nudging Mona’s mouth open with chopsticks holding fish. The astrologist pouts, but opens her mouth to eat, anyway. She’s right, but Mona would never say that to her face.

Zhongli doesn’t pay attention to their bickering.

Instead, he fixates on the way Aether scurries out and dumps the bag of fates out on the open field before picking them up, one by one, until ten of them are bunched up in his arms. Aether flops down on the grass beneath him and folds his legs underneath himself. The traveler hunches over the fates, huddling them close to his chest, and Zhongli can barely see his mouth moving as Aether begins to wish upon ten stars. With every word spoken, each fate slowly starts to disappear. The more his mouth moves, the more the fates begin to disintegrate from his arms.

A loud whirring noise above their heads suddenly takes place. It gets louder as it gets closer, and Zhongli cranes his neck to see stars hurtling toward Teyvat. He feels panic bubbling up in his chest as he sees the bunch go straight for his friend.

“Aether!” he yells, “Get over here, it’s dangerous out in the open!”

“I’m fine!” he hollers back like a stubborn child. “Ugh, dammit!”

Zhongli looks back up, and is baffled to see that one of the stars has turned purple. What in Celestia’s name-

Barbara appears before them, and Zhongli’s eyes all but bulge out of his head. Celestia, he’s too old for this. The young nurse is not the only thing to appear, though. Zhongli observes the various weapons that litter the ground and surround Aether’s feet. The blond observes them with a scrutinizing gaze, nudging the three star weapons with his foot and pushing the four star weapons aside for later. How peculiar.

Mona, on the other hand, smiles and waves a hand at her fellow water catalyst. “Barbara!” She hollers, “It’s good to see you!”

“Mona!” the young idol responds with a blinding smile, before focusing her attention back on Aether. The traveler sighs, gives her a quick hug in greeting, and sends her on her merry way back to Mondstadt after apologizing profusely for the inconvenience.

Keqing snickers. “It’s always so funny watching him get so intense about wishing.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Mona adds, “Remember how much he screamed when he finally got us?”

“Oh yes,” Keqing smiles around her cup, “I remember him throwing these strange artifacts at me and shoving a sword in my face, demanding that I use it, as if I don’t already have my own weapon!” She waves her hand dismissively, reminiscing her days when she was first introduced to the team.

Mona tips her head back and laughs heartily. “Oh, yes. He took my book away from me and gave me my lovely eye of perception. I must say, it’s a bit of a downgrade from my five star weapon, but I do feel as if I deal more damage this way.”

Keqing hums in agreement. “Likewise.”

Zhongli is quiet.

All he remembers from joining Aether’s team is being pulled at the last minute and being tackled into a hug as soon as he appeared. The traveler had all but pushed the skyward spine into his hands, and told him to hold onto what looked to be archaic petra artifacts. Zhongli had cocked his head, confused, but followed along anyway. What Aether was doing seemed important, regardless, and he decided to support his endeavours from there on out.

Now he watches with bated breath as Aether curls around another set of ten fates. Zhongli is beginning to understand what he is doing, but he fails to decipher what Childe has to do with any of this. His rates are increased? What in Celestia’s name does that even mean?

Aether begins wishing upon ten more fates and the abrupt whooshing above their heads starts up once more. One of the stars morph midair into purple once again.

Keqing and Mona sigh.

Zhongli just wants to understand.

Aether punches the grass beneath him.

A young woman appears before them along with another unnecessary plethora of weapons. She’s blonde, just like the last one, but she dons two pigtails and an eyepatch. A strange electric bird hovers around her, too, and Zhongli can’t help but wonder why she is dressed the way she is; she’s covered in purple and black, cocking one hip as if she owned the world. Zhongli is unsure about the energy she exudes. But in fairness, it is far too early to judge one’s character on nothing but appearance. Still, he watches carefully.

“Fischl,” Aether breathes, slumping against the floor, “hello.”

“Traveler,” she greets. “What exactly am I doing here? I will have you know, as Prinzessin-”

“Der Verteilung, you have many duties at home you must attend to, lest the kingdom you rule with grace and elegance burn to the ground without your remarkable leadership,” Aether finishes for her, “I know, I know. Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to grab you. You can go home.”

Fischl harrumphs. “I’m relieved to know you are aware of my importance. Good day to you, strange traveler.”

And then she’s gone.

Zhongli sighs, pushing himself up from the table and ignoring the way his knees disagree with the sudden movement.

“Where are you going?” Keqing asks, helping herself to another cup of tea.

“I’m going to talk to Aether,” Zhongli declares, “He seems...rather troubled, and I wish to help.”

“He gets like this every time,” Mona reminds him, voice softer than it was two minutes ago, “it’s really nothing new.”

Zhongli shakes his head. “It does not make it right to let him sit in his anxiety like this. Perhaps he could use a friend.”

Mona shrugs and lets him go. As he walks away, he hears the girls behind him begin to talk.

“Does Zhongli have a thing for Childe?” Mona asks in a hushed breath. Keqing’s eyes widened comically.

“Not that I know of? Why, did you sense something?” She leans in closer, ever the gossip. Mona shuffles so they’re speaking in hushed tones, even though Zhongli can definitely still hear them. He chuckles, shaking his head disapprovingly.

The ex-Archon pads over to where Aether sits, frantically bunching together ten more fates. Zhongli sighs, and bends to sit next to him. His back screams in protest. Goodness, mortal life is getting to him.

“Aether,” he begins, “I worry for your health.”

“I’m fine, Zhongli. I’ll be fine as soon as he gets here,” Aether answers without even sparing the elder a glance. He picks up fates and observes them carefully to inspect their quality, as if he were picking ripe apples out from the grocery.

“And who exactly are you waiting for?” Zhongli asks, indulging the blond for a moment.

“Childe!” he yells, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. The latter sighs. He, too, wishes for Childe to appear, but it simply did not work like that. One cannot summon another’s presence upon demand. Childe was too busy for that, anyway.

“Aether,” he begins, “you are anxious, friend, and I implore you to take a break from this please-”

“Zhongli,” traveler shuffles on his knees to look at him, “I have spent the last three months working my ass off for these fates, I’ve spent more mora than I’d like to admit, and I’ve spent far too long in that godforsaken spiral abyss scraping for three hundred primogems each time I freeze my ass off in floors nine and ten and it sucked, Zhongli, but I’ve worked hard and I need this, okay? I need Childe to come home. Because I need to get stronger, and I need a stronger team because I need to find my sister because I know she’s out there and, and-”

Zhongli raises a hand to quiet him. Oh, there was much to unpack here. His heart breaks for his friend’s state of distress. He places a comforting palm on Aether’s shoulder, lowering himself even more to look his friend in the eyes. The traveler looks a bit haggard, obviously from waking up early in anticipation. Zhongli wishes he could take his pain; he wishes he could take away the longing he desperately felt for his sister. But unfortunately, there was nothing he could do, so he offers his best comfort, instead.

“It’s alright,” Zhongli mutters, “I understand. You have worked hard, and you deserve a win. But Aether, whatever comes will come. Whether or not you ‘win the fifty-fifty’, you will be pushed in the right direction toward your sister, I promise you that. No amount of artifacts or talent books or weapon upgrades can compare to the strength you already harbor, looking for your sister every day despite knowing where she is. You face a battle against the unknown, and that in itself is commendable. Acknowledge your strength, Aether. You have come very far.”

Aether sags against him, letting himself lean forward until his forehead thumps against Zhongli’s chest. The contact is comforting. Everything about Zhongli is so warm and homey, and he smells of sleep and sandalwood. The calming effect is immediate, but his brain is still plagued with anxiety. Oh, Aether can’t bear the thought of Childe not coming this morning. It makes the blond sick to his stomach. Zhongli pats the top of his head soothingly.

“I know you miss her, but you will find her,” Zhongli continues. Aether squeezes the single fate in his hand anxiously. The blond fidgets with the single intertwined fate, pressing it up against Zhongli’s stomach as he squeezes his eyes shut, willing the tears to go away. He’s so, so tired.

“You must not give up now, alright? I, too, wish for Childe to come home. I wish to see him again, and frankly, it scares me how much I want him by my side once more,” Zhongli acquiesces, “I miss him dearly, and all I want is to be able to hear his laugh again. You feel the same about your sister, do you not? But Aether, this kind of loss is something we both must grieve. But what is grief, if not love persevering?”

Aether opens his mouth to begin responding, but his jaw quickly snaps shut as the fate between his palms disappears.

Keqing and Mona gasp loudly from where they sit back at camp. Aether startles, and pulls back to look at him with wide golden eyes.

All four of them look up to the sky, and are astonished to see a single golden star hurtling toward the ground they sit on. Aether gasps, barely containing his scream.

“Oh my god,” Traveler inhales sharply, “oh my god, you-”

“Get out of there!” Mona yells, and suddenly she’s standing up on her chair. Keqing places a steadying hand on the small of her back. “It’s going to crash right into you! Move!”

Aether scrambles backward as soon as he sees the pseudo asteroid plummeting directly toward where they’re both situated. “Zhongli!” he yells, “Move!”

The man in question shakes his head, unable to look away from the shooting star.

“It’s alright,” he responds, a sudden calm washing over him at the sight. Something about it feels so undeniably right. His heart tugs impatiently, desperately wishing to make contact with the ethereal being threatening to crash right into him, like a magnet reaching for its other half. “It’s alright, Aether.”

Seconds before it lands, Childe materializes right in front of him, arms flung wide open and a smile so bright that Zhongli almost winces.

The wind is knocked straight out his lungs upon seeing Childe’s gleeful face in front of him. It’s no longer a dream, Zhongli realizes. Ajax is here and he is very real and he is definitely plunging toward him at breakneck speed. This is no longer a figment of his imagination, and he has all but less than two seconds to comprehend that before the ginger barrels right into him.

Zhongi regains himself and digs his feet into the ground, summoning geo shackles from the ground to wrap around his ankles and lock him into place. He braces himself for impact.

Keqing screams. Mona looks away. Aether watches with wide, disbelieving eyes as Tartaglia comes plummeting out of the sky. He lets out an ugly mix between a sigh and a broken sob of relief. Finally. Celestia knows how much Aether needed this. He’s never been so happy to see an obnoxious red head of hair in his life.

Childe, Tartaglia, Ajax, slams into Zhongli at full force and immediately latches onto him like a lifeline. He wraps his arms around Zhongli’s neck, legs winding around his waist, and clings to him like a koala around a tree. Zhongli responds in kind, pressing Childe to his chest with strong arms that hold him impossibly close. The weights around his ankles drop as soon as he stabilizes the both of them, and the ex-Archon swings him around gleefully.

Tartaglia laughs, the noise slightly muffled from where his face is pressed into Zhongli’s collar. Tartaglia squeezes him tighter, and Zhongli eventually has to put him down because his back simply does not want to cooperate today. Tartaglia looks at him then, a little winded from his trek through the sky of all things. Cerulean eyes meet gold, and the sight of his freckled cheeks in front of him makes Zhongli feel as if he can do anything, gnosis or not. He is so filled with joy, heart so full of glee that he feels like he might burst. Celestia could redact his position as a god in its entirety and in this moment, he wouldn’t care. He couldn’t care, because immortality has been nothing but a curse to him so far, and growing old with the love of his life is all he ever desired.

“I can’t believe it,” Zhongli breathes, “you’re here?” he cups Ajax’s face gently, holding him as if he were made of glass.

“You called,” Childe responds, hands grasping at Zhongli’s waist. The Harbinger leans forward until their foreheads knock together. “I heard you, xiansheng. So I came.”

“Huh,” Zhongli says dumbly, “that’s all I had to do?”

“It’s all you had to do, idiot,” Childe scolds him, “I could feel you overthinking all the way from Snezhnaya!” he thumps a fist against Zhongli’s chest playfully. And to his delight, the sound that echoes is no longer hollow. Zhongli’s smile reaches his eyes for the first time in an abysmally long time.

“Childe!” Aether screams. They let go of each other in favor of looking at the one who made their reconciliation possible. “You son of a bitch!”

Childe’s eyes widen at the unprovoked insult. “What did I do?!”

“What did you do?” Aether is quick to rip his shoe off and fling it at Childe’s head. It misses, but only narrowly. “What took you so long, asshole!”

Tartaglia cocks his head to the side. “You were wishing for me, too? I only heard Zhongli’s voice, comrade!”

Aether squawks a noise of indignation. “You-!”

“Aether,” Zhongli interrupts their squabble. His hand never leaves the small of Childe’s back. “Thank you.”

The traveler lets himself slump forward, exhausted from draining all his emotional energy so early in the morning. “You’re welcome. Couldn’t have done it without you, Mr. Zhongli.”

“Is everything okay?” Keqing hollers from where she’s helping Mona down from her chair. “I hear a lot of yelling!”

“Everything is fine!” Aether yells back. Zhongli takes that as their cue to make their way back to camp.

When they arrive, the sun has risen well up into the sky and looms over all of their heads. Chongyun finally clambers out of his tent after he’s completed his ten hours of sleep. His light blue hair is ruffled adorably and he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He stretches, yawns, and coughs when he takes too deep of an inhale. The exorcist summons one of his famous popsicles and sucks on it absentmindedly in place of a proper breakfast. He’s exquisite.

“Morning everyone,” he greets, nodding at the girls at the table. “I heard a lot of screaming. Who’s the new guy?”

Chongyun watches Childe blearily through sleepy eyes. He blinks, before taking in the newcomer. The first thing the young exorcist notices is the obnoxious head of red hair that barely looks styled. Next, is the mask he wears askew. And finally, the abnormal length of his femurs. Chongyun’s eyebrows furrow. He scratches his head. Why are his legs so long?

Childe leans into Zhongli’s side and grins wickedly upon noticing his vision.

“A cryo wielder, huh?” he snickers, “this is going to be fun.”

Mona is horrified to see the way the two never leave each other’s side.

Where there is Childe, there is Zhongli. Where there is Zhongli, there is Childe. Frankly, it is quite concerning. Do the two ever separate? Do they ever have an individual thought? Do they share those, too? Honestly, Mona thought she and Keqing were attached at the hip. But the fact that they can at least go to the bathroom separately says a lot more than what she can say for Zhongli and Childe. Seriously, these two act as if they’re never going to see each other again.

Regardless, Mona can’t bring herself to be surprised. From the moment she met the wild card that is Tartaglia, she knew that he and Zhongli were a good match. It was undeniable that the two had chemistry. Mona may not have been there for Aether’s adventures in Liyue, but she has seen enough of these two to know that they have quite the history. Although, that’s not the only thing about them that catches her attention. What was especially strange, however, was the way their pinkies would twitch anytime one would stray too far from the other.

It has been happening for a little over a week. Take, for example, this morning when the two had taken over the kitchen to allow Keqing to sleep in. Tartaglia moved to the far left side of camp to gather some ingredients, and Zhongli’s pinky had twitched and stretched out to where Childe was, not too far from him. At first, Mona had thought it was a Liyuan custom that she had no knowledge of, like the way Zhongli always told her to raise her pinky whenever she would drink. But this felt different. It looked effortless and candid, almost like Zhongli had no idea that it was happening.

The second occurrence was later in the afternoon when Aether had given them a new list of commissions for the day. Tartaglia was practically vibrating with excitement at the mention of four separate battles, and even offered to handle two of them on his own while the other four (Keqing requested a day off) separated and completed the other two. Aether had looked at him pointedly and shook his head no. They either did this as a team, or not at all.

Mid battle, while Childe was up against a blazing axe mitachurl, the jade shield that Zhongli had put up for him withered and dropped as soon as the mitachurl raised its weapon to swing violently at Childe. The wild look in its eyes made it very clear that the creature was out for blood, ready to defend the land that belonged to it. If Childe were to fumble for even a second and meet the brandished blade of the axe, it would have been the end for him.

His eyes widened.

Almost immediately, both of their pinkies twitched in place and stretched out as if reaching for the other. Mona watched the duo from the sidelines with curiosity as she and Chongyun froze a group of hilichurls together. She had sent out an illusory Phantom to continuously deal hydro damage and allowed Chongyun to go crazy with his claymore. The astrologist had sat back and observed the two on the opposite side of the battle field.

It had gone like this: the jade shield drops, their pinkies flutter, and Zhongli whips around with a level of ferocity and speed she’s never seen before to frantically summon a geo pillar right in between Childe and the mitachurl.

The Harbinger moves backwards just in time for the pillar to bear the brunt force of the swing, and his head snaps to where Zhongli stood. He stares at him, pointedly unamused with Childe’s recklessness, while he holds two hilichurls away from him with the butt end of his polearm. Childe grin and nods his thanks, and Zhongli rolls his eyes at the overzealous soldier. With a flick of his wrist, the geo wielder summons another shield to encompass Tartaglia as he lets loose on the battlefield. Though this time, Mona can see how the ex-Archon doesn’t let him out of his sight.

Childe switches to his melee style then. He forgoes his bow in favor of his hydro blades and launches forward while the mitachurl’s axe is stuck in Zhongli’s pillar.

Mona gasps, and a hand flies up to cover her mouth. Chongyun’s attention snaps to where she stands and gives her a once over to check for injuries. She waves him away, telling him to shut up even if he hadn’t said a word.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the water Childe summons bends the sun’s rays a certain way until a very obvious, very crimson, very rare string of fate is revealed between Zhongli and Childe. It hangs between them languidly, but anytime either of them moves away too far, it’ll be pulled taut. They’re linked together by an invisible thread that Mona has only ever heard stories of; they were stories that spoke of a whimsical and eternal love that lasted liftimes and exceeded generations. The first time Mona had heard about it, she scoffed at the idea of having your partner chosen for you. But as she stands now, looking at Zhongli and Childe as they treat the battlefield as if it were a dance floor reserved for them, it felt almost illegal for either of them to be with anyone other than each other.

Her mind comes to a screeching halt when she realizes just how long Zhongli must have waited to meet him. Six thousand years, Mona ponders. But doesn’t the wait make the reconciliation all the more delicious?

Would you look at that, the astrologist thinks smugly, they’re tied by the pinkies.

It was never an accident, after all. These two souls, regardless of the six thousand year old gap between them, were meant to be together.

Oh, she has so much to tell Keqing when she gets back.

Lovely fanart!

My twitter!

#zhongchi #tartali #targlex chapis #Genshin Impact fanfiction #genshin impact #zhongli #childe #zhongli x childe #tartaglia #rex lapis #they're in loveeee #soulmates #red string of fate

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victoriareyloficlists · 4 years ago

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26 January 2021 Additions to Reylo Work Environment

These fics have been added to the Enemies-to-Lovers list located here.

Boss/Employee Relationship

The Elevator by someonesbeenhere (AO3 2020 Rated M Complete, 6 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Hard working Tech Support Rey is working late one evening when she gets stuck in a broken elevator with a complete stranger. He manages to distract terrified Rey through some rather promiscuous means. Unfortunately for Rey, her seductive saviour isn’t a random from another department but none other than the CEO of the First Order company, Ben Solo himself.) Fears Must Be Faced For Growth To Take Place by CariadRose (AO3 2020 Rated M Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: “She couldn’t (shouldn’t?) fantasise about her boss, even if he did make her heart explode every time he made eye contact. Bosses were off limits, it was a rule right? You don’t date your friends exes, you don’t date your siblings friends and you definitely don’t date your boss. No matter how much you want to.”) inconceivable by tothefoolswhodream (AO3 2020 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Hux notices that Ben is more reasonable in company meetings when Rey is there as well. Hux starts planning things. Shenanigans ensue.) Getting Personal by Erulisse17 (AO3 2018 Rated T Complete, 15 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Kylo keeps scaring away personal assistants until Hux hires one that isn't afraid of him. Not only is Rey not scared of him, she is ruthlessly efficient, refuses to put up with his nonsense, and disconcertingly pretty. And also seems to genuinely want to help him, which clearly means she's up to something. Right?) Off the cuff by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 4 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Poe gets Ben a stripper for closing a business deal. Ben reluctantly takes part to not waste Poe's money. The stripper hand cuffs him and robs him of clothes and money. Rey heads back to the office late night and finds her hot boss cuffed to the office chair in nothing but his tie.) Variance by Stargazer1116 (AO3 2018 Rated T Complete, 23 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey is heartbroken when she learns her temporary visa is expiring...and is mortified when her office crush. Kylo Ren, catches her crying about it. He is a partner in Skywalker & Associates law firm where she is an assistant. One thing leads to another...and what started as a simple solution for each of their problems turns into something much...much more. Together they wade through their deep scars to love.) Trouble for Thanksgiving by Biekewieke (AO3 2019 Rated E Complete, 40 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey Kenobi's temporary work visa is about to expire. She needs her boss' signature on her renewal application to get the extension she desperately wants and needs. Only her boss, the infamous Ben Solo, is an asshole. He's notoriously difficult and she knows this firsthand. Nevertheless, she needs his signature on those papers if she wants to avoid being deported by the end of the year... So when Rey tells her about her looming deportation, he finds a way to bend the situation to suit his own needs. Except, for the first time in his adult life, things don't go exactly as planned when he takes her home for the holidays...) I'd Find You and I'd Choose you by JGoose13 (AO3 2020 Rated M Complete, 6 Chapters, Reincarnation AU, Quick Synopsis: wife, fostered her for a time as a child. In order to keep their legacy and light alive, Rey moves in. As she begins to pick through the life of this couple, Rey makes a shocking discovery in the attic. What's worse? The discovery involves her boss, Ben Solo, a man she absolutely abhors.) What a difference a day makes by whateveriguess (AO3 2020 Rated T Complete, 6 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben is endlessly grumpy, exacting in his criticism, and irritable. And more than anything else, he's exhausted. Rey is too much. She's too brave, too intent on having her new colleagues like her, and she cares too much. (Brought to you by plotting, Internet articles with shady science, and the company Slack).) Chef's (Uns)Table by TheAlchemistsDaughter (AO3 2019 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Kylo Ren is a high-powered chef with an explosive temper. Nevertheless, Rey likes him. To get him to come out of the kitchen, she and her friends try to wind him up. When someone asks for ketchup, it works a little too well.) Strictly Business by WinglessOne (AO3 2019 Rated E Complete, 11 Chapters, The Proposal Film AU, Quick Synopsis: Working for a nationally recognizable magazine is a huge honor, one that Ben Solo doesn't take lightly. His boss, Rey Erso, would be the first to agree and is thoroughly comfortable with her status as editor-in-chief. When her visa status is denied, she'll do anything to stay in the United States and avoid being deported back to England. Even if that means forcing her assistant to marry her.) Go And Catch A Falling Star Chapter 50 by Ayearandaday (AO3 2020 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben needs to get married in order to get full ownership of his company. Rey learns about her boss' predicament and offers a helping hand.) Silent Night by avidvampirehunter (AO3 2019 Rated M Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben Solo, one of the higher-ups at First Order Insurance, has spent roughly one year dreading the inevitable—falling for Rey Kenobi, one of his most mysterious and alluring employees. Little does he know that Rey herself has been fighting the same temptations, nor that she may be losing the will to even try. When he ends up drawing her name for the annual Secret Santa gift exchange, the merciless hand of fate pushes them together through the storm raging outside—and in their hearts.) more everything by caisha (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 2 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: He was arrogant, condescending, and an asshole. And he didn't have a mark on his wrist.) Believe it or not by P_Dunton (AO3 2018 Rated E Complete, 8 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Everyone can see their soulmates when they sleep. Except for Rey Niima. When she closes her eyes, there’s never anyone there. Most say this happens when the other soul partner doesn’t sleep. After years and years of this, Rey has given up on ever finding her other half. Ben Solo is an angry, bitter shell of a man. He tries to stay awake as long as he can, using whatever means possible to avoid dreams. Because his soulmate is dead.)

Coworkers

Kindle Love by spacewitchase (AO3 2020 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey is secretly smitten with Ben. It’s a big blow when she hears that he just got ‘Tinder’ and is really enjoying it. Only he doesn’t have Tinder; what he’s really enjoying is reading books on his new Kindle (and he has a secret crush on Rey).) Let me Dream, Let me Stay by Melusine11 (AO3 2018 Rated E Complete, 12 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey has kept up a charade of a non-existant boyfriend for two years and now that Rose and Finn are getting married, she needs someone to pretend to be said boyfriend, enter her coworker Ben.) It's All I Can Do To Leave You Alone by TazWren (AO3 2019 Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben Solo is determined to figure out who is breaking into his office and arranging his action figures into explicit positions.) caught in the headlights by jeeno2 (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 2 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey Johnson forgets to wear a bra to work. Fortunately, nobody notices. (Except for Ben Solo.)) Fight, Flight, or F____ by Blueyedgurl (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 2 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey gets a dildo advent calendar for office secret santa. Ben is absolutely panicking, his chance with the cute girl is absolutely toast. Poe would be mad that Ben took the wrong wrapped gift from the counter this morning but he can always buy Finn a new one and this is hilarious.) Let's Meet Under the Mistletoe by GreyForceUser (ReyandKyloforever) (AO3 2018 Rated E Complete, 7 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey Johnson and Ben Solo do not get along. Their first meeting was less than impressive. A change in circumstances forces Rey and Ben to work together to stage a huge black-tie Christmas party in a ridiculously short period of time. Only time will tell if they can stand each other long enough to pull it off or if the whole thing will crash and burn.) No Chance, No Way by AttackoftheDarkCurses (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 7 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Just as Rey's decided to give up on love, she gets partnered to co-write Valentine's themed articles with the office grump, who... maybe isn't such a grump.) (won’t you let me) walk you home from school by somethingdifferent (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 32 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben, a counselor in the upper school at the legendary Alliance Academy, keeps finding himself interacting with the lower school art teacher, Rey. He definitely doesn’t like it. ) the theory of dance by blessedreylo (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 2 Chapters, Hogwarts AU, Quick Synopsis: Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Rey Niima and Potions Professor Ben Solo are always at each others throats in the corridors of Hogwarts. Headmaster Kenobi has seen enough, and is making them teach a dance class to students in preparation for the Yule Ball. Can these professors learn to get along or will their rivalry turn into another kind of passion?) A Reylo Christmas by Biekewieke (AO3 2018 Rated E Complete, 8 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: So when Leia Organa asks her Personal Assistant Rey to join her on a family vacation in Mon Torri for the holidays and highlights a big bonus, what is she to do? Only catch... Leia's son is coming along... Ben Solo is the enfant terrible of the family. Broody, sullen and with a huge chip on his shoulder, the young man is notoriously difficult.) Lessons in Attraction by AttackoftheDarkCurses, thebuildingsnotonfire (AO3 2018 Rated E Complete, 12 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Notorious rivals Ben and Rey teach at Alderaan High. They're constantly bickering and driving their coworkers and students crazy. The only solution is to set them up together, right?) Hear Me Out by vuas (AO3 2020 Rated E Complete, 2 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey’s coworker Ben has an unusual side gig. He records audio erotica.)

Client Relationship

Magic Touch by KyloTrashForever (AO3 2019 Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: In which Rey is going through a dry spell, and she’s the only one who doesn’t realize Ben wasn’t hired to help her end it.) Say It With Feeling by amybeegood (AO3 2018 Rated E Complete, 18 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Meet Rey, the Maid/Escort who really needs a solid day job and Ben, the reclusive, virgin billionaire who doesn't have a clue about real life or how to hire household help.) Bespoke by fettuccine_alfreylo (AO3 2019 Rated E Complete, 12 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: When new stylist Rey Jackson receives a request to dress the hottest (and most unfashionable) new actor in Hollywood, she gets a lot more than she bargained for. Mentally AND physically. Because Ben Solo is freaking massive.)

#reylo #reylo fanfic

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thejollyroger-writer · 5 years ago

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You and the Night and the Music: Movement 1: Andante -- allegro con fuoco

Heeeeeey, I’m back and fighting writer’s block by writing smut, that turned into a four-movement piece. Oops. It was going to be a two-shot, but inspiration struck in the form of the realization that symphonies have four movements, and so should this piece.

This story was inspired by a very intimate love scene in the newest season of Jessica Jones (if you've seen it, you'll know the one. If not, this is a spoiler-free zone.) Then I found a video of Adrian Anantawan, a one-handed symphony violinist, and I knew the route I was going to take. (Watch it here, it's truly incredible) Also brought to you by at least two dozen listenings of Mendelssohn's Symphony No. 5 in D Minor, "Reformations," which is the piece Killian uses and one of my favorite symphonic pieces.

Also on AO3!

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“What is it you do again?” she asks, nursing the third drink he’s bought for her — fourth for the night — but since she’s spaced them out enough, they’re not having the strongest effect on her. She may have come here to get drunk, but being approached by a handsome stranger who she has been both talking to and flirting with for the past two hours is enough to try to keep her in a decent state of mind.

The man in question, however, is having a very strong effect on her, with his dark hair and bright eyes and absolutely brilliant smile.

“I, uh, didn’t,” he says, his eyes turned down to his drink. Those damned eyes, somehow the brightest blue she has ever seen, that have hypnotized her and taken her aback by smiling at her, smirking at her, even frowning at her once.

Twice.

When he turns his gaze back up to where hers is waiting, he is frowning again. “It’s usually not the piece of information I divulge without preempting,” he says, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“Jesus, Jones, what does that even mean?” she asks, perhaps a bit harsher than she wanted. (She blames the whiskey, of course.) He told her his first name not long after their meeting, the syllables of Killian rolling eloquently off his tongue, but by some sort of unspoken agreement, they have both started calling each other by their last names. When she realizes that the very tips of his pointed ears have started to turn red, she backs off a bit, feeling a little bad for snapping at him.

“It’s a bit embarrassing,” he admits, “And not everyone really… understands it when I tell them.”

As warmly as she can, she smiles at him, leaning closer to where he is resting his elbow on the bar, the arm of his prosthetic resting in his lap — a subject that she is very interested in learning about, but very unsure how to breech without crossing any boundaries. “I promise that I won’t make fun of your for it, or… leave, or whatever these really judgemental women do when you divulge your little secret.”

The beginnings of a smile tick up the corners of his mouth, and she watches intently as his tongue darts out of his mouth and runs along his bottom lip. “Well, my day job is as a copy editor at one of the publishing firms in the city,” he says, his eyes set on something across the bar from them.

“That seems normal enough,” she comments, smiling over at him even though he is paying no attention to her. “And your… night job?”

At this, he laughs at loud, finally turning to her with a smile on his face. “And in the evenings, I turn into Batman,” he jokes, leaning towards her, his voice seemingly as low as he can make it. He holds himself together for just a few moments before he starts laughing, Emma following right behind him.

“Well,” she says after they have regained their countenance. “I do see why some people judge you for that.”

He shakes his head, letting out a breathy laugh.

“Joking, of course,” he explains.

“Of course,” she repeats. “I’ve never even heard of a British Batman, nonetheless one in Boston.”

“And how do you know I don’t just fake an American accent really well? Or maybe I’m faking my British one just to save face. Maybe Alfred taught my how so I don’t blow my cover while I’m flirting with beautiful women in bars.”

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Just wait until I tell you what I really do.”

“Come on!” she says excitedly, gently hitting his shoulder with her palm. “Just spill already.”

“Alright, Swan,” he says, taking a deep breath before finishing the end of the glass of rum in front of him. “I just… you promise to keep an open mind?”

She softens her features. “Of course.”

“Okay.” He takes another breath, lifting his prosthetic off his lap to set it on the bar in front of him. “I’m a, uh… a professional concert violinist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Second chair.”

“But you have—” she starts, pressing her lips together to stop herself from continuing. After a brief, awkward moment, she turns to him, trying her hardest to smile. “Sorry,” she mumbles, then turns on her stool to face him head-on. “How did — how long have — what —” she stutters, stopping herself again with a deep breath, relieved to see a small smile growing on his face. “How long have you been playing?”

He laughs, watching the bartender pour him another two fingers of the Shellback rum that he admitted earlier is one of the reasons he regulars this bar and not one closer to his apartment. “I, uh, picked it up after my mum passed when I was a teenager.”

“Oh,” she whispers, reaching out to press her fingertips against his forearm. “That must have been awful.”

“I’ve started to see the good over the bad, especially since I lost my hand. Fighting to — fighting to learn it all again, learn how to keep playing without my bow hand, I think it’s what kept my hopes up on those dark days.”

The realness of his statement pulls a blanket of silence over them, one that she’s not quite sure how to alleviate. Which, of course, helps nothing.

So she does the first thing she can think of: try to lighten the mood.

“You know, I never have been the biggest fan of instrumental music.”

His body’s response to her confession is almost humorous, with the way he straightens his back and takes a deep breath, his eyes growing wide — but when he turns to her, his face is covered with the biggest smirk she has seen from him so far.

“Well then, darling,” he mumbles, leaning close enough for his lips to almost touch the shell of her ear. His voice is completely different than just moments before, when he divulged a deep secret to her — and now, his voice shows no sign that he just bared a small piece of his soul to her. “I would say that is because you have never experienced a symphony the Killian Jones way.” There is a bright sparkle in his eye, an extreme comparison to the midnight shade that his irises have darkened to — one that ignites a small but warm fire deep in her stomach, paired with the weight and heat of his arm now curled around her shoulder, gently pulling her closer to him.

“What, exactly, is the Killian Jones way?” she asks, a naive smile on her face, though the hand that she rests on his thigh is anything but.

“It’s not the most appropriate thing to do in public, I’m afraid. A little risque to even discuss for fear of, uh, wandering ears.”

He lightly nods his head down the bar to where the bartender is washing glasses not far from them, his eyes turned down to the sink but a small, almost knowing smirk of his own spread across his face.

“Ah.” She smiles, nodding her head. “So, uh, where do you suggest we go for this… experience?”

His answer comes quickly, paired with his hand tightening around her shoulder. “If we call an Uber right now, we can get to my apartment in about five minutes.”

Continuing to nod, she pulls her wallet out of the clutch sitting next to her on the bar, leaving a small pile of cash between their drinks as he flags down the bartender to get their combined tab for the night.

By the time he has paid their bill, the car is waiting outside, a dark SUV abnormal for the streets of the city, but he leads her out to it anyway, his hand clasped tightly against hers, moving to her back as he helps usher her into the vehicle.

He slides across to the driver’s side, wanting her to decide how close to him she wants to be, but even though she moves to sit pressed up against him as the driver confirms their destination, he still does not expect her to grab him by the unbuttoned collar of his shirt and pull her lips to his once they are moving, seemingly just as worked up by their short conversation as he is.

And he especially does not expect her hand to squeeze his thigh, dangerously close to where he is quickly hardening at the thought of getting her back to his apartment. To calm himself, he finds himself whispering the violin part to Vivaldi’s ”Winter” concerto as her lips slide against his, her thumb brushing the very tip of his hardening length, and his hand on her hip begins to slide up her body until he is pressing his palm into her breast, pulling a small laugh from her lips.

He desperately wants to slide his hand beneath the fabric, to feel the weight and warmth of her in his hand, but he knows just how short the ride from the bar to his apartment is, and just when he expects it to, the car pulls to a stop at the curb outside his building.

“We’re here, darling,” he groans against her lips, but she does not stop kissing him, even as she slides back across the seat to open the passenger door, pulling him along with her by his shirt. His hand is on her hip as they climb the stairs to his apartment, longing to feel her legs, her stomach, her ass — any of her under his palm, and she presses against him as he unlocks the door, feeling the same need.

He has barely turned around from locking the apartment door before she can wait no longer and presses her body against his, her hands in his hair as she crashes her lips into his once more. Her fingers are already working the buttons of his dress shirt, quickly moving down his chest until she can push the shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor, her nails raking through the expanse of dark chest hair she finds there.

He reaches around her to slide the zipper of her maroon dress down her back, pushing the straps off her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. When he realizes that the only thing she is wearing under her dress is a pair of lacy black underwear, he chuckles, pulling her body closer to his so he can walk them backwards. With his hand clasped against the top of her thigh and the arm of his prosthetic wrapped around her back, he coaxes her to wrap her bare legs around him, making it easier to carry her to the bedroom. The apartment is small, and he is across the living room in seconds, only stopping to flick on a light switch before he drops her on the bed. He covers her body with his own for a few moments, swiping his tongue into her mouth once, and then again, before the warmth of him is gone.

“What are you doing?” she asks, propping her head up on one of her hands as she turns towards him.

“The whole purpose of this was to experience a symphony, remember?” She realizes that he is standing in front of a record player, his finger running along the spines of a row of records sitting on the dresser. “I have to choose the right one, or else the experience won’t be everything it’s meant to be,”

She chuckles lightly at him, but does not argue, simply watching him as he sheds his dark jeans and chooses one of the records from the stacks and places it on the waiting player. When he turns around, he is holding a piece of thin black silk in his hand.

“Do you trust me, Emma?” he whispers over the soft, slow opening of the piece, and all she can do is nod. “Tie this over your eyes, please.” She is useless against him, taking the fabric from between his fingers and doing just as he asks. When she has it tied, she relaxes back on the bed as he softly runs the tips of his fingers over her jaw.

Ever so slowly, his lips begin to follow his fingers, soft and warm against her cheek, her jaw, and down her neck, just as gentle as the opening of the song. As they travel down between her breasts, she finds herself squaring her shoulders, pushing her chest out towards him, and he must notice, since his breath falls against her skin as laughter.

“Patience, darling,” he whispers, simply kissing the peaks of her breasts before trailing his lips down her stomach. “You’re absolutely gorgeous, so bloody beautiful.”

With every touch to her skin — of his fingertips, of his lips, of the brush of the dark stubble on his jaw — he sends electrical sparks through her body, magnified by the mystery of where he will go next, since she cannot watch him — and magnified even further by the praises that continue to fall from his lips as he explores her body.

Finally, his lips reach the elastic waistband of her underwear, barely enough fabric to them to collect the warmth that is gathering between her legs, his fingers lightly swiping the spot that craves him the most, but he begins to move back up immediately, his lips finding their way back to her breasts. As the music swells louder, he swirls his tongue around one of her nipples, finally taking it into his mouth, sucking on it for a moment before she feels his teeth around it, working between the two — to the music, she realizes when her mind comes back down to earth. The thumb of his hand swipes over her other nipple, hardening it between his fingers before he switches his mouth to that one, doing exactly what he did with the first, though not before he whispers, “Absolutely perfect.”

“Oh, god,” she moans, somehow only for the first time, because she knows for a fact that no man has ever made her feel the way she does right now, and he has only used her breasts so far.

As the music grows louder once more, he releases her nipple from his mouth and runs his teeth down her ribcage, pressing just hard enough that she can feel him, though he backtracks and then covers the same area with kisses. His lips land at her waistband once more just as the music ends for a moment, and once it has started up again, he has hooked his thumb under the elastic and has started pulling them down her legs. She reaches her hands down to help him, lifting her hips to pull them from under her, and once they are down far enough, she kicks them to the floor.

His fingers tease her first, gentle against her folds as they slide through her, and she does not realize that she has widened her hips to welcome his lips until they are sliding against her, his hand on her thigh and the other arm draped over her other leg. He softly kisses the inside of her thigh, then the other, his lips traveling back towards her hip as the music slows to a stop.

“Time for the next movement,” he says, his voice dark, deep, and she does not even have time to think about what that means before he presses his tongue into her core, somehow cold against her even though the rest of him seems to be radiating warmth, and when he plunges deeper into her, she is useless against the raise of her hips towards his mouth. He licks a long stripe across her, his lips landing at the sensitive nerves of her clit, which he sucks between his lips, pulling an unsolicited moan from her lips. He uses his teeth, the hard edges of them the perfect mix of pleasure and pain against her, and when he slowly slides one of his fingers inside her, she bucks against his hand.

“Do you like this, love?” he asks, laughing against her, though his voice sounds anything but humored. “Are you going to come for me?”

She responds with a high moan, her breath hitching and then quickening as he uses his mouth — that damned tongue — to pull her closer to completion, adding a second finger to the first as he pumps in and out of her — again in time with the quickening music, that bastard — and it is not long before he finally has the black under the blindfold going white, before she feels the sparks of her orgasm travel across her body, riding his fingers and his mouth to the most intense completion she has ever felt in her life.

When she has finally regained control of her senses, she feels his lips moving slowly against her, his fingers still but buried inside her, slowly helping her come down off her high. This is also when she hears him whisper “That’s a good girl, take your time,” barely audible over the slow, quiet music, and when he does move away from her, his hand finds the blindfold, untying it from around her eyes.

After taking a moment to adjust to the light, she finds his gaze, reaching her hand up to press it against his cheek.

“Now what?” she whispers with a smile, the music still playing behind her words, and he leans down to press his lips against her cheek. “The music isn’t over yet.”

“I would really like to complete this whole experience and pound into you while the third movement swells into the fourth, if that’s okay.”

She laughs at just how sure he sounds, even though his eyes are blown wide and dark, his already dark scruff coated with her wetness. As a response, she reaches between them and hooks her fingers under the elastic of his boxer briefs, pushing them as far down his hips as she can.

“I think I can handle that,” she whispers, wrapping her fingers around his hard cock. “Do you have a condom?”

“They’re in the, uh, drawer in the nightstand,” he manages, the words not coming easy with her hand working him in time with the music, though she releases him so he can remove his boxers the rest of the way as she reaches to find one.

He tries to take it from her fingers, but she quickly tears the packet open, discarding it on the bed beside him as she takes him in her hand again, her eyes set on his. She continues to watch him as she pumps him once, twice, three times, sliding her thumb across his tip to catch the bead of moisture that has collected there — and he is useless against her, snapping his eyes shut. Letting out a breathy laugh, she begins rolling the condom over his length.

With her hands on his hips, she positions him between her thighs, pulling his lips down to meet hers. She has never tasted her arousal on another man’s tongue, and curls the fingers of one hand in his hair to pull him closer to her, wanting to taste as much of herself as she can from him. When he rests his hips against hers, hard against her warm, wet core, he lets his eyes flutter shut, enjoying the feel of her against him for a moment before lining up at her entrance. She is tight and wet and warm around him, and he sinks into her as much as he can, reveling in the way she envelops him completely — but when she moves her hips against his, her hand splayed out over his back with the other still tugging on his hair, he begins moving inside her, out as far as he can manage before slamming back into her. With every thrust, she releases a small, moaning breath, and with his eyes closed, he focuses on that sound, on the feel of her under him, against his fingers as they find her breast, of her breath on his neck, as he feels his own release gather within him.

His fingers travel down to where they meet, the pad of his thumb finding her clit as he thrusts hard into her, and it only takes a few swipes of his thumb against her before he feels the flutter of her walls against him, her moans louder and her grip in his hair a little harsher, but he couldn’t care less about that as he knows he is about to follow her over the edge, the thrusting of his hips turning a little erratic as he loses control.

His arms refuse to hold him up any longer, and he falls onto her, his head on her shoulder and even though he feels himself beginning to shrink inside her, he cannot bring himself to move — especially since she is doing the same, though he does move to remove the condom before they lose the contents of it all over his clean sheets.

They lay in silence for a few minutes, through the final movement and as the record player lifts the needle at the end of the symphony, silence filling around them.

“I should go get cleaned up,” she says finally, though she makes no move to do so. “And probably head home. Or at least let my roommates know you haven’t killed me.”

He chuckles, his voice tired, and when she does move to pull herself up off the bed, he lets her, rolling onto his back so he can watch her as she moves around the room.

“Stay. Please.” He’s not sure where the words come from, since he’s usually the first one to leave an awkward one night stand, but after they have left his lips, he finds himself wishing to see her again, to hold her through the night and wake her up with his lips against her skin.

She whips around to face him, her bright green eyes wide with surprise. Like him, she has never been one to stay the night, has always fled at the first opportunity, but when she finds his eyes, sees the sincerity so strong in them that she could lose herself in it, she shrugs.

“I’m still going to the bathroom. And texting my roommates.”

He smiles at her, the most brilliant thing she has ever seen, and she can swear that it would light up the room even if there were no other light source. “Of course, love. I’ll be waiting for your return.”

It only takes her a few moments, and when she returns, he realizes that she is wearing his button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up as far as they will allow, and nothing else. He has found himself a clean pair of boxers, removed the hand appendage from his arm, flipped the Mendelssohn record onto the opposite side, and settled down on top of all the covers. She joins him there, resting her head against his chest, her fingers playing with the soft, dark hair they find there.

“So, what do you think, love?” he asks, his fingers on his back following the fingering for this piece. “Have your views on instrumental music changed?”

She smiles up at him, her cheek still pressed against his chest. “Well, if that’s the way I get to experience it from now on, I think I might be more open to hearing some other pieces.”

#cs fics #my fics #my writing #wordsbymeganmichael #cs smut #yes its named after a sinatra song okay #sue me #the next three movements will be more fluff than smut #(kind of like the song)#seriously everyone listening to mendelssohn's fifth #the next piece will be centered around vivladi's spring #not sorry

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marril96 · 7 years ago

Text

Support

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Reader supports Rowena, no matter what.

Editor: @oswinthestrange

Read on AO3.

I had all happened in a blur. One moment Rowena was in Lucifer's face, twisting the knife the same way he had done to her. The next, he was squeezing her neck so hard you thought he would crush her throat between his fingers. You tried to intervene, but one flick of his free hand, and you were thrown back. As if you were as light as a feather, weightless, your body slammed into the opposite wall and fell down with a loud thump. Your head crashed into the floor and you let out a yelp.

Sharp pain pierced your skull, from the injured spot in your forehead down to the bone, and spreading through your head like wildfire. You wanted to scream, but the only sound leaving your mouth were light wheezes of your fastening breaths.

You looked up, and panic settled in your eyes at the sight of Rowena struggling to breathe in the devil's deadly grip. Her eyes met yours for a split second, and a small relief glinted in them at the confirmation that you were okay — as okay as you could be, given the predicament. Lucifer ranted on; you couldn't make out all the words he was saying, the ringing in your ears obstructing your hearing. But the threat in his tone was clear — he wanted to kill Rowena. Again.

Pouring all your strength into your arms, you raised yourself up. You scrambled to your feet and leaned against the wall for support. Your legs were wobbly, trembling, as if your bones had turned to jelly. You scoured your mind for a spell — any spell — that could get Lucifer off your girlfriend, which proved to be a challenge for your dizzy mind. Think! you urged yourself. There were spells that could help — there had to be! And if your mind wasn't in a haze and words weren't swirling around it in an incoherent hurricane, you would have already cast one. You would have protected your girl, something you'd promised to do every time a nightmare haunted her dreams or a random flashback snuck up on her during the day.

When the time came to make good on that promise, you could only stare and do nothing. Say nothing. Think nothing. Some girlfriend you were.

Luckily, Rowena was a much quicker thinker than you were. Despite the tight hold on her throat, she spat out a defensive spell. Lucifer instantly released her. He flew back, the same way you had only moments earlier.

And fell straight into the rift.

Rowena collapsed on the floor, her legs giving in, hungrily breathing in the air that had been denied to her. Then her eyes fell on the rift and widened as shock and panic downed on her face like a slap, the realization of what had just happened sinking in.

"Bollocks."

"Rowena!" you called, prompting her to avert her eyes to you. You rushed to her side, Lucifer and the rift forgotten. The only thing that mattered was her. Everything else could wait. "Are you okay?"

"Aye," she replied.

The look in her eyes told you she was anything but.

Had the literal personification of your worst nightmares tried to squeeze the life out of you, after he had already murdered you two times in the past, you wouldn't be okay, either.

You offered both hands to Rowena and she gratefully took them. As soon as she was on her feet, you pulled her to you, locking her in a tight embrace. You're safe, you thought. Tears gathered in your eyes, blurring your vision. A few rolled down your cheeks, flushing them redder, hotter, and dropped into her hair. You're safe. You're here. You're safe.

When Lucifer had first grabbed her, you thought that was it — you were going to lose her again. And she would come back more broken than she'd ever been, and this time you wouldn't be able to do anything to fix it. To fix her. Your hugs wouldn't be able to calm down her nightmares and flashbacks anymore. Your words wouldn't be able to break her out into the light from the depths of darkness she'd find herself in.

A whimper escaped you as images of her burnt body swirled around your mind like a tornado, swallowing all coherent thoughts you had left. Your hold on her tightened; you needed to sense her, feel her, needed to make yourself believe that she was real and unharmed.

"It's alright, darling," Rowena said softly. She returned the hug, her hands rubbing comforting circles up and down your back.

"I thought-I thought he…" I thought he'd kill you again. A sob cut you off before you could finish the sentence. Your stomach churned as the smell of burning flesh filled your nostrils. The smell of that day. The smell that would haunt you for the rest of your life.

You couldn't go through that again.

Rowena couldn't go through that again.

"He didn't," she said. "I'm fine." She stepped back from the hug and cupped your tear-drenched cheeks. Her expression was that of sympathy, features soft, delicate, loving. "Breathe, darling."

"He hurt you," you said, clasping your hands over hers.

"I'm fine," she repeated. Then her eyes settled on your forehead. "But you're not."

"It's nothing." It was just a minor injury. Compared to the trauma she'd endured, it was nothing.

"It's not nothing, Y/N. You're bleeding!" Rowena said in her mom tone, and had the situation been different, you would have chuckled. Everyone who thought her heartless should see her when she was caring. There was no one you trusted more with your vulnerabilities than her. "Come here."

She sat you down on the chair she'd occupied earlier. She fetched a wetted cloth and started dabbing at the injury, wiping away the blood that had already started to crust. She was careful, each press of the cloth against your skin gentle and soft. Warmth churned in your heart at every touch. It was hard to believe that this woman — this sweet, tender, caring woman — used to be a wicked witch who cared for nobody but herself. That she used to say that she did not, would not, and had not loved anything ever. That she had agreed with Amara that she'd had no capacity for kindness.

Even back then, you loved her exactly the way she was. Getting to know the real her, the loving woman behind the mask of heartlessness, had made you love her even more.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you," you said.

"That's not your job," Rowena said.

"I promised I would."

"And I know you would have if you could." Having cleaned your wound, she set the pink-tinted cloth aside and looked you in the eyes. "You were there for me. That's more than I could ever ask."

A small smile broke on your mouth. You reached for her hand and took it in your own, squeezing it the same way you had moments earlier when Lucifer's words brought her back to that hotel room of horrors. Brought her back to the brutality and trauma of her death. Your stomach turned with disgust and unease as he reminisced, his voice as rotten as his soul. Rowena's earlier warning to pay him no mind was the only thing stopping you from lunging at him like a rabid beast and tearing him apart limb by limb.

"I'll always be there," you promised, with every intention of keeping it.

Rowena returned your smile. "I know, darling. I'm one lucky witch."

"I could say the same thing." Your free hand brushed against her cheek, then slid lower, down to her neck. Your fingers traced the redness sprawled across her skin, remnants of Lucifer's cruelty. "Does it hurt?"

"A bit," Rowena said honestly. Your heart ached for her. She didn't deserve to be in pain. After everything he'd done, that monster had no right to put his hands on her. "The bloody bastard's strong. But don't worry, dear," she added, seeing the concern on your face. "It's not as bad as it looks."

She emphasized her words by pressing a kiss to your hand.

Experience had taught you that Rowena's wounds were always — without exception — as bad as they looked — if not worse. But instead of arguing her further, you nodded in acknowledgment of her words and tightened your grin on her hand. The poor woman had been traumatized enough for one day. You fussing over her neck would only bring everything back. As she often said when you would get in one of your overprotective modes, she wasn't made out of glass. A few days, and the bruises would fade as if they were never there.

"What now?" you asked, looking around the library, eyes skimming the room before settling back on her.

A look of uncertainty splashed over Rowena's face. She was silent for a moment, then, letting out a sigh, said, "We leave."

The answer left you dumbstruck. "What?"

"Sam and Dean are trapped in some sort of nightmare universe with the devil himself, all thanks to me."

"That's not your fault." It kind of was, but you could hardly blame her for being upset at Lucifer. The bastard had triggered her for no reason other than to hurt her. That would make anyone upset.

"It is," she insisted.

"Rowena…"

"This isn't how I wanted things to work out, but… There's no other choice."

She sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than you.

"You sure?" you asked.

"Aye."

An obvious lie.

"There's nothing you can do?"

Rowena took a deep breath. "I might be able to devise a way to keep the door back home open for them. Emphasis on might. There is no guarantee that it would work. And even if it did…" She looked at you with eyes full of unshed tears, as wounded as those of a puppy. "What would they say when they found out I set Lucifer free?"

"They'd be grateful," you told her. They fucking better be grateful. They left her with a person who had traumatized her for life. Did they think he was going to be quiet? Sam, of all people, should have known something like this would happen.

"Or they'd put a witch-killing bullet in my head," Rowena said.

"They would have to put one in mine first," you said. "But that's not gonna happen." You weren't the Winchesters' biggest fan, but, just like Rowena, they had changed. They weren't the same anti monster people they used to be.

"You don't know that."

"Not one hundred percent, no," you agreed. "I just know they've changed. Like you. I still don't fully trust them, but I know they wouldn't hurt you on purpose." Not anymore. Those days were long behind you. "But if you want to leave, then let's go."

She frowned. "Really?"

"Yeah," you said with a nod. "Sam and Dean are okay — for hunters — but we don't owe them anything. Hell, I'm only here 'cause you wanted to help them. If you still wanna help them, that's fine. If not, that's fine, too." You took her other hand into yours with a tight grip. "No matter what you decide, I support you."

Rowena looked like she wanted to cry. She stared at you, lower lip quivering as she tried her hardest to keep her tears at bay. "Bloody sap," she said teasingly.

You chuckled. "You know it, honey."

"I hate you."

"Likewise."

She let out a small laugh. "You're insufferable."

"Takes one to know one, babe," you retorted playfully. "So what's it gonna be? We going home or staying?"

Rowena's expression grew serious. She pondered on it for a moment, then her features twisted with determination you hadn't seen on her face in weeks. "We're staying."

"You're sure?" you asked. The last thing you wanted was for her to feel pressured.

She nodded. "I don't know if I'll be able to accomplish anything, but I will try."

"I'll help you," you said.

"Thank you, dear."

Standing up, you pressed your lips to hers in a kiss. Electricity surged through you as soon as her skin touched yours. Even years since the first time you'd kissed her, her lips tasted the same; same sweetness, same energy, same fire. No matter how much time had passed, Rowena MacLeod never lost her flavor — and she never would.

"I'm really proud of you," you said as your lips parted, shooting her a bright smile.

Rowena's cheeks flushed deep red. "It's been a while since I've heard that one."

"In that case, you'll be hearing it every single day from now on."

"Flatterer."

"Just being honest, sweetheart." You pulled her in for another kiss and then, motioning towards the rift, said, "Now, how do we do this thing?"

"I think I know where to start," Rowena said, already flipping through the spellbook.

"Lead the way."

A/N: I will be honest. I am not happy with this fanfic at all. I hope you guys like it because, personally, I find it to be one of my worst ones. I lost inspiration less than halfway through it.

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @darktweet @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @royalrowena @supwhorecorp @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @victoriasagittariablack @rowenaswife @laeshhh @dropsofpetrichor @fromflametofire @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @elaspn

#rowena #rowena x reader #rowena macleod #rowena supernatural #rowena macleod x reader #spn #supernatural #my fics #support #fanfic #fanfics #fanfiction #fic #fics

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spnbaby-67 · 7 years ago

Text

Her Surprise Chapter 3

Summary: Your best friend takes you to a Vancouver Convention for your Birthday, how will you react to some fans who truly don’t know what it means to true SPN Family. Will you stay? Or will you close down?

A/N: Hey all, here is chapter three, hope you like it. it’s full of angst, also some good news on this. I decided to make this into a fic series, so there will be more than the original five chapters I had intended. Thank you to Gaynor, @secretlyfurrydragon Ya’ll I cant mention enough how much she has helped me on my writing, she’s an amazing writer herself so please go check out her blog on @secretimpala67 and her AO3 account, i’ll get the link soon. She’s awesome, sweet, and very patient with me. So thank You Gaynor for your help. My stories are not to be posted on any other website without my full consent, gifs i use are not mine they are the editors who made them. Also please no hate on Danneel, I love her to bits and I can’t wait to see her on SPN. Ok lets read. Also I am kind of nervous about this chapter, I’m going by what I experienced at a convention before, so part of the readers troubles are of mine as well. *I’m kind of nervous about this one but let me know what you think. love ya’ll

Pairing; Jensen Ackles and Reader

Warnings: Angst, hurt reader! losing confidence, overweight reader, some fans not being nice. Language, (i’m sorry i cuss)

Her Surprise. Chapter 3

Catch up Here.

Reader’s POV

After we left Starbucks, I was grinning from ear to ear. I still can’t believe we ran into Jensen and Jared, I mean how fucking cool is that? In all honesty, truth be told, I was overly excited, that I even had a skip in my step as I walked. Haven’t done that since I was a kid, it was awesome. Meeting them was unexpected and a once in a lifetime opportunity right there. I barely heard Ari tell me to calm down. Quit acting like a kid. I mean fuck what did she want me to do? Not get excited at all? Um I don't think that's an option for me right now.

One, I’m hyped up on sugar and marshmallows, and two, I just met Jensen fucking Ackles. So how am I supposed to calm down after that? Nope no way, not gonna happen, I can literally die happy now. Besides, she was fawning all over Jared, so what’s the big deal? I can’t help how hyped up I get when I’ve had too much sugar, she knows this so I don't really understand what's the problem is with her.

I know some fans get lucky enough at some conventions who get to see them out in the normal world. But me, this just doesn’t happen. I'm never usually that lucky to have anything good or even amazing happen to me. I’m still reeling it in, trying to remember their cologne, their conversation, hell everything. The way Jensen smiled, and laughed as his nose crinkled in that adorable way. Yep he’s fucking adorable all right.

“What’s wrong Ari? You’re acting like you're upset at something. Was it something I did?” I asked her as we walked into the hotel lobby.

“No it wasn't you and I’m not upset Y/N,” she paused a bit and when she does that, I know she's hiding something from me. “It’s just so overwhelming. I can’t believe we just met Jared and Jensen, total dream come true for sure.” She pushed the button for the elevator, then turned her back to lean against the wall as we waited for it. She wouldn't even look at me.

I studied her body language, I gotten used to her over the years I've know her and could read her like a book, “I know, me to.” I played along with her game, “It was totally awesome, this weekend is going to be the best. But If there was anything wrong, you’d tell me right?” The elevator ding and the doors open, we got on and she pushed the button to our floor.

She smiled at me reassuringly, “Y/N, I’m ok honestly. Do you want to order in, or go out before we register for our tickets?’

“We have to register?” I asked her as we got off the elevator.

“Yeah, it’s from 8:00 to 9:00 pm for Gold members, I figured we can go eat first, then register and get our passes, then come back to our room and strategize our plans for tomorrow.” She opened the door to our hotel room, threw her purse on the desk by the door, grabbed a bottled water from the fridge we had bought previously, then went to sit on the couch.

“Yeah, sounds goods to me. I'll just go shower and change.” I took my scarf and jacket off then laid them on the bed before gathering comfortable clothes for a shower. I poked my head out of the bathroom for a moment and watched Aeryn a bit longer and saw that something was bothering her, the way she sat slumped on the couch looking down at her phone. I decided not to push it because when she gets this way, she will close down on me if I keep at it. I'll talk to her when the time is right and see what's going on then, but for now shower.

Ari’s POV

Meeting Jared and Jensen was purely awesome to say the least, it was magical and unexpected. The way they talked to us, paid attention to us, and even spared a few minutes telling us whatever was on there minds. It was definitely a dream come true for the both of us. I’m not upset at Y/N and I know she senses something is wrong, to tell you the truth there is something wrong and I don’t want her to know what I heard or saw. I’m pissed as hell about it and ready to knock someone’s teeth out. It’s all over twitter which I’m thankful Y/N doesn’t have, she had told me time and time again it was just something to waste time on. She’s right of course, but I have it and now I see things on there that she doesn’t and I don't really want to see either. I mean I thought we are supposed to be family, not judge others just because of their weight. Family, true family don’t do that. I know once she see’s it, it’ll break her. I know what it's going to do to her.

Apparently, someone at Starbucks recorded our little dance we do every time we hear Carry On My Wayward Son, posted it on twitter and made nasty comments about Y/N. She’s a good person, sweetheart of a friend, and to me a sister I never had. I only asked her to stop acting like a kid because of what I saw, I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire I mean they already had an advantage on her, why make it worse? I didn’t want her to think it was anything else, so i just changed my attitude. I can’t believe how cruel people can be, yeah Y/N’s a little overweight but she eats healthy and has done everything she can to lose the weight. That part no one sees but me. I know the struggles she faces everyday, some times to the point where she breaks down at night and cries herself to sleep. When she’s feeling she can’t handle it anymore, she’ll refuses to eat anything for a few days when she is so down that it hurts me as well as her to see her like that.

Her life has been a horror show growing up, because of her abusive father which is her story to tell. That’s why I wanted to give her a weekend full of fun memories instead of the crap people give her every day, not only here but she gets it at work to. Patients complain about her attitude and the way she looks. She’s the most caring person in the world and our boss knows this, however some people can be such dicks. But for her to even get crap here when no one knows her, it upsets me and makes me angry they could talk about her like that. Especially when all I want to do is give her a birthday she’ll never forget. I know when she finds out it will hurt her and cause her to feel depressed and I know I will have to support as I always try to do as I try to help her through it all.

That’s why I got to do my damnedest to make sure she has an amazing experience. Seeing Jensen and the cast do their panels and singing and most of all have fun. Hopefully, if things work out great like I think they will, she will have the best birthday ever. I may hide some things from her sometimes so she doesn't get hurt, but this time I think it’s going to work out where she will have the best convention experience ever as I have a few surprises up my sleeve this weekend.

Readers POV

After my shower, I changed into some jeans and my supernatural t-shirt Ari bought me that said, Run fast like Dean Winchester saw you crash the Impala. Course, I’d never do that to Baby. I love her just as much as Dean does I think. Well if that’s even possible, but Ari got me the shirt saying it would be awesome. Why not? Right? I giggle at myself in the full length mirror thinking what Dean would say if he saw this shirt, can you imagine his face. I put on a fresh coat of makeup and touched up my hair a bit, then added some perfume. I only use a certain kind, since I’m allergic to most of them as I get a terrible headache. Anyway, I walk out of my room to see Ari waiting for me as she had fallen asleep on the couch clutching her phone to her chest, now I know something is up.

I gently tap her on the shoulder, “Ari, I’m ready,” she jumps kicking the back of the couch and dropping her phone. Which she immediately picks up, almost nervously like she done something wrong, or knows something I don’t.

“Are you ok?” I asked her with caution.

“Um, yeah, I’m good. Just fell asleep watching something while I waited for you, did you have to take a cold shower after your Jensen run in?” She nudged my elbow as we walked to the door.

“Ha, funny Ari. No I didn’t, but it didn’t stop me thinking of him,” I walked out towards the elevator with a huge grin on my face.

“Well, hopefully we will see him again at SNS tomorrow night.”

“Yeah, that would be amazing.”

We walk into the elevator as it makes its way to the ground floor. We get off and head to the restaurant close by. It’s nice and smelt so good when we walked in the front door. Oh my god, my mouth watered as we walked by some people on our way to our table. The food here it looks very tempting, but I have to stick to my diet. Just because I’m on vacation, doesn’t mean the body is. As you can tell, I’m very cautious of my weight. I have tried several diets in the past, none worked. I wonder if there is a miracle pill that will help me lose at least 40 more pounds, one can dream. I envy Ari, she’s at the perfect weight. Beautiful, sweet, and amazing person. She can eat anything in the world and not gain a pound.

We get to our table, our waiter asked us what we want to drink. She orders a Coke and I am so tempted to get a Dr.Pepper, but I’ll stick to water. “So, what’s on the at the convention tomorrow? Who's going to be first?” I took a sip.

“Hmm, Gil McKinney and Alaina Huffman’s Q & A is first, they come on stage at 12 to 12:45 pm after Rich, Rob and Louden Swain does their opening ceremony.” She heard her cell phone notifications go off, what surprised me was she ignored it.

“You’re not going to answer your notifications or even look at it?” I looked at her curiously.

She jabbed a french fry in a pool of ketchup. “No, it’s nothing important. So, what are you going to buy at the vendor's room tomorrow?” She continued to eat the fries as she changed the subject.

For her to ignore a notification like that, something is up. But I’m going to ignore this as I know she will tell me in time what’s bothering her. “I don’t know, I need some more shirts for sure. Maybe some Jensen items, I was also hoping to decorate the house all in Supernatural. What do you think?” I took a bite of my chicken salad.

She raised her head, “Oh that would be awesome, I think we can make that work.”

We finished our dinner and she insisted on paying, telling me that this is my birthday dinner. We do this every year, when it’s hers I pay so no arguing there. We get back to the hotel and the lines were already starting to form and we decided to join them. Since we had a few minutes, we made ourselves comfortable on the floor just like everyone else did. We have this app on our phones that lets us watch tv anywhere. Which was pretty cool, especially with Supernatural being on tonight. So,I,took out my phone and opened it up, then we sat back to watch it. I so love that we get the luxury of watching it anywhere we wish too.

Finally, and lucky for us, Supernatural was over which was a damn good episode. I cried literally, I hate when Dean gets hurt or even the tiniest scratch on him. Breaks my heart and I tear up, Ari thinks it's funny but I call that true love and a devoted fan of Dean Winchester. What can I say? He’s fucking awesome.

Eventually, we finally get to the head of the line, Ari shows the man the printout of the tickets we are suppose to register for. He then typed our names into the computer so we could get our badges and wristbands at the next table. It didn’t really take long to go through the registration process, I thought it was cool how they scan your PDF tickets with a cellphone. It’s amazing what technology can do these days. When we finished with the registration stuff, we went outside to take a walk near the jetty. Ari looked up at the sky as if she was deep in thought.

I was watching her face as I wanted to ask but she spoke first, “hey look at that Y/N?” She pointed upwards.

It was a falling star and I closed my eyes quickly to make a wish. Course mine is the same as always, to have Jensen fall in love with me. I shrugged my shoulders with a small smile on my lips. I know that’s a crazy idea, there is no fucking way in hell Jensen would fall in love with an overweight girl like me. But oh if he did, he would be taken care of and never feel empty of anything. Just then my stomach growled and I looked at Ari with a laugh.

She looked at me, “I take it that salad didn’t last long huh?” She asked me.

“Yeah maybe I should’ve gotten something more filling.” as it growled again.

“Ok, how about we compromise. We go get a veggie burger before we go upstairs, and then we’ll play trivial pursuit Supernatural style?”

“Sounds good,” I agreed as we walk to the burger joint that we passed earlier.

We entered the burger joint and the smell was incredible it smelt like bacon and onions. Can we cue an entrance for Dean Winchester right about now? I laughed at my own thoughts as we were lead to our table. The atmosphere was nice, lights turned down a bit to give a soft glow. Classic rock music played in the background and I was enjoying maybe a little too much when the waitress came over to us.

‘Hi, I’m Maggie, what can I get you?” she had her pen and pad ready.

Ari took the lead before I could open my mouth, “we will both have a veggie burger, she will have a dr. pepper and I will have a coke please.” She looked at me like uh huh I got you this time kind of look.

She smiled then left to turn our orders in. “Ari, you know I am on a diet and don’t need to be drinking any soda right now.”

“You're also on vacation Y/N, you can enjoy it, it’s your birthday weekend.”

I rolled my eyes, “Fine, just one won’t hurt.”

A couple of tables down behind us, some girls were there. I couldn’t really see what they were doing or giggling so hard about, but Ari saw and I thought she was going to go tear some heads off. Our order came thankfully at the right time, the more I watched Ari the more I could tell she was pissed off at something. I turned my head to face them and they just waved as if nothing was wrong. But once I turned my back, the giggling started again.

Ari stood up from her chair and threw the napkin she had in her hand roughly on the table. “That’s it,” she starts to go over to them, but I grabbed her wrist and told her to sit down. “What?” She asked with a harsh tone.

“Leave it, whatever there issues is with us, it can wait. I’m here to have a great weekend, spend time with my best friend and explore Vancouver with her. Not in some jail cell because she punched someone, so chill out.” I can’t believe I was that hard on her, but at that moment I didn’t care. I don’t care about what other people do, I only care about having fun.

Ari’s POV

The waitress came to refill our drinks and Y/N told her no, that one was enough. Water will do for now, she agreed and filled her glass then left us be. Once I took a bite of my burger, my eyes looked over at the girls who were whispering something. I knew it was about Y/N, every fiber in my being wanted to go over there and punch them. But I’m going to be good, I won't stoop to their level and let them win. That’s one thing I learned about bullies, is that they want you to fight back and lose so they know your weaknesses for next time.

I squinted my eyes at them telling them that I’m going to kick their asses if they didn’t stop, then one of them whispered something to the other as she shows her something on her phone. The laughing ensued and I can tell Y/N was wondering what was going on, but I also knew it was time to tell her. But how and when is the question at the moment. I bit my bottom lip so hard at the thought of what I had to do, which shouldn’t have happen to begin with. People just don’t understand that overweight people like Y/N are beautiful and sweet on the inside and out. I mean honestly she’s really not overweight, her height takes up most of it. It just irks me that people think they can hurt someone they don’t even know.

I look over at Y/N, “Y/N are you alright?” I asked.

“Yeah, just thinking about our day tomorrow. It’s going to be so much fun, I literally can’t wait.” Right at that time, her face lit up. All the crap that happened before was completely forgotten about, thankfully.

“It's going to be the best day ever, I’m going to make sure you have the best birthday weekend.”

“Hey you deserve to have a great weekend to Ari, you work just as hard as I do so you need to have fun to. Don’t concentrate on me too much that you don’t have fun to ok?”

See, there she goes. Always thinking of others before herself, this is what those bitches don’t see. “Yes but I wanted you to know how much I love you Y/N and that your the best sister a girl could ever have.”

“ Hey, you are my sister too. We stick together and support each other like we always do.”

“Let’s say we go to our room, play a couple of games then head to bed. It’s going to be a very long day tomorrow. And from what I hear from other con goers, it’s a long day of doing lots of different things and being on our feet.”

The girls were still giggling and one cleared her throat as if she was about to say something but changed her mind, I gave her a death glare she changed her attitude real quick. But gave me a smirk instead I wanted to slap it off her pretty over makeup face of hers.

Reader’s POV

We finished our burgers, course Ari paid again. I told her plenty of times not to do that, but do you think she listens to me? Nope she doesn't. I am not sure what’s going on with those girls and why they are so hell bent on laughing at us, but I’m determined to find out. Once I do, I will get what information they have and it will be fixed. Somehow.

Walking towards the door, I turned to look at them one last time. I saw them still laughing so hard, at what I dunno. I wasn't sure but I thought I saw one of them videoing us as we walked out. Nah it must be my mind playing tricks on me. Why would they want to video us we are not that important. I shrugged it off as we walked back to the hotel. Ari’s phone ping again with a notification, as usual she ignored it as we headed for the elevator up to our room.

“You know, I need to know what’s going on with you. You know I’ll find out sooner or later. So might as well tell me.” I stood there with my hands on my hips looking at her.

I heard her sigh, “Fine.” She opened her cellphone and showed me what people were laughing about. “I wanted to hide it from you, because you don’t need this.’

I felt my blood begin to boil as my body got hot, I then started to pace in the living room area of the hotel. I was hot, no I was pissed. Now I know why those girls were laughing, how can people be so cruel? I sighed, maybe I shouldn’t be here. Maybe they are right, I don’t hold a spot in Jensen’s life and he wouldn’t want me holding on his arms like the so called fat person I am. I look at Ari, “I’m going to bed, then tomorrow I am going to have the best time in my life. Come Monday we go home, end of story.”

She gets up to hug me, then I go to my room and she goes to hers. I cuddle with my pillow after I changed into my PJ’s, tears fall down my cheeks. From this day forward, I won’t do that stupid dance in front of anyone anymore. I’ll stick to my diet plan, and I’ll be happy when I see Jensen on Sunday. But that’s as far as it goes, for now. I reached over to my phone, pulled up my flight plan home, hit the cancel button to refund my money back to my card. I’ll talk to the hotel people and see if I can change my stay as well. No sense in staying in a place longer when you're not welcomed. I’ll just have to pretend to Ari all weekend that I’m ok, it’ll will work it has before she's didn't know how much pain I was in. Night Jensen I said to myself as I fell asleep dreaming of my meeting with him earlier. His beautiful face danced behind my eyes as he smiles at me. I couldn’t help but fall asleep smiling.

Tags: Let me know if you want on or off, I’ll be glad to add you. Love you all.

@secretlyfurrydragon, @secretimpala67, @nanie5 @samflovver, @madisun16 @fanfreak07 @pjofangirl18 @sailor-sammi @smoothdogsgirl @tiffanycaruso @jesstherebel @paralyzedlove @rowdyhooliganism @jdmbabe1980 @dixonsvixon2017 @alliekay727 @bombaluv96 @aubreystilinski @shamelesslydean @impalackless @bluedaisy21 @dslocum89 @mimilovespandas97 @kat821 @magnolialikes @angelus320 @soobi89 @percussiongirl2017 @soulily0 @spndeanlover1967 @akshi8278 @pariskitty18 @waterlilyshaista @skylarraker @destiney314 @jensen-gal @helpmeyouassbutt @timelady12

#Jensen Ackles #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles x reader #not confident #reader insert #reader fanfiction #Vancouver Convention #alternate universe #Angst #language #OFC Areyn

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randomnoteforfuturereference · 7 years ago

Text

It’s the Little Things: IV

ForFutureReference

Words: 2275

Summary: It’s common knowledge that Dex has a multitude of skills tucked away. That doesn’t mean there aren’t times when he brings out a skill that catches Nursey off-guard. Especially when Dex helps Nursey with said skill.

Also on AO3.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Author’s Note: I’d like to thank @kleeklutch for not just the beta-ing, but suggesting this prompt in the first place.

Where is it? Shit. WHERE THE FUCK IS IT?

This has been my fourth rummage-through.

But no matter how many times I feel through and turn out my pockets… no matter how many times I remove all the contents of my messenger bag… no matter how much I try to regulate my breathing and block out the pounding of blood in my ears… there’s little denying that that I’m missing the most important item for tonight — even more than my phone, which is also missing — and there’s nothing I can do about it.

*CRACK!*

At least, if my inkling about it being back at the Haus is true, nothing I can do without getting completely soaked to the bone. The explosive crash of lightning and thunder — close enough to rattle the old windows to the café and make the many of the patrons jump — mocks me with that fact. The rolling din is loud enough that I don’t even have to look outside to know that there are sheets of rain obscuring the view of anything across the street.

Sam, the café’s owner and emcee who’s still in the process of drafting the schedule for tonight’s open mic night, knows me well enough to offer an understanding grimace. And I know them well enough to know I’m going to be placed in a later time slot, which the part of me that isn’t freaking out is thankful for.

Some look down on reciting via reading and say that it ruins the performance. I don’t deny that someone just staring at their paper is poor presentation as they aren’t interacting with the audience. However, I rebuke any inflexible “memorization or GTFO” mentality.

Having the words in front of me helps to focus my thoughts and tempo, especially when it’s one of the longer poems. I don’t need, or want for that matter, to read line by line. Instead, an occasional glance is all I need, and I feel it helps my own performance when I use the reading material itself to gesture with.

Anyways, whatever. It’s chill. While it’s not ideal, it’s not a full loss either. I do have poems memorized. I just need to—

*CRACK!*

This time, the meteorological clash is loud and unmuffled enough to make me join everyone else in jolting up and looking towards the front of the café.

You know those scenes in the movies where a crack of lightning and thunder draws everybody’s attention to an ominous figure looming in a doorway?

Well that’s playing out right now — with the added bonus of a cold raindrop-laden gust blowing through the café — and considering the figure in question, I’m not even sure that he’s aware of the imagery being created.

But we are.

I mean, when someone barges in from a storm… it’s bound to be a sight. Especially when that someone is six-foot-plus ginger — who has never shown his face in any poetry event before — clad unironically in work jeans, flannel, and a Carhartt.

Unaware of the focus on him, he wastes no time in slamming the door shut, blocking out the cold and muffling the sounds of the tempest in the process. One hand wipes at his face while the other clutches tightly around his abdomen as if he’s in pain, which I don’t doubt considering the intensity of his panting and blushing. Only after his heaving breaths subside, does Dex notice the attention he’s drawn. The reaction is immediate, and he demonstrates that it’s possible to have a blush over a blush.

Despite his mounting mortification — at this point, I don’t doubt that he can dry himself with his own blush — Dex still scans the crowd until his eyes meet mine, heaves a clear sigh of relief, and walks in my direction.

Okay, it’s more of a waddle. A squishy, puddle-tracking, clothes-plastered waddle that progresses as a collective set of eyes silently tracks his movement.

Clear the schedule. Here’s the star of the show.

Sam, who’s standing right next to me, whispers, “Is that your—”

“Yep.”

"He's…"

"Yep."

“… Wow.”

“Yep.”

When Dex gets close enough for me to feel the humid heat of embarrassment radiating off of him, I don’t hesitate in getting the first word in: “The fuck, Poindexter?”

Instead of answering me straight up, Dex mutters a curse-laden comment about how difficult it was to find the joint as he methodically wipes his hand. Hand mostly dry, he rapidly extracts two phones from his pockets and all-but shoves them into my hands.

One of the damp-but-working phones is mine.

I try to come up with a response — not sure whether to thank him for the phone or question the surrealism of this moment — but my words die as he lifts his shirt to reveals a small leather-bound booklet.

My poem booklet.

“Sorry for carrying it like this,” he mumbles while extracting my booklet with his fingertips from the waist of his jeans.

When he holds the booklet out to me, I almost drop the phones in my hands and barely have enough wits to set them on the table. The booklet is still warm to the touch. Any spot of water that made it through is small and isolated enough for me remove with a single wipe of my sleeve, and none of the pages have been marred.

“How did you—”

“It was on the kitchen counter.”

“Oh.”

Sam, after staring at the booklet with probably the same amount of wide-eyed shock that I feel, coughs and whispers, “So… Derek, does this mean you’re fine with the schedule being the original plan?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Great,” they note with a jotting down on their tablet. “And, um, Dex? Is that right?”

Dex’s whips his head towards Sam in surprise that they know his name. “Yeah it is.”

“Do you want to dry off?”

It’s only then that Dex notices the stream of water that he’s tracked inside, and he reddens once more while letting off another string of curses wrapped around apologies.

“It’s okay! It’s okay!” Sam assures him. “There are towels, dry clothes, and a room here you can change in.” To punctuate that statement, they rummage for a t-shirt from the merch counter and a pair of jeans from the donations bin before pointing Dex to the backroom.

I don’t think anything of it besides it being nice that Dex won’t be a dripping mess for the whole night.

When he emerges a few minutes later from the back room, I realize the grave error of taking the action at face value

Now despite all the jokes about ears, freckles, and the fact that his hands aren’t going to win any beauty contest, Dex has a… nicely proportioned body.

That doesn’t mean I want it highlighted in front of me in the form of a black neon-designed t-shirt that’s at least one size smaller than his usual, or ripped jeans that are more than a bit on the form-fitting side. Dex holds those jeans — not to mention their wearers — in so much contempt, but I find myself unable to revel in the irony playing out.

I mean, if you hate an outfit so much, how can you make it look so good on yourself? How? I have zero clue, but somehow Dex pulls off the look as he shuffles over to us.

And judging from the not-so-subtle glances by others in the crowd, I’m not the only one aware of that fact.

I turn to Sam with narrowed eyes. “You’re evil.”

“Hey,” they rebuke, “I’m just keeping things safe.”

“And those were the only sizes available?” My question is rhetorical.

Sam just smirks before greeting Dex, “Hey, I hope everything fits well.”

Like I said: evil.

Dex scowls at no one in particular. “I don’t know how anyone can wear these,” he grumbles while attempting to tug those jeans up more as if they are made to sit close to the waist like he prefers.

It doesn’t matter that I know his fashion preferences. What matters is that those jeans can’t go any higher — if he was a citizen of this decade, he’d know that — and his only success is making them more… snug. A quick glance around reveals that others notice, and I try not to think about the fact that Dex’s whole body is in everyone's line of sight. Or that the shirt leaves none of his upper-body musculature to the imagination as it tenses, relaxes, shifts, and ripples with the slightest movement. Or that the Swallow's editors are present in the crowd.

“Chill,” I mutter out of hope that I can rile and distract Dex from his obscene exercise in futility. All it does is make him focus his scowl at me as he continues his attempts. Stop it!

Maybe it’s exhaustion, or maybe he has learned the errors of his way. Whatever the reason, Dex finally stops with a frustrated toss of his hands. Still, despite his clear disdain for the attire, he turns to Sam with an appreciative nod. “Thanks for the dry clothes, and sorry about the mess.”

They wave him off with a grin. “Don’t worry about that. And you don’t have to return the jeans tonight.”

The nature of that statement makes me continue my side-eye.

Dex, being Dex, completely misses that. “I’ll give them back after washing,” he says before picking at the shirt. “What about this?”

“Oh that’s yours!” declares Sam. “And don’t worry about paying. After what you just did, it’s on the house.”

What.

Dex freezes. “What?”

“If you hadn’t come here, the scheduling would have been messed up, which would have been a hassle for us.”

I can see the scales balancing in Dex’s mind before he fiddles with the sleeve. “The fabric is nice…” Nonononono— “Thanks.”

Sam makes sure eye contact is maintained between me and them. “Think nothing of it.”

Evil.

“Welp, I best get this thing rolling. T’was good meeting you,” Sam states while shaking Dex’s hand before turning to me. “We’ll be live in thirty.”

Despite my current disgruntlement with Sam, I still order dinner and drinks — Dex’s clearly hungry and his wallet’s busy drying, so I don’t even have to exert myself much to justify buying this round — once we take our seats in the ever-crowding space.

“Lots of people,” Dex mutters as his eyes dart around. By now, everyone’s attention has turned elsewhere, so there’s that at least.

“Chyeah. Premier monthly poetry event in Norfolk County.” There are even key figures, critics, and academics from Boston, Cambridge, and Providence in attendance. Thankfully, they tend to arrive late, and I don’t think any were here to witness Dex’s arrival and… fashion debut.

I can tell he feels completely out of his depth here. Despite that, and despite the weather having cleared up outside, he stays by my side.

It’s probably because the food and shakes are great.

Still… “I want to thank you getting this,” I say while patting my booklet.

Dex fiddles with a sweet potato fry. “We’re supposed to have each other’s backs, yeah? I know this whole poetry thing means a lot to you. I don’t get it, but…”

But he helped out anyways. I… fuck.

Well, if he’s going to be here… “Um, would you mind if I read a piece that’s a bit based on you?”

Dex tenses with a scowl. Not a hostile scowl. Just surprised and a bit pensive. “It’s not an ode to lobsters, is it.”

A chuckle bubbles up from me at that. “Don’t worry, it’s not.” I open my booklet to the relevant page and slide it over to him. “I bet most of the guys at the Haus wouldn’t know it’s you without me spelling it out.”

As Dex’s eyes flit over the words, his scowl scrunches in concentration. Then it dissipates with a raise of his eyebrows and widening of his eyes.

When it’s clear that he’s done, I note, “If you’re not comfortable, I won’t read it. I wasn’t even planning to originally—”

“No, it’s okay!”

Any incoming explanation dies on my lips and is replaced with a simple, “… It’s okay?”

“It’s just a bit surprising. That’s all. But if that’s what you want…” A patented Poindexter shrug caps his statement.

“And you think it will be alright there?” I ask with a nod to the stage.

Another shrug. “Hell if I know. My opinion means jack shit, but it looks solid to me. So if you feel comfortable with it, I don’t see why not.”

Dex’s opinion matters a lot more than he thinks. Not that he needs to hear that from me. “Thanks.”

His ears redden the slightest. “Like I said. Got your back.”

Few minutes till curtain, Ford rushes in panting with breathless apologies for being late until I assure her that we haven’t even started yet. She does a double-take at the sight of Dex, but to her credit doesn’t comment on his appearance. Instead she simply expresses her happiness at seeing another friendly face, a sentiment that he reciprocates with a grin and a sliding of the fries basket to her. I ignore the inscrutable glance she give me.

Finally, Sam comes up to the stage, welcomes everyone, and calls me up as the first performer.

With pats on the back from Dex and Ford, and a chorus of snapping from the crowd, I make my way up to the stage, slide on my reading glasses, and open up the booklet.

“Yo, I’m Derek, and my piece for this evening is Threads…”

Continue to Part V

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afterspark-podcast · 6 years ago

Text

Panty and Stocking: Trans-homers Transcript

Episode

[This can also be found on AO3!]

[Stinger]

[Unintelligible TV noises play faintly in the background]

O: Who’s the big the horny guy anyway?

S: His name is Sideways.

[Intro Music Plays]

O: Hello everybody! Welcome to our April Fool's Special on the Afterspark Podcast. As always, I'm Owls!

S: And I'm Specs.

O: And today we've got a real legit content warning for y'all cause today we're doing a Transformers spoof homage, in the form of the Panty and Stocking episode, Trans-Homers. Now I know I normally curse like a sailor here but if you--if you've not heard of Panty and Stocking allow us to give you a bit of a description. It is an incredibly crude anime staring two angels who smite ghosts in order to gain entrance back to heaven. Now without context that doesn't sound so bad, but it's definitely like, an M rated cartoon because there's fucking...well [sigh] fucking everywhere.

S: Yeah.

O: Among a slew of other crude humor and in this episode we have something that is...somehow, both literal and metaphorical screwing so, like not safe for work at all, alright?

S: Not safe for work, not safe for your home and definitely, definitely not safe for your kids, okay?

O: [laughs] Yes, we will not be held responsible.

S: Yeah...

O: And with that massive disclaimer out of the way, don't worry, we will be back in two weeks with a regular episode, but for today--on with the show! Also, uh, just as a note we are watching the English dub not the Japanese subs, just an fyi. I swear to god the English is somehow dirtier than the Japanese version.

S: They saw opportunities for puns and dirty stuff...

O: They saw opportunities, and they took them!

S: Yeah. We open with a decent impersonation of the original Transformers’ narrator describing a setup that sounds...oddly familiar. Almost suspiciously familiar.

O: [laughs] You know it's probably something you've heard before. Complete with Bayverse-esque title transformations.

S: Um-hmm.

O: And IN SPACE we see two warring factions are rocketing towards Earth.

S: We open in the church, where Panty and Stocking live along with their caretaker, Garterbelt and their dweeby, sort of Ghostbuster, uh, themed sidekick(?), Brief.

O: Yes, everyone is named after undergarments, we warned you.

S: Yeah, um-hmm. Brief is apparently praying that Panty and Stocking will stop fighting like he's--he's beseeching Garterbelt or something.

O: [laughs] I think he's trying to beseech God but, uh, it does mean he's kind of kneeling in front of Garterbelt. Yes, there is a joke made there. Um, Panty and Stocking meanwhile, are continuing to fight in the background while all of this is happening.

S: What are they fighting over? I just don't know and I'm not sure I care.

O: [coughs] I don't know if they ever say, I think they might be calling each other names but that's about it?

S: Yeah, I don’t--I don’t know.

O: Suddenly, two meteors crash through their ceiling and we are introduced Cocktimus Prime and Minge-atron. Minge is apparently a vulgar term for vagina. Well I learned a word today!

S: So did I! So did I...um.

O: We will just be calling him Megatron from here out. Uh, he was Femitron in the original Japanese and Cocktimus was Masculimus. Masculamis? [His full name was Masculimus Surprise.]

S: Masculimus.

O: And do you see what I need about the English version?

S: They saw opportunities.

O: And they took ‘em!

S: [quietly] Pardon me. Regardless, their designs appear to have been based very, very loosely on their Bayverse designs. And by, “loosely” we mean Cocktimus’ head totally lives up to his name if you--if you know, you get my drift.

O: Yes. [laughs] It's exactly what you’re thinking. Regardless, Brief is super fucking excited. He also makes the mistake of thinking giant alien robots are the answer to his prayers to make the girls stop fighting.

S: They’re not, they’re totally not. Um, so apparently these giant robots’, uh, hearts or spark equivalents or whatever, are outside their bodies and they...honestly look like weird sugar candy things. I don't know.

[They’re actually these, according to our sound editor! French Marshmallows with Rose and Chocolate.]

O: And Stocking, being a sugar fiend thinks it looks like candy, uh-huh. And eats it!

S: [laughs] Apparently she thinks it's tasty and I mean that is some vore right there!

O: [laughs] The more we talk about this show, the weirder it gets…

S: Yeah!

O: So naturally eating this causes Stocking to turn into a robot.

S: Yeah, a very G1-esque, uh, Megatron robot.

O: Called Gothatron Stocking. I love it.

S: Like, she has sort of longish hair but her helmet looks like Megatron's helmet in blue with like, pink highlights.

O: Eh, cause that's the color of her hair.

S: Yeah...she has a very Megatron face. Panty totally thinking this is the most a badass thing ever decides to have a go and..eat Cocktimus’ heart.

O: The Megs analog even expresses his disbelief but this is all happening and I don’t blame him!

S: And Panty’s reaction is that it tastes awful.

O: Heh, she doesn't like sweets so this isn't much of a surprise.

S: [Sigh] So both robots totally, you know, fall to scrap just, you know fall to pieces. Except their heads are totally intact and you know, conscious of everything happening so they can provide commentary on the a--the madness of the events that unfold.

O: [laughs] Uh, Panty transforms into a Rodimus Prime analog as Rotten-Ass Panty.

S: Yeah, I totally did not catch that as a Rodimus Prime analog--

O: [laughs] I didn’t--

S: --when I first watched this.

O: I didn’t either, I didn't catch it till this time. Um, and I just have to say I love the writing for the narrator as he does not seem to know how to reconcile what he's reading with the madness that's happening on the screen.

S: The narrator is the only sane man.

O: The narrator is the only sane man in this! Panty goes to her room and transforms a bunch of her things into more Autobot analogues.

S: Including, but not limited to--a stuffed bull’s head on her wall and a package of condoms.

O: An entire package of condoms! [laughs]

S: Yeah, so there's like three teeny, little transforming condom bots.

O: Condom bots!?!

S: Yeah.

O: Also, the Autobot [and] Decepticon logos are represented here as a pair of panties and some stockings. They're even doing the logo scene transitions like from the original G1 cartoon.

S: They’re even airbrushed!

O: It's very good.

S: Um-hm, and on the Stocking’s room as she also goes about about creating a bunch of bots from her possessions only this time with Decepticons.

O: Highlights here include Sugarscream, our Starscream analog who transforms from a….strawberry, and a giant transforming dildo.

S: Yeah...yeah. The two sides begin fighting in incredibly petty ways.

O: First of which, Panty takes over the kitchen in an effort to keep Stocking away from her beloved sweets. This fails as apparently Stocking has already eaten everything in the fridge.

S: Like, there literally--swords come out of the fridge, impaling several of Panty’s, uh, people.

O: [laughs] Pantybots!

S: And then the door opens and Stocking and a number of her followers like, come out. So I'm mostly just wondering if the fridge is--has like a subspace extension or something? And, uh, next Panty takes over the bathroom, to I don't know--piss off Stocking? Yeah.

O: [laughs]

S: The Stockingcons thwart this by wearing err, um...diapers. And then shooting Panty when she exits the room to try and find out why Stocking isn't knocking on the door demanding to be let in.

O: Uh, so it is kind of funny, uh, their Soundwave analog in this even pays homage to the whole Decepticon logo being Soundwave’s face kind of thing, uh, as his face here is based on the Stocking logo instead. Meanwhile back at the Pantybot headquarters a hot new bot shows up and catches Panty’s fancy.

S: [sighs] No, no this is not Brave Police J-Decker though it is doing an extremely cunning impersonation.

O: [chuckles] Panty yells that they're gonna train and drags her hot new boy-toy in the closet to SCREW. Remember when I said both literally and figuratively? Well here we are!

S: Yeah...god, it’s not even a metaphor.

O: Uh, nope--it is literal!

S: And then boy-toy reveals himself to be a Stockingcon in disguise. Like...I don't know his chest transforms then his face does a total switch around to like a zombie face or something--

O: [laughing] It looks horrifying!

S: And attacks Stocking [Correction: Panty] by being a literal suicide bomber and exploding.

O: Um-hmm.

S: Like, they literally call that out in the episode.

O: Yup. Meanwhile, back with Stocking, Soundwave analog gets actual lines and we get a Laserbeak who basically just looks like someone shoved a Stockingcon logo on the front of a regular crow. Yes, this amuses me.

S: We also get a look at the Seekers here cuz there are in fact two others aside from Starscream.

O: Or Sugarscream.

S: Or--yeah, Sugarscream.

O: [laughs] I don’t think we ever get to hear their names though, which is a bit disappointing.

S: Yeah, and honestly I'm really disappointed that they didn't do different fruits for all of them like you know a blueberry for Thundercracker, or a boysenberry for Skywarp or something but, nah, no, they're all strawberries.

O: So the fighting goes on for a long time between these two groups as we see a montage of different scenes, some of which seem to be referencing other different scenes, uh, from Transformers media.

S: Or just war movies in general? I don’t know.

O: Or, yeah.

S: Who knows? Though there's definitely that call-out to, uh, the [original Transformers] movie.

O: Yeah.

S: And we also see that somehow Stocking has gotten a hold of a Devastator analogue, yeah.

O: We cut to the final battle between the Stockingcons and the Pantybots. Some highlights from the Stockingcons include:

S: Stocking’s helmet? Hair? Now looks like a reference to Galvatron as she has three spikes sticking up her--out of her head now like, like Galvatron's weird like, spiky helm?

O: Kind of like Galvatron’s helmet.

S: Yeah.

O: They have a Kremzeek! Uh, he's blue instead of red but still this was a detail I was not expecting to see here?

S: Yeah, like I didn't see him until we went back to see--like double check that scene.

O: Yeah, and then I was like, that is Kremzeek.

S: And Stocking’s dildo bot seems to have survived.

O: Good for him???

S: Oh that placement, oh god.

O: [laughs] We also have one robot that's basically just a giant head.

S: I-I feel like the weird head/body robot is prob--might be a Gurren Lagann reference, but I don't know.

O: And I mean it would kind of make sense. Regardless, on the other side some highlights from the Pantybots are:

S: There's a Rack’n--well what I'm guessing is a Rack’n’Ruin reference, cuz there's a weird train dude with two heads but that is...he doesn't--aside from the two heads he doesn't really have a whole lot in common with Rack’n’Ruin. Maybe? I don't know. And some Dinobots! I'm glad for the Dinobots.

O: Me too.

S: [Sigh] Oh god, and the condoms have also survived...maybe? They--they seemed like they were kind of--one of them was stuck on the end of the gun so I'm not sure whether that counts as alive?

O: Joy. [laughs] So as the fighting begins we get to see a few more references to other Transformers media or just you know shit that's completely fucking ridiculous. Uh, one of our favorites was, one guy turns into a cassette and is immediately run over by one of his allies.

S: Yup, and you know that scene in the movie where Optimus is like, he's arrived from Cybertron and he's making his, you know, badass run to--er, badass drive to wherever it is, and he runs over someone and then does this sort of jumping leap thing where he, like, blasts out of his alt mode and flies majestically across the screen, doing a badass flip in slow motion and shoots Thrust? [laughs] Yeah, Panty honest--Panty totally does that with an Ironhide analogue.

O: We also get some ridiculous Transformers, with a Ratchet analog turning into a flying desktop PC and another Transformer who should definitely turn into a car, like, his entire chest is definitely a car cab, instead turns into a Grimlock analog.

S: Yeah, he just sort of looks like he convulses into a green t-rex.

O: I don’t--I don’t think he was green? [Specs is correct, he is green!] But he turned into him t-rex--regardless he definitely turned into a t-rex.

S: Yeah.

O: Not a car like he clearly was supposed to!

S: And then Brief finally wakes up like, when we first see him it looks like he's in a regular area and then he wakes up and pulls out and it's just the one regular area.

O: Yeah, like, behind him is a regular wall but everything beyond that has been turned into metal and shit.

S: Yeah.

O: Because he's still in the chapel, which is basically taken over by the Pantybots as their base.

S: Yeah, he’s apparently been asleep this entire time.

O: Which begs the question of, Jesus Christ guys!

S: How long has this been!?! And god, can he sleep like the dead?

O: Apparently! So Brief wakes up, and he pep talks Cocktimus and Megs into stopping the battle between Panty and Stocking.

S: Which apparently means combining into a giant ghost and destroying humanity.

O: Of course it does!

S: You know, like you do.

O: Like you do. Meanwhile, [in] the background--Garterbelt has clearly been doing some EXTREMELY QUESTIONABLE THINGS with the Tracks analog!

S: Yeah...and Garterbelt lectures the girls for not realizing that this um, alien ghost thingy? Well, the giant thing that is now attacking them is an alien ghost created from the resentment of this, uh, the self-destructing race of alien robots who are already dead.

O: That killed themselves because of a war on their planet.

S: They've been alive since four years after the start of the universe or whatever.

O: Four years sinc--four years after time began.

S: Or that they’ve been fighting since after--

O: Four years after time began. Panty and Stocking inexplicably transform from robots into their regular angel battle outfits. I.e. they’re back to looking humanoid now--er, like humans now instead of mecha.

S: And we got--so we got to see like, a fancy, you know, the fancy hyper-realistic art of Panty as a robot.

O: Yeah, but we didn’t get to see Stocking.

S: Oh, yeah.

O: So when they transform they--they like--the most the style of this show kind of looks like the Powerpuff Girls crossed with an anime.

S: It's super--it’s like, super deformed.

O: Yeah, it’s super deformed but whenever they do their transformation sequence it's like full on anime and shit so they did that--

S: Hyper-realistic.

O: It’s not even hyper-realistic most of the time but--

S: Hyper-stylized.

O: Hyper-stylized, and, uh so we got to see Panty in that, with her robot form but we didn't get to see Stocking--it's so sad.

S: Yeah, it makes me said because I would have liked to have seen not the--

O: Gothatron Stocking? [laughs]

S: Yeah. [sighs] and they completely obliterate the ghost and the episode ends with our poor abused narrator probably--probably you know going off to get himself a stiff drink.

O: He deserves it, he's earned it.

S: Yeah, like he would.

O: So, some fun trivia, uh, from the end of this episode. Apparently, in the original Japanese the VA’s for Cocktimus and Megs were the original G1 VA’s for Optimus and Megatron in Japan. I was internally screaming when I read about this because so badly I wish I could have seen a version where they had gotten Peter Cullen and Frank Welker to reprise their roles in the English dub.

S: I’d feel really bad for them but it would be entertaining--it's just, it would be contrary to their brands.

O: Yeah, but I still would have loved to see it. Regardless, uh, so what is the final verdict on this weird ass spoof? Um, so for me if I just have to express that for such a short cartoon there was just so many Transformers references crammed in all over the place here.

S: It's very vulgar, very high action, and very funny and just--you could tell that they really loved Transformers or at least whoever was in charge of it was really intent on having all of those references.

O: Right, like clearly somebody getting what they were doing when they did it, um, it's safe to say we both found a pretty damn hysterical but depending on your smut tolerance you may find it distasteful. Which I think I just summed up the entirety of the Panty and Stocking anime. [laughs]

S: It also depends on your sense of humor.

O: Yes, your smut tolerance and your sense of humor. Regardless, uh, this is the end of our April Fool’s Special we will not be recommending fanfic or fan art today because we didn't want to like accidentally insult somebody by recommending you know this episode with all this other questionable shit.

S: Yeah, just you know cause, offense or anything. I mean I could have come up with something for fanfiction but it was just like I don't want to recommend something M rated or you know just completely fluffy to go with this--

O: [laughs] With THIS!

S: --train wreck of a...

O: I don’t even know if I’d describe this as a train wreck. It knows what it is it's just reveling in what it is!

S: Yes, but it's like a train wreck of vulgarity--

O: [laughs]

S: --compared to what--

O: Point taken!

S: --compared to what generally Transformers is, which is a trainwreck of goofiness.

O: It's true, very true. Regardless, we will be back in two weeks with a normal episode--we will be back to normal. Um, I personally really rather enjoy it when uh, people do kind of April Fool's silly things not like, “haha we fooled you,” but we're going to do something that's completely against brand, because it's fun so hopefully this was fun for you guys as well?

S: Yeah, we’ll see about coming up with something...for like, next April Fool's too. I had several ideas and you had several ideas.

O: I had several ideas! So we'll see what we come up with.

S: And that just about wraps it up for us today. Remember to check us out at Tumblr or Pillowfort at Afterspark-Podcast for any additional information, show notes, or links we may have mentioned. You can also find us on Facebook and Twitter at AftersparkPod, all one word and Soundcloud, Stitcher and Youtube at Afterspark Podcast. You can also find us on AO3 by searching for Afterspark Podcast. Till next time, I'm Specs!

O: And I’m Owls!

S: Toodles!

O: And Happy April Fool’s Day folks.

S: Yup!

[Music]

#transcript #afterspark podcast #transhomers

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zoadgo · 8 years ago

Photo

Hypothermia; immediately before giving into freezing entirely, when cold becomes warm, when neither death nor ice are real.

Clarke is nothing more than a power piece to Roan, a bargaining chip he uses in order to exert his new rule over his people. She doesn’t hate him for it, even understands why he took her away from her people and back to the Azgeda capital, but that doesn’t mean she enjoys the situation. Of course, living among people and in close quarters to their king, it’s not an easy task to remain apart from them.

Chapter Five | 9574 words | ao3

tags: canon divergent, azgeda culture, slow burn roarke chapter rating: T+ A/N: This is an in progress fic, so I’ll be putting the rating for each individual chapter at the start, not for the work as a whole. Please check the tags and any relevant warnings before reading. Eternal thanks to @coldsaturn for being the best editor on the planet <3

“Shit!” The curse flies unbidden from Clarke as Roan’s sword swings into her unprotected side, connecting with a pre-existing bruise in a move that she knows is in no way incidental. She’s thankful that the practice blades they’re using are weighted wood, rather than steel, but it still hurts like hell when Roan hits her. Which is a lot.

“Again.” Roan jerks his chin at Clarke as she takes a moment to try and breathe through the pain. He hasn’t even broken a sweat, and Clarke wants to make him suffer for that. “You should be better than this by now.”

Now Clarke definitely wants to hurt him. She clenches her jaw, swallows down her pain, and raises her blade again, looking for an opening in Roan’s seemingly relaxed pose. Of course, before she’s even had a chance to think about attacking, he swings his blade at her, and Clarke is forced onto the defensive. She blocks his attacks, which is a vast improvement over their first few lessons, but she knows with each step she’s being forced farther backwards, losing more and more ground in the battle.

Clarke tries to look for patterns in his attacks, but only barely manages to block or sidestep the swings, never gaining enough time to launch a counterattack of her own. Her dodges come closer and closer to failing as she falls back, and she can feel the threat of being backed against a wall looming behind her. If she hits the wall, she knows she’s “dead”, and while that hurts less than the beating of the lessons, her pride makes it seem far worse. She would rather Roan’s sword beating new bruises into her flesh than the disappointed look he gives her when he walks away from her surrender.

The corner of Roan’s mouth pulls down into an almost imperceptible frown, and Clarke knows the dimensions of his training ring well enough to know their match is over. Her teeth grind together in anger, at Roan and at herself for still not being good enough, and she gets one last thrill of energy, a cough of fumes to a dying engine. Throwing caution to the wind, Clarke throws herself to the side, a last ditch attempt to roll out of the line of attack and launch her own.

It would have been so impressive, had Roan’s blade not thwacked her solidly between the shoulders as she tucked into her roll, turning it from a dodge into a face first fall into the dirt. It takes a shamefully long moment for Clarke’s brain to catch up to what just happened, and she spits blood and grit from her mouth as she flips over onto her back with a suppressed groan. She hurts all over and is so full of impotent rage she could cry. She wants to be better, needs to be better, and she still fails every time she tries.

Clarke looks up at Roan, his expression entirely bored, and feels the all too familiar weight of the point of his blade resting against her throat. She spreads her hands next to her head, releasing her sword in a sign of surrender. Boredom shifts to borderline disgust on Roan’s features as he removes his sword and takes a small step back. He makes no move to help her to her feet.

“What should I have done differently?” Clarke chokes the words out against her pride. As much as she hurts, she knows he’s only trying to teach her. She tries to remind herself of that, after their training sessions when she’s soaking her multitude of bruises in the hot springs within the castle. She bites back another pained groan as she awkwardly pushes herself to her knees, standing not quite an option for her yet.

“Tried harder,” Roan says, and Clarke clenches a fist in the dirt.

Try harder? She’s the one who went from a life where fighting wasn’t even a concept, to being a criminal, to just trying to survive. He has no idea how hard she tries, all the time, and she trembles with anger at him.

“I’m trying my hardest,” Clarke grits through her teeth, staring at the dirt below her and trying desperately to cling to that anger. Her eyes burn, and the line between tears of anger and those of shame and despair is perilously thin.

“No, you’re not.” Roan’s voice is cool and hard, and Clarke hates him for it. She whips her head up to glare at him and meets his impassive gaze. “If you were, I’d be the one on the ground. Get up, try again.”

There are a million curses brewing in Clarke, both English and Azgedasleng, and it would be so easy to bark them out to fuel the rage which seems to be the only thing keeping her going. Instead, Clarke takes one deep breath, focusing on the smell of the sweat touched dirt and the metallic whiff of blood in her nose. With screaming muscles, she pushes herself to her feet and grips her sword again, no matter how much her hand hates the rough wrapping on the hilt and the way the blade constantly pulls towards the ground.

“Again, then,” Clarke spits, and she knows she must look like a petulant child to Roan, but she feels like a feral animal and she’s going to make him pay for every bruise on her body. Which, if the aching is any indicator, is a hell of a lot.

Roan doesn’t nod or say anything to indicate his attack, and Clarke is ready for it this time. She knows his attacks in that moment, and even with her clumsy muscles, she dodges to the side. His blade brushes her but it doesn’t impact, and her arms don’t end up aching with the effort of blocking the strike. She takes a step into his swing, raising her sword, and is unsurprised when he steps back to avoid her counter. She’d been hoping for that, and rushes forward to hook her right foot behind his retreating left. It’s a dirty trick, but one that somehow works, and Roan goes tumbling backwards into the dirt.

Clarke falls with him, her muscles too exhausted and abused to react quickly enough to free her leg. She doesn’t care though, because as she crashes down on his chest and hears the air leaving his lungs as his back hits the floor, she’s finally won. Sure, maybe she didn’t win by other’s standards, but she knocked down the King of Azgeda and she’s damn proud. Pride lasts for about one full second before the pain returns, and Clarke groans weakly against Roan’s chest as he gasps in fresh air. All her emotions, shame and anger and soul wrenching failure, leave in the face of her physical agony.

“I’m dead,” she complains. Every strike she’s received is multiplied by the exhaustion of the fights, and now her ankle is very definitely not pleased with her brilliant move. She tries to move and finds that too monumental a task for the moment, and she’s not entirely shocked. She’d known when she had pushed herself to her feet that if she’d had to fight through more than a few exchanges, she would have collapsed. Her body is tough, but not that tough, evidently.

“As am I, it seems,” Roan groans as he shifts, and then he taps Clarke’s head, “Glad to see you finally started using your weapon.”

“You could have just told me to think, rather than beating it into me,” Clarke retorts, attempting movement once again and this time managing to slowly and shakily roll off of Roan’s chest. She lays next to him and considers just taking a nap for a few years right there as Roan pushes himself to his feet with unfair ease.

“Would that have worked?” Roan quips, and Clarke snorts as she remembers the blizzard.

“No, but it’s worth a try to avoid this,” she gestures to herself weakly, and groans in pain at even that small motion. Roan chuckles and extends a hand to her, which Clarke considers ignoring. It only takes her a moment to weigh the decision and she takes his hand with a sigh, allowing him to help her to her feet with no small amount of pained exclamations and grunts.

“So, me, the cats, and snowfall, which it the worst teacher?” Roan holds Clarke’s hand a moment longer than strictly necessary as she regains her feet, and she misses the steadying touch when he releases her. She stretches slightly and shakes her head.

“I’d choose a blizzard of cats over you any day.”

“Good.” Roan nods, entirely straight faced, “You can dream of that tonight, and we’ll be back to training tomorrow.”

“I hate you,” Clarke complains, following Roan out of the training room and into the blessedly empty halls. No one needs to see Wanheda covered in dirt and she’s sure no small amount of blood.

“Are you going to make good on your threat to kill me?” Roan asks, looking half over his shoulder at Clarke limping behind him.

“If I could raise my sword I’d run you through.” Clarke bites back a curse from the end of her unintimidating threat as she stumbles slightly and comes down on the ankle she’d used to trip Roan.

It must be more hurt than she thought, because it fails to quite take all of her weight, and the world stops the way that it does when you’re about to fall and your body knows there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it. One heartbeat of frozen dread in which Clarke knows that she’s about to meet the floor quite intimately, and then the world kicks back into startling speed as she collapses. She reaches out in front of her in vain for something to hold onto in the barren hallway, and prays that her arms hold her weight and prevent her from concussing herself.

She never has to find out if her work exhausted limbs could have held her, because with the reactions of a master swordsman, Roan is at Clarke’s side in the moment after she stumbles. He catches her by the arm and her searching grasp finds his arms in turn, and Clarke remains mostly upright. It takes a moment for her to remember how to breathe, and then another moment to regain her footing and calm her heart rate enough to reluctantly let go of Roan. He holds her elbow for a moment longer, studying her until she gives him a nod that she’s not about to topple over, and then he releases her.

“Your ankle?” Roan inquires, and Clarke nods with a grimace, testing her weight more carefully on the offending joint.

“I don’t think it appreciates the lesson I learned.” Clarke takes a few limping steps under Roan’s watchful eye, evaluating the joint and finding no more concern than it being royally painful. A bad bruise at the worst, if she’s any judge of her own body.

“You’ll find Azgeda are a fan of pain as a teaching method,” Roan remarks dryly, Clarke rolls her eyes.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Clarke responds with heavy sarcasm, and limps slowly down the hall as Roan takes a few large strides to catch up, walking next to her when he does.

“However,” Roan continues, “the lessons has already been learned. There’s no reason to suffer after the fact, so long as you’re not the forgetful type.”

“I can guarantee you I’ll remember this.” Clarke grimaces, frustrated by their slow pace and the distance to her chambers, but unwilling to press the issue with her ankle.

“Good.” Roan nods, “Then I have something that can help you.”

“What is it?” Clarke eyes him skeptically as they pass the branching hallway she would have used to get to her room, instead following the much longer route that leads to Roan’s. Part of her aches for her own bed, but more of her aches for whatever sort of Azgeda painkiller Roan might have.

“No idea.” Roan shrugs, “But it works and is very expensive. Also not something a King is supposed to have.”

Roan regards her carefully at that and Clarke lets out a huff of air halfway to a laugh, “A King is supposed to just suffer through pain, I guess? Well, what’s another secret between us, I wouldn’t want to cause more drama in your court than I do just by existing.”

“You know, if you ever visited the court, you may find people don’t find you as outlandish as you think.”

Clarke shakes her head at that, “I’m Skaikru. They’re Azgeda. I doubt there’s a lot of common ground there.”

“I’m Azgeda,” Roan reminds her, and Clarke groans. She considers walking off - her brain doesn’t need to be as exhausted with questions of morals and distinctions as her body is - but they’re almost to Roan’s chambers and she really needs that painkiller now.

And perhaps, a part of her suggests, the distinctions she had been clinging to between her ideals as Skaikru and the lifestyle of the Azgeda aren’t nearly as important as she had once thought. When not fighting against the culture every waking moment, Clarke actually finds it a lot less abhorrent. Sure, it’s harsh, but… Clarke looks up at Roan, who glances at her ankle with a frown. The pain had been to teach her, but he clearly takes no glee in it. Perhaps that had been her misunderstanding when coming to Otta, mistaking necessity for desire.

“No witty reply?” Roan teases as he opens the door to his room, and Clarke limps past him.

“I’ll work on that, you work on my ankle,” she quips, making a beeline for the closest seat to her and sitting with a wince as she takes the weight off of her ankle.

“As you command,” Roan mutters sarcastically, and Clarke can’t help but smile a little. Like the culture he leads and embodies, Roan is a lot easier to get along with outside of fights.

As Roan rummages through a chest in the corner of his room, Clarke tries to convince herself to recall her lesson, to pick it over in minute detail and learn every iota of information she can. But with the ever insistent throbbing in her ankle, she can’t quite bring herself to, so she studies Roan instead. She would study his room, but save for the papers on his desk being different and his bed being in a new state of disarray, it doesn’t appear to have changed since last time she was here.

Roan moves as if he hadn’t just worked out for the better part of an hour, the only sign of exertion being more prominent veins on his forearms and the fact that he’s wearing a sleeveless top rather than a full fur coat. Clarke wonders if she’ll ever reach that point, and she finds herself admiring and desiring that endurance. Sure, a life where fighting is a necessity isn’t what she wanted, but her time with the Azgeda has proven to her that it’s what she must live. If she must fight, she wants to be able to do it well, rather than tiring after the first minutes.

As Roan places aside leathers and furs in his search, the edges of his extensive back scar peek from beneath his shirt. A symmetrical design reminiscent of wings, if Clarke recalls correctly, and she wishes she could remember it better. She hadn’t exactly been paying close attention to the scar at the time, but a design like that was hard to forget entirely. She’s sure the story behind it would be equally as difficult to forget, and she wants to know it, but at the same time she knows enough that she shouldn’t ask. That story is Roan’s and Roan’s alone, if he wants to tell her, he will.

Clarke’s mind wanders, forming half theories for Roan’s scar and jumping from that topic to her own scars. She’s done things that haven’t left a mark on her skin, yet are imprinted in her soul. If she were to show the world herself pulling the lever in Mount Weather or burning Trikru warriors alive, how would she draw that? Designs vaguely tease at her and Clarke’s hand yearns for a stick of charcoal. She thinks that perhaps, if her pain allows, she might actually make use of the paper in her room. Not that she wants to earn a scar, which would falsely mark her as Azgeda, but merely to pursue the thought process. There’s no harm in imagining it, after all.

“Here we go.” Roan’s voice rumbles, drawing Clarke from her thoughts as he stands, a small dusty jar in one hand and a faded linen bandage in the other. He grabs a chair and carries it with him as he crosses the room, placing it closely facing Clarke.

Roan sits and pats his thigh, raising an eyebrow at Clarke as she frowns in confusion. “I need to see your ankle if I’m going to treat it.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” Clarke flushes slightly with embarrassment and hurries to remove her shoe and sock, a task made more difficult given the swelling and pain. With gritted teeth, she manages to bare her ankle, and she lifts her leg and places her heel gingerly on Roan’s leg.

Roan frowns slightly as he takes in the sight of her ankle; half again its normal size and already beginning to bruise. Clarke winces at the knowledge of how badly she’s hurt herself and the time it will take to recover, far worse than any of the bruises she’s taken in training thus far. Those were merely annoying and sore, this injury makes Clarke grateful for the luxuries of the court. Had she hindered her ability to walk somewhere where she needed to provide her own food and means of survival, it could have been catastrophic.

Roan unscrews the lid of the jar and Clarke peers at the contents curiously. An innocent enough looking balm, a pale white thick cream giving off the scent of lavender and mint and something else Clarke can’t identify. Given its innocuous appearance and almost appetizing scent, Clarke is skeptical of how well it will work, but she doesn’t raise any of her reservations to Roan as he scoops up a small amount of the substance and applies it to her skin.

The first touch to her inflamed joint hurts, and it aches whenever Roan touches a new area, massaging it gently into her skin. But everywhere that he’s already treated is swiftly soothed, a cool tingle working down into her nerves and calming the pulsing pain. Roan works quickly and uses barely enough cream to cover the entirety of her injured ankle, and soon enough Clarke breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

“Feel better?” Roan continues to massage Clarke ankle, despite the painkiller having taken effect already. Perhaps it has an anti-inflammatory property as well, and he’s attempting to work it into her joint, or he’s making sure he’s covering all her injury. Regardless, Clarke isn’t going to complain now that the pressure actually feel soothing, rather than torturous.

“Yes, thank you,” Clarke responds, her thanks heartfelt. “I can see why Azgeda wouldn’t approve of this.”

“It goes against many of our traditions, to turn away pain and suffering. We’re supposed to simply learn to overcome them.”

“And if you don’t?” Clarke asks, as Roan caps the jar and places it aside, picking up the bandage.

“We die.”

Clarke hums softly in understanding, the Azgeda concept of ‘strength or death’ not nearly so foreign to her mind any more. It’s still harsh, of course, but the world is harder. She had become harder since the Ark, and she hadn’t even been raised here. Would she have ever thought the Azgeda were too cruel, had she been born among the kru? Clarke sees more and more as she spends time among them that they have their reasons to be as they are, just as she had her reasons for everything she did for her people.

Roan’s movements are deft and sure as he begins to bind her ankle, applying just enough pressure to support, but not constrict. Clarke wonders how many times he’s had to bandage injuries, and when he became so stubborn that he could just ignore pain. She knows she should shy away from that concept - for surely there is no shame in pain and expressions of it - but for some reason, she wants to get to that point. Although her ideal would be a life in which she didn’t have to endure such suffering, being able to cauterize her own wounds without flinching has a certain appeal.

Roan ties off the bandage and inspects his work, nodding once before leaning back. He doesn’t move Clarke’s foot from its resting point on his thigh, and although the balm is already starting to work and numb the pain, she makes no move to either. She leans back into the comfortable embrace of the chair, mirroring Roan’s relaxed pose, only made slightly awkward by her elevated foot.

“Don’t go ruining my work, understand?” Roan regards Clarke critically, and she lets out a half scoff.

“I don’t plan on it.” Clarke flexes her toes, marvelling at the immediacy and totality of the pain relief. She might actually have to be careful, if she’s not she could easily strain the still injured joint by assuming the painkiller made it whole again. “Where did you get this stuff, anyway?”

“Trishanakru. They’re soft,” Roan’s voice doesn’t carry any judgement with the commonly scornful term, simply a statement of fact. “And kind. When I was banished, I encountered a southern storm I was prepared for. It washed a mountain trail from beneath me, sent me tumbling right into one of their glowing groves. I almost died.”

Roan says it with little emotion, as if telling her about the stores of firewood in the castle, but he pauses a moment to clear his throat before continuing, and Clarke wonders if some memories still plague him. Of his unpreparedness, his self-perceived failure, or simply the reminder of his own mortality.

“One of Trishanakru found me, and he took me in. His family nursed me back to health, despite the fact that I threatened them and cursed them the whole time.” A small smile ghosts at the edges of Roan’s mouth. “They told me I could kill them when I could walk again, and not a minute sooner.”

“You didn’t...” Clarke doesn’t believe Roan would have made good on his threats, but she didn’t know him in the early days of his banishment. He could have been a different man back then, could have made terrible decisions.

“Of course not. I was humiliated and in pain, I wanted them to fear me so they wouldn’t pity me. I don’t think that ploy ever worked, though. They continued being unfailingly nice, and I left as soon as I could move. Tried to steal away in the middle of the night, but their kid caught me and gave me the balm, said it would make running away easier.” Roan stares into the distance for a moment before chuckling, “Cute kid, she was right.”

“Did you ever go back?” Clarke asks.

Roan’s brow furrows and he looks at Clarke with confusion written plain across his face, “Why would I have?”

“To thank them.” At Roan’s continued confused look, Clarke elaborates, “For saving you?”

“I never asked them to save me.” Roan says matter of factly, and Clarke sighs. There’s that Azgeda pride, never say please, never say thank you, if someone offers you something it is yours to take without compunction. On one hand, Clarke can understand. What could he have offered them, anyway, a penniless Prince of the run? The longer he was with them, the more risk he likely brought. But on the other hand, he could have done something. Clarke wants to believe she would have at least not left in the middle of the night without saying anything.

“I suppose, it’s just… Skaikru would have thanked them.” Clarke tries to explain.

“Every Skaikru would?” Roan asks, tone heavy with skepticism. Clarke wants to say yes, but she thinks of the people she’d dropped to the ground with; Murphy, Mbege, Dax, Roma, and countless others like them.

“No, but most of them would.” Roan smirks slightly at that and it’s Clarke’s turn to be confused, until he comments.

“‘Them’?”

“Us.” Clarke corrects herself, rolling her eyes at Roan. It had been a simple misspeak, no need for him to look like the cat that got the cream. And even if it hadn’t, why would he be so pleased at Clarke thinking herself apart from Skaikru?

“Of course. And now,” Roan sighs, placing aside Clarke’s foot gently and pushing himself to his feet as if the simple task were a monumental chore, “I have to prepare for council.”

“Oh, of course.” Clarke stands in a hurry and nods at Roan cordially, before turning to leave his chambers. She hardly limps at all, a testament to whatever Roan had given her.

“You know,” Roan’s voice halts Clarke short of his door, “there’s a seat for you there. In the council chamber.”

“No Azgeda would want to see me sit in it.” Clarke hesitates by the door, despite her vague rejection of the implied offer.

“Do you really care what the Azgeda think of you?” Roan asks, and Clarke frowns at the question. Of course she didn’t, or at least, she had thought she didn’t. But now, perhaps… Perhaps there is some validity to their opinions, and that might influence Clarke’s desire for the good opinion of her.

“Also,” Roan continues after a moment, “there is at least one Azgeda who wishes to see you take your place as advisor. And since I’m the King, I believe my wishes may overrule those of even my council.”

“You want my advice?” Clarke turns back to look at Roan in shock, and his expression is carefully neutral.

“I believe that both me and my people need your advice.” A slight frown sneaks onto his features. “This winter is… hard. Things may need to change before we see its end, and change is not easy for us.”

Clarke holds Roan’s gaze as she determines her answer, trying to read the situation in his eyes. She might make things worse by taking her political role, might make herself more than a few enemies within Roan’s court. But she also may be able to save the suffering of some of the Azgeda, and she can’t pretend to wish them all ill. She feels her decision snap into place in her mind, like a piece in a puzzle, satisfying and absolutely right.

“I’ll see you in court,” Clarke states, and Roan’s shoulders relax slightly from a tension Clarke hadn’t even noticed.

“Advisor.” Roan nods a dismissal.

“King Roan.” Clarke echoes the motion, and turns, leaving his chambers to head for her own. She’ll need to be less sweaty, bloody, and generally filthy if she wants to make a somewhat decent impression on the other advisors.

It turns out, in the end, that her attempts to impress the other advisors were wasted effort entirely. She probably could have showed up entirely naked and been paid no more attention to, and felt no less embarrassed. Every person present in the chamber, from the 15 year old boy who was Roan’s advisor to the state of Otta, to the withered old warrior that advised him on the state of his armies, completely ignored Clarke as if she were no more important than one of the servants hovering around the table with refreshments.

Every word spoken was Azgedasleng, rattled off quickly in disparate accents and dialects, new words breaking any semblance of understanding Clarke may have had. She tried to follow screaming matches and deadly quiet arguments as best as she could, but the words failed to register properly in her mind. By the time the meeting breaks, on Roan rough dismissal which was all he seemed to do other than calling the meeting to order, Clarke feels entirely like a child wandering into Farm station and trying to understand the Cantonese drifting through the air. She couldn’t form an opinion on any of the topics, let alone advise on them, and as the other advisors leave the room, she remains in her seat, swallowing the quiet shame of feeling entirely out of her element and unimportant.

After a while, Clarke is left alone in the room with Roan, and she stolidly doesn't look at him. How is she supposed to meet his gaze, which she can feel upon her, when she so soundly proved unworthy of the vote of confidence he had given her in inviting her to his council? Instead she balls her hands into fists on her thighs and watches the skin stretch over her knuckles, trying to recall anything she might have managed to pick up on in the course of the meeting.

The scrape of wood on stone draws her from the futile task, and Clarke looks up as Roan stands and walks towards her almost leisurely. He stops a short distance away and regards Clarke expectantly.

“What did you learn?” Roan asks, and Clarke chokes out a self deprecating laugh.

“That I don’t know as much Azgedasleng as I thought I did.”

Roan nods as if he’d fully expected that response, “It’ll come with time.”

“And until it does?”

“We meet at the same time every day. I expect my council to be full from now on.” Roan challenges Clarke with his gaze, and no matter how much she never wants to feel that out of her depth again, she raises her chin and rises to the occasion.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Clarke states soundly as she pushes her chair back and stands. A small smile twists the corners of Roan’s mouth, and Clarke finds comfort in it. She nods to him and turns, stalking out of the room.

It takes several meetings before Clarke is able to clumsily follow the conversations of the advisors, and Clarke doesn’t even try to contribute. No matter how much she might like to join the advisors in shouting her opinion, she knows it is smarter to simply listen. She learns the individual advisor’s standpoints, the common topics of contention, and the way the sessions proceed.

After the sessions, if Clarke has noticed some small fact she thinks Roan may not have heard in the bedlam the meetings invariably become, she seeks him out to inform him. Usually he’s noticed it, but he asks her opinions and trains her mind similar to how he trains her body with the sword. She adapts to politics quickly, but the mental checking and calculating is just as difficult as swinging a sword had been, at first.

She finds, as the days pass in a blur of mental and physical exhaustion, that there is at least one upside to running between training sessions and council meetings and her self-imposed missions to mingle with the court. When she sleeps at the end of it all, most of the time she’s too tired to have nightmares. Even as her body begins to adapt to the strain of her new schedule, she has the terrible dreams less and less. She chalks it up to distance between herself and the traumas that had cause them, and finds a dry humour in the fact that Azgeda lands would somehow be safer for her than the lush forests they’d landed in.

Beyond her already hectic schedule, Clarke formulates a plan. A way to test her influence in the court, to experiment with her political power, and to help the people she truly desires to aid. For there’s no question in her mind anymore; the Azgeda people, despite the variances in culture that she may never rationalize, inspire the same feeling of protectiveness in Clarke as her own. So she plots and advises Roan in secret, biding her time to attempt a change.

That time comes about in a meeting much like any of the others. It varies only in the arguments fought early in the session, and the parties pitted against each other. Clarke knows which people she needs on her side to implement her plan, and she knows which will oppose her out of hand. She wishes she had a more solid basis for gaining allies than “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”, but Clarke will take what she can get.

The council session returns, as Clarke had known it would, to the topic of the impacts of snowfall. Details of suffering and starvation, each advisor determined to show that the people they represent are more adversely affected than the others. Each one demands supplies from the others; Lake regions insist the military is eating more than their fill, the military demands better hunting from the northern forests, the northern forests state they wouldn’t need to hunt as much if the field workers had brought in better crop, and so on and so on.

The discussion arises every week with increasing vigor, and it usually signals the start of the end of the meeting. There is never any topic after it, and never any resolution to be had. Clarke knows that after a few instances of bared weapons and violent threats, Roan will dismiss them, and they’ll set aside the issue to be brought up again the next day.

Clarke is determined to change that.

“You are part of the Coalition,” Clarke says into the growing argument, her voice barely loud enough to be heard. But the Azgeda words draw the attention of enough of the counselors that when they stop and stare at her, the rest do as well. They all seem to be in various stages of shock, either at Clarke’s implied suggestion or simply at her talking at all. One advisor from the Eastern lakes stares at her as if she grew a second head, and Clarke guesses he forgot she was actually there for a purpose, and that she could speak their language.

She takes advantage of their stunned silence and continues, “The Coalition will give you food, if you say you need it. It is your right within the clans to call for aid in a time of need.”

“We don’t need anything from them.” Aryn, representative of the Western fields, spits on the table in front of her in distaste.

“Azgeda are dying of starvation. I believe that counts as need.” Clarke keeps her voice calm, and Aryn growls as she pushes herself out of her seat.

“Skaikru bitch, you know nothing of Azgeda, we-”

“Enough.” Roan barks the command, cutting off Aryn’s rant before it has a chance to start. She settles instead for glaring at Clarke, and Clarke ensures her expression is entirely unfazed. “Wanheda knows death better than any of us. She has a point, that our people dying is a serious concern.”

“King-” One of the advisors begins to protest, but Roan cuts them off with a raised hand.

“However, taking aid from the Coalition will never work. Even if we did so, the people would see everything spoil and themselves starve before eating a single scrap of meat. We cannot be weakened by charity.”

Aryn sneers triumphantly at Clarke, but she is not dissuaded. She squares her shoulders and turns to address Roan directly, reading something more in his words and tone than what he strictly said. She thinks he wants to take the aid, the same way he wants to care for his people, but the traditions of his people disallow it. In his political phrasing she hears a challenge, for her to find a way to save the people from a cold and hungry death.

And Clarke believes she just may have it.

“Then show that you aren’t weaker for it. Host tournaments, displays of fighting skill, in all the settlements. All Azgeda who fight recieve a small portion of food, victors receive a feast.”

A smile flits across Roan’s lips so quick Clarke could easily have missed it were she not looking for his reaction, and it makes her feel more secure in her stance. Aryn frowns deeply, and another councillor, a giant of a man name Bran, slams his fist on the table with a deep laugh.

“I like it! Fights to the death for food, with none of that messy cannibalism stuff.” Bran shoots a look at the Eastern lake advisor with the last, and the man - Eyr, if Clarke recalls correctly - bares his teeth.

“That was sorted a long time ago,” he hisses, and Clarke is intrigued and wary of the story behind it at once.

She considers correcting Bran that the fights would not, in fact, be to the death, but then thinks better of it. Best not to shoot down her first supporter, the details can be sorted out at a later time.

“It would still be charity-” One of the younger women begins to protest, but Clarke doesn’t let her finish.

“The concern with charity is that it weakens the people, yes? Well, this would prove their strength. And keep them in fighting form when they’re unable to wage war due to snow.” She points out.

“Do you think our lives luxurious enough that we can spare time for games of fighting, Skaikru? The people are-” Aryn snarls, and Clarke cuts her off as well.

“Idle, with time to spare, according to your own reports. Did you not say that the fields had frozen too early, and the farmers were unable to work the full season? That they were turning to bar fights and raiding, more so than usual, out of boredom?” Clarke queries calmly as Aryn sputters.

“Well, yes, but-”

“Then your farmers may find a better outlet for their energies in the fights,” Clarke finishes soundly, internally thrilled with the dumbfounded look on Aryn’s face.

After that, a full on shouting match breaks out, which Clarke does not take part in. The room seems to be split violently in favour or against the fights, with precious few remaining silent. The argument veers from the topic of the tournaments to the real issue, the subject of accepting aid from the coalition, and neither side is willing to give ground. Each member of the council seems to believe that shouting louder means they’re more right, and quite quickly only Roan and Clarke remain silent in the midst of it.

Unseen in the chaos as the verbal bouts threaten to turn physical, Roan catches Clarke’s eye and gives her a nod and a quirked smile, before resuming his regular lofty air. He allows the fight to continue, as he always does, until one of the advisors lays a hand on the hilt of their blade.

“Enough,” Roan barks, with a sharp gesture of his hand. Immediately, the argument ends and everyone turns towards their King, respectful even if still fuming. Roan waits a moment, presumably to allow people to calm down, and continues, “I have heard enough. I shall accept aid from the Coalition, on behalf of the Azgeda. There will be displays of fighting prowess to earn some of the bounty. For those who are too proud to accept this, the cold is always willing to test strength in other ways.”

The edict is simple and direct, and many of the advisors look just short of murderous, but one and all they bow their heads. Clarke follows suit, briefly, and feels genuinely proud of herself. Sure, she’d just made herself a lot of enemies, but she’d also proven herself a worthy political adversary, and she’d saved many of the Azgeda from suffering. At some point, the well being of the Azgeda as a whole had become important to her, and Clarke doesn't question it in the glow of her victory.

“Advisors to major settlements, remain that we may set rules suited for your people. Everyone else may leave.” Roan dismisses half his council, and Clarke stands along with those who inform Roan of conditions other than those of his villages. They all clap their fists to their chest and bow their heads to Roan, except Clarke who simply nods to him, and exit the council chamber.

“Well done!” Bran chortles and claps a massive hand on Clarke’s shoulder, which makes her stumble a half step that she hastily recovers from, “I knew Skaikru would have some good ideas. We should celebrate!”

Clarke knows enough about Bran to know he’s always looking for an excuse to celebrate with a keg of fermented apple juice, and she’s about to turn him down gently when a councillor from behind her pipes up.

“More like mourn, since she just convinced our King to kill our culture.”

Clarke turns to look at the speaker - Onto, the young boy who reports for the foresters of the far north - and frowns.

“I doubt I could convince your King of anything he didn’t believe in.” She doesn’t question the strength of a culture that could be killed by one act of charity, as she wants to, yet Onto reacts just as violently as if she had, the twin short blades he wields at his hips in his hands in seconds.

“You do not know us or our King, no matter what Skaikru witchery you’ve used on him,” Onto spits, as the other advisors draw away from Clarke and him, watching intently and making no move to defuse or aggravate the situation. Clarke wants to react to his statement, to insist on her knowledge of the Azgeda culture after having been part of it for as long as she has. She wants to draw her sword and defend herself, but she takes a deep breath and does no such thing.

“We are advisors, we advise the King. King Roan makes decisions as he sees fit. You had as much a chance as I did to change his mind.” Clarke hopes logic might cut through to him, but Onto narrows his eyes in a glare.

“I will not allow you to corrupt us with your lies.”

“Advisor Onto-”

“Do not speak my name,” Onto hisses, and Clarke reads a shift in his posture that she knows the meaning of. Planting a foot to launch himself, angling his body to be a smaller target, grip settling on the handles of his blades, Clarke knows she’s about to be attacked in the hallway in front of everyone.

Her hand is on her sword when one of the guards steps forward, placing a hand on Onto’s shoulder. The contact startles him enough that his attacks stalls before it begins, and Clarke and him both regard the guard with curiosity.

“By order of the King, Wanheda is not to be harmed.”

“What?” The indignant exclamation of disbelief comes from both of them, Onto presumably for being stopped by a Kingsguard and by order of the King he clearly is loyal to, and Clarke for… Well, she couldn’t say quite why being saved irked her so much. Perhaps because it felt far too much like coddling, and just when she finally felt she was gaining her own feet to stand upon.

“Sheathe your weapons, or you will be ejected from the court,” the guard continues, and Onto blanches. Clarke can imagine that being sent away, a disgraced reject of the King’s court, wouldn’t turn out well for him. He does hesitate a moment, but his swords slide back into their sheathes before the guard has to issue a second warning, at which the hand leaves his shoulder. He stalks away from the guard, bumping Clarke’s shoulder as he passes.

“You will pay for this,” he hisses, quiet enough for only Clarke to hear. She sets her jaw and doesn’t react as he walks away and the crowd disperses, no potential for blood to keep them rooted in place anymore.

Onto’s name gets added to Clarke’s mental list of people who want her dead, and she decides to take her practices more seriously from now on. Perhaps she ought to seek out some other partners to spar with, an idea which seems very appealing as she stares down the guard who had issued Roan’s edict. The guard seems unfazed, but doesn’t return to her post by the door even as the last of the stragglers disappears from sight, leaving only the normal light traffic in the halls.

Clarke holds the guard’s gaze for a moment longer before nodding shortly and turning on her heel. Her blood is pumping, now, and she wants an outlet for the energy of her almost-fight, and for her frustration with Roan’s protection. She might have needed it, maybe Onto would have bested her, but now she can never know. It’s not so much that she wanted to fight the boy, more that she wishes she could have discovered her own worth.

“Wanheda,” the guard calls out, and Clarke glances over her shoulder to look at her. “The King will want to speak with you.”

“The King can wait. I’m going to train, he can find me after if he wants to talk.” Clarke states soundly and turns her head back.

“It may not be safe yet.”

Clarke clenches her jaw and takes a deep breath, reminding herself the guard is only acting on orders. She doesn’t turn back to the guard as she asks her, “What did you call me?”

“I don’t-”

“When you stopped me from walking away, what did you call me? What is my title?” Clarke presses the bewildered guard.

“Wanheda,” she answers after a moment.

“Yes. Wanheda. Commander of death. If I say it’s safe for me, it is.” Clarke begins walking after she finishes her statement, one that no longer fills her with as much guilt and conflict as it once had. Perhaps she’s no longer merely using her title, maybe she’s learned on some level to embrace it. She throws a command over her shoulder as she leaves, “Resume your post, Kingsguard.”

The practice room is empty as Clarke had expected it to be when she enters, and she breathes in the now familiar smell of dirt and old sweat, emptying her mind of the conflict. Her emotions don’t leave so easily, but taking her aggression out by swinging a sword is a lot easier when she’s not focusing on the source of it. The practice blade in her hands weighs on calluses and Clarke is a little proud of that. She swings the blade and feels how much easier it is than when she had started, and her anger leaves her as she settles into routine and the thrill that what once had been exertion is now so familiar.

Clarke imagines Roan standing before her, blade in his hand, taunting her into attacking him like a fool. She doesn’t take the bait offered by her own mind, instead allowing it to give her an attack to counter, first. Counter, sidestep, attack. Again and again, Clarke combines the moves she knows, blade carving through the air against nothing. Clarke could take it easy, a few simple moves and then disarming, but she pushes herself a bit harder. Sure, she had come here to work out her emotions, but there’s no reason not to turn it into an actual training session.

She sinks into focus on the movement of the blade in her hands, almost a trance akin to that of studying new books or battle plans. Everything only becomes relevant when it immediately pertains to her; the smell of sweat and dirt forgotten, the dust in the air a mild inconvenience only when she breathes it in, the sand floor only mattering when it causes her footing to slip. Her target becomes more real, her movements more precise, swinging for anatomical weak spots.

After a time, Clarke disarms her imaginary enemy just as violently as if she’d had an actual opponent, with a technically unnecessary flourished half turn that Roan definitely would have smacked her fort. She grins to herself as she pants in the cold air, exertion no less for lack of an actual opponent. An experimental heft of her practice blade informs Clarke that she’s not quite as tired as she’d thought she would be, so she swings her blade once and prepares to throw in a little more practice.

“Advisor Clarke,” a voice calls cooly into the room, and Clarke almost drops her sword in surprise. She’d forgotten that the practice ring is technically a space accessible by any of the court, even if this one is generally left for the King himself. She takes a breath to calm her racing heart and turns towards the newcomer.

“Advisor Tora.” Clarke inclines her chin slightly to the young woman, easily identified by the sharp lines of scars cutting from her temple down her neck, almost like lightning. She notes that Tora doesn’t return the vague greeting, although that isn’t particularly unusual among the court. “Are you looking for someone to spar with?”

Tora smiles, the same way one would to a child who offered to help lift something heavy, and shakes her head. “No.”

“Okay,” Clarke simply says, when no more information is forthcoming. She turns to return her mind to training, but as soon as she raises her sword, Tora speaks again.

“I do require your assistance, however.”

Clarke is shocked once again, and turns to Tora with her brow furrowed. “You do?”

“Of course.” Tora smiles, the expression seeming entirely political and reminding Clarke that most of the other advisors have been playing the game of the court since well before she’d been on earth. She steps into the ring, and Clarke allows the tip of her practice sword to drop to the ground. “You see, Roan listens to you. Do you know why he listens to you?”

Clarke bites back the response of “Because my plans makes sense” and instead opts for silence. Tora waits for a moment before shrugging slightly and walking past Clarke, who turns to watch the path of her pacing.

“I don’t expect you to, of course. Wanheda.” The title seems to linger in Tora’s mouth, and when she turns to face Clarke once more, there’s a certain gleam in her eye that reminds Clarke of a few of the delinquents she had kept her distance from. Tora inclines her head to the side, smile still in place, “Do you think it’s because you’re smart? Because you’re one of his advisors? Because he likes you?”

Clarke is about to swear that away, but Tora doesn’t give her a chance, gesturing sharply and resuming her pacing around Clarke, definitely circling her now. “It’s not. It’s because you’re Wanheda. You command the very powers of death, what is a King to that? If he didn’t listen to you, you might burn our people alive, or afflict us with plague, or make our men infertile.”

Tora counts off Clarke’s powers on her fingers as she continues walking in circles around her, and Clarke tries to remember when she had made men infertile. She wonders what powers she’ll get next, if the storytelling continues.

“Now, don’t get me wrong, I respect all of that. Were circumstances different, I would applaud you.”

“But they’re not?” Clarke interjects, trying to get some information as to what Tora is actually trying to get out of this. She turns to face Clarke shockingly quickly, and shakes her head.

“But they’re not,” Tora repeats with a sigh. She spreads her hands wide in a sign of defeat. “You see, for the good of our people, I need the King to listen to me. Or the other advisors. And there’s only one way that he won’t be afraid to go against Wanheda.”

“Which is?” Clarke feels the implication slinking into her stomach like acid, and she hopes she’s wrong.

“He needs to know that Wanheda will never go against the Azgeda.” Tora’s expression is entirely ernest, and Clarke grips her wooden blade more securely, wishing it were the one Roan had gifted her.

“I wouldn’t-”

“Oh, but you might. You aren’t Azgeda, no matter where you live, and, well…” Tora trails off with a shrug.

Clarke thanks Roan for attacking her out of the blue in order to train her to be prepared for surprise attacks as Tora pulls her sword from her hip and lashes in towards Clarke’s throat, so quickly Clarke didn’t even consciously notice. Her body moved as soon as Tora’s did, however, so the killing blow misses its mark, instead connecting with the corner of Clarke’s jaw. She hardly feels it as the blade in her grip grows lighter and her heart pumps adrenaline through her veins, only registers a vague flash of cold and a trickle of wetness. Blood, part of her brain informs her, but the rest of her brain is reacting to Tora’s next attack, falling back and raising her wooden sword to block Tora’s steel.

“Better than I thought you would be,” Tora quips as her sword glances off the training sword, a chip of wood falling to the ground. “But I’ve been watching you train. You can’t beat me.”

“I thought I commanded death,” Clarke spits as she walks backwards carefully, sword at the ready as Tora circles her, looking for an opening to attack.

“In grand wars and stories. This is a fight.” Tora grins at the word “fight”, a feral baring of teeth, “Here you’re only human.”

Clarke gives up on formulating a response in favour of watching Tora the way that she’d learned to watch Roan. The shifting of muscles, the placement of feet, the flexing of fingers around a hilt. Everything that can tell her where to hit, where she can break past an attack. But with Tora, she doesn’t find anything she can exploit, not when she can already feel the ache in her fingers where “life or death” energy is fading in the face of exhaustion.She grits her teeth and wills it away, and sees the lunge just as Tora moves towards her. She barely avoids a gut stab, instead getting her knuckles sliced open with a misplaced block.

Tora doesn’t give Clarke a breather before swinging her blade in an arc towards her torso again. Clarke drops to the dirt to avoid it, knowing her wooden sword won’t hold up to the real deal much longer. The drop happens without any momentum to help her to roll to her feet, so instead of clambering back up clumsily and dying for it, Clarke heaves herself into Tora’s legs. Tora almost sidesteps the brutish trip, but she still falls to the ground next to Clarke.

Clarke pushes herself to her knees and swings her sword down on Tora’s head, all the strength she has in the strike. Steel bars her path, and Tora barks a laugh as Clarke’s practice blade finally breaks. She bashes her fist into the wound on Clarke’s jaw, knocking her away, and Clarke uses the opportunity to regain her feet as Tora climbs to her own. Tora swings her blade and tilts her head to the side, narrowing her eyes and dropping her smile.

“Wanheda must be Azgeda.” The steel in Tora’s voice matches the steel in her hands, and Clarke steps into her next lunge. Tora’s eyes widen in surprise, and Clarke feels the cold and wet spread down her side.

“Maybe, but it won’t be you,” Clarke hisses into Tora’s ear, stepping forward another half pace to press them chest to chest. She presses her splintered wooden blade further into Tora’s stomach with a sharp twist, and then removes it.

Tora looks down at the red wood with shock, and then at her own abdomen. She drops her sword and touches her shredded clothing, the light leathers favoured by those of the court. Her fingers turn red in a heartbeat, and she falls to her knees. She looks up at Clarke, and for the first time, she smiles a smile that seems genuinely happy.

“To die by Wanheda.” Tora coughs, and nods with a grimace. “No death is more noble.”

“Death is death,” Clarke states, “None are noble.”

Tora shakes her head slightly and bows her head, eyes drifting shut. Clarke watches her, as her breathing slows and the red of her blood stains the dirt. She watches until Tora breathes her last and her body slumps unrestrained against the forces of gravity. Then she turns on her heel, leaving the body and both swords behind in the ring.

Adrenaline carries Clarke into the hall, but not much further than than. Her jaw begins to burn with an urgent pain, but more than that, her side bites nausea into her core. She grits her teeth and swallows down bile as she leans against the wall, peeling up the edge of her shirt to look at the wound she sustained in order to save her life. She tries to ascertain the damage, but it’s difficult when the edges of the wound keep blurring, and a fog keeps creeping into her vision each time she blinks.

“Shit,” Clarke gasps, and then the fog solidifies into unconsciousness.

#the 100 #roarke #roan #clarke griffin #the 100 fanfiction #fan fic #hypothermia #it's up!!!!!!#i am so sorry for the delay

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blaineandsamevanderson · 8 years ago

Text

Title: Once in A Lifetime Chapter 23B

By: @blaineandsamevanderson (SageK on ff.net, kaitlia777 on LJ and AO3)

Graphics and Assistant Brain Stormer: @lauraperfectinsanity

Pairing: Blaine/Sam, bonus Seblam (in this chapter only)

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Late Spring, 2014 Sam auditions for a role in a TV show and Blaine comes along for moral support…and that’s just the beginning of their adventure!

Authors Note: I don’t know anything about the casting process for a TV show or what the process might be before filming. This is all fiction. I also don’t have any affiliation with Glee, Agents of Shield or any of the men and women who are involved with making the show. Again, this is a work of fiction!

Authors Note #2: This is AU for Glee Season 5, pretty Episode 100 and anything after isn’t applicable to this. Also, the plot for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. was thought of before I saw CA:TWS, but was easily adapted…but let’s just say AOS is AU as of Turn, Turn, Turn.

Authors Note #3: We named Blaine’s Mom Anna before we knew Glee had named her Pam and hired and actress to play her…so we’re gonna stick with our name and FC!

Authors Note #4: This isn’t really a fic for fans of Kurt and Rachel. They’re the antagonists in this fic and are way over the top (in keeping with Glee’s tradition of being OTT).

Authors Note #5: So, this chapter can be read as a part of the OIAL world or taken as a little diversion, cuz oh, the smut. If you don’t want to read it, it won’t effect the plot in further chapters!

“You guys are the best, seriously,” Sebastian said with a grin. Kitty had just left with the girls, driving their drunk asses over to Sugar’s to sleep it off. That left Sebastian with Blaine and Sam. None of them were very drunk, just a little buzzed and happy and it was a good way to end the night. Though Blaine and Sam had invited him to crash their place the night, Sebastian declined. Really, he wasn't about to sleep on the twin bunk when he had an empty king-size bed awaiting him in his own apartment. Being the awesome friends they were, the guys walked back to his place.

Of course they didn't just dump them at the door know, the three of them soon wound up in a heap on his overstuffed couch.

"I never understood leather sofas," Sam mused, pressing his hand to the cushion. "I mean, don't you stick to it when it's warm?"

Sebastian patted Sam's abs, impressively firm and defined even through the cotton of his shirt. "That my friend is why there is air-conditioning... Plus, if I do something sweaty on it, I can just wipe it down."

"I steam clean our couch weekly," Blaine offered with a playful grin, color high on his cheeks.

Nodding earnestly, Sam agreed, "You'd never know how often that couch is used for stuff other than sitting."

"Oooh, sex couch," Sebastian laughed. "Well, now I'm jealous of an inanimate object. It gets up close and personal during your hot, naked sexy times!"

Blaine gave a chuckle, "I'm sure you can get plenty of sexy time without us nearby."

Sighing, Sebastian shrugged. "Well, sure, but you guys are hot and I actually like you both... Not romantically, but...well, you know....."

Hmmmm.... Maybe he should've skipped that last shot. He was getting all honest about feelings and whatnot.

When he was done mentally slapping himself for being all sentimental, Sebastian realized Blaine and Sam were having one of their silent conversations. It was both adorable and annoying when they did that, especially when he was seated between them.

It didn't take long for his friends to finish their nonverbal chat and when they did....

Well, damn.

As one, they leaned across Sebastian, one of Sam's hands coming up to cup Blaine's jaw, their lips meeting in a warm, open mouthed kiss. His breath caught in his throat as he saw a flash of pink tongues, heard soft, breathy sounds, so much closer than any other kiss he'd witnessed between them.

And wow, the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. editors must have the jobs cut out for them, making the occasional Billy/Teddy kisses PG if the original footage was anything like this.

Eventually, Blaine broke the kiss, his breathing a little rough and he turned to Sebastian with bright eyes. "Just for tonight, you want to...?"

"Hell yes I want to!" He quickly agreed. Then blinked. "It will be weird, will it? You guys are the best friends I've ever had and I don't want to lose that."

"No," Sam said, a long arm wrapping around Sebastian shoulders in a strong hug. "I don't think so. I mean, like you said, were all hot and like each other, but...."

"Not romantically on my part," Sebastian finished with a nod. "I think I'd like to just watch for a while."

"Okay," Blaine agreed, giving him a smile and squeezing his shoulder. "Whatever you want."

As he spoke, Sam made a noise of agreement, muffled as he dragged his shirt over his head, revealing his stunningly sculpted torso.

"Happy birthday to me," Sebastian murmured to himself with a grin as he settled back to watch his friends kiss again.

“Holy shit….”

Flushed and panting, Blaine offered Sebastian a bright grin, his fingers carding to Sam's blond hair. "I know...Oh. God, Sam!"

A wonderfully lewd popping sound filled the room as Sam sat back, pressing a kiss to Blaine's inner thigh before he did so. His lips were flushed from kissing and...other activities, plumper than usual as he licked clean. He grinned cheekily, clearly pleased with himself.

Sebastian was pretty damn pleased too and he wasn't even the one who just had his dick sucked.

Steam filled the spacious bathroom and Sebastian thank the gods of interior design that he'd sprung for the full remodel. He sat comfortably on the wide side of his soaking tub, eyes fixed on the glass enclosed shower and the occupants therein. Water streamed over smooth, taut skin, highlighting muscles as hands slid easily and gasps echoed off the tiles....

Seriously, any porn he ever watched again was going to be a let down.

Languidly stroking himself, Sebastian watched as the other two young men kissed, Sam backing Blaine against one of the clear walls. Seeing that incredible ass pressed to the glass made him hum in approval. A part of him wanted to get up and go in there to join the fun, but he was just enjoying the show too much.

There was something very intimate about being allowed to witness the couple like this and he felt like physically interacting would almost spoil it.

As he kissed Blaine's neck, making the smaller man groan, Sam's eyes ticked up to meet Sebastian's, which made him toss the blond an approving thumbs up.

He'd learned long before tonight that both Blaine and Sam soaked up praise.

Smiling, Sam whispered something to Blaine's ear, his hand stroking over his boyfriends hip. Slowly, the dark-haired man turned, hands slipping along the shower enclosure as Sam sank to his knees behind him.

That encourage Sebastian top off of the tub and circle to lean against the sink, wanting to get better angle to watch Sam press kisses against Blaine's cheeks, his hands massaging the globes. His moans mixed with Blaine's when Sam parted his boyfriends cheeks, tongue dragging between them slowly.

Blaine's head fell forward, brow hitting the glass with the thud as Sam continued his attentions. "Feels nice, doesn't it?" Sebastian urged, his hand sliding eagerly along his own length.

"Yes!" Blaine gasped, his own cock slapping against the glass, leaving a smear of pre-cun in its wake. "Sam, God, good...uunhg..."

His words trailed off in an unintelligible sound of pleasure as Sam added a finger to the mix, rubbing the callused digit around Blaine's pucker. His free hand groped for and found the bottle of lube he'd set on the shower shelf earlier and was only generous amount between those lovely cheeks.

Sebastian's breath picked up speed as he watched Sam expertly prep Blaine, something it was obvious they both enjoyed. He could see Sam's cock bobbing, jumping each time Blaine made a particularly nice sound or pushed back onto his fingers.

"Sam, please!" Blaine panted, need clear in his voice and fuck that was hot!

Clearly, Sam was in agreement, surging to his feet and plastering himself against his boyfriend’s back. Blaine turned his head and wasted no time in catching Sam in a heated, desperate kiss, one of the blond's hands sliding around Blaine's hips to splay on his abs, pulling him closer.

Three voices moaned in unison when Sam finally began to push into Blaine. His fingers wrapped around the smaller man's hips, one thumbs stroking an iliac crest, his mouth still busy with Blaine's, kissing, licking, nipping....

Warm water rolled over heated skin as they began to move is one, clearly familiar with this intimate dance. Sebastian drank in the side of them, the sounds they made, the smell heavy in the steamy air. It was intense and unrushed, the little things making it all the better.

Blaine taking Sam's hand in his and raising it to his lips, kissing the inner wrist.

Sam nuzzling the soft skin behind Blaine's ear.

I love yous whispered with such devotion.

True the love and caring they displayed made Sebastian a little jealous, but that was overpowered by the fact that he was happy for them.

His sentimental train of thought was derailed as Blaine turned in Sam's arms and gave a little hop, wrapping his legs around his boyfriend's waist. Sam didn't seem fazed at all, one hand coming up to cup Blaine's ass supportively, the other guiding himself back inside.

"Shit," Sebastian muttered, squeezing the base of his cock, trying to hold back just a little longer. He stumbled back to the tub, sitting back down on the side of it to watches his friends movements grew bit choppy, their voices taking on a breathless quality.

He came hard and long, cum spilling over his fist and onto the tile. Stroking himself through the orgasm, he panted as Blaine threw his head back with a cry and Sam's shout was muffled against Blaine's neck. It was several minutes before they stilled, kissing as they rocked against each other, still moving in unison their hands caressing as they murmured words he couldn't hear.

Unwinding his legs from Sam's hips, Blaine's feet hit the floor with a slight splash and he leaned into Sam's chest, movements sleepy and sated.

"Wanna wash up?" Sam asked and it took Sebastian a moment to realize he was addressing him.

"Yeah," Sebastian agreed, rising and stretching slightly before slipping into the shower. It was plenty big enough for all of them to clean up comfortably and they did just that. After a minute, he had to say, "That was better than any porn."

His statement earned chuckles and grins. "Good to know!" Blaine said with a smile and Sam nudged him playfully.

"I already knew I was better than Frat Boy Physicals," he teased, making Blaine roll his eyes.

Sebastian laughed outright. "Aww, does Blaine have a type?"

"Yes," Blaine replied with conviction. "My type is Sam."

Now was Sam's turn to say aww, but he followed it up with the kiss.

Reaching out to turn off the water, Sebastian yawned. "I think I'm going to head to bed now... Brunch with the girls tomorrow, right?"

"Right, Blaine agreed easily, taking the offered towels. "Some nice, cuz...."

"An angry, hung over Santana is never a good thing," Sam finished, making Sebastian nod in agreement.

They had a good point. And he had no desire to spoil his wonderful mood so soon.

Best birthday ever.

TBC….

#Blam #Blamily #Seblam #Fic: OIAL #lauraperfectinsanity #Special one shot

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