#watch me drop this and never ever draw human bill again

[hummise]

i'll see myself out

[ohhipstaplease]

Angst number 24🥺

Angst # 24 “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Canon Compliant | One-shot | Angst With A Happy Ending | T+ | Ao3

Drabble List

Her heart was in her throat since the moment Sai had delivered the news. 

“We can’t seem to locate him, Hinata.”

Naruto had always prepared her for this moment, the inevitable one that always seemed to cloud over them. He had left her a list of numbers to call, and bills that would have to be paid. The key to their old apartment, where they still stored some of their things. And a box of mementos, ones that he’d want her to pass on to their children. She’d always side-glance the desk where he’d keep all of this, praying that she’d never actually had to open the drawer that held all of the things she’d need in case of an emergency.

“I love you,” He had whispered the day he had left, kissing her gently as he wrapped his arms around her once more. He had told her not to get up from bed, he had already fed their son and she needed her to rest now that she was with child again.

She didn’t want to listen, but exhaustion kept her from fighting him. Instead, she breathed him in as he protectively placed a hand on her rounded stomach. He whispered sweet nothings to their unborn child, kissing her belly for good measure. It made her heart flutter as she watched him, knowing that another child meant another chance for her husband to be a loving father once again. 

“Hinata?”

Her eyes fluttered open and met his once again, “Yes?”

“You know what to do if something happens, right?”

Her heart dropped into her stomach at the thought, but she pretended like she was fine. Worrying him right before he took off wouldn’t help anyone. 

“Yes. But nothing will, Naruto-Kun. You’ll come home safely to us like you always do.”

A ninja’s life was tenuous, short-lived. The young couple understood that, they did. But Naruto...he was the exception to the rule. After everything he had lived through, all the battles he had won, Hinata believed him to be unbreakable, unbeatable. Sometimes she had even wondered if he was even human.

But then something like this happened and it led Hinata to question everything she had ever believed.

“Hinata, did you hear me?” Sai asked, worriedly. He led her to a chair in the couple’s kitchen and had her sit down, worried that she might faint.

“W-what do you mean you can’t locate him?” 

She looked over her shoulder at their sleeping son on the couch, the spitting image of his father. Her hand protectively covered her growing bump, almost as if sheltering their unborn child from hearing what was being said.

“He’s been missing for more than a couple of hours now. We’ve sent out our best team to find him, Hinata...” Sai clasped her shoulder, trying to reassure her. 

Still, nothing would ground her. She felt as if her soul had left her body. If it hadn’t been for Boruto asking why she was crying, she probably wouldn’t have even remembered she had two other lives to care for.

She didn’t have time to sit around and be sad, she was a mother first now. She knew that, understood that she and Naruto now came second. But still, she couldn’t bear to get up from bed.

“I-I’m okay, baby,” She tried, “Your sibling was kicking all night and wouldn’t let me sleep.”

“Is that why you’re crying?” 

Her son jumped up onto their bed and gently patted her belly, “Hey you, you’re making mama cry. Stop moving around in there!”

Hinata couldn’t help but smile through her tears, grasping her son and cuddling him to her chest. 

Yes, she and Naruto had the talk many times. What would happen if he died on a mission or if she passed away during childbirth. They weren’t easy things to discuss, no, they both would end up in tears, desperately grasping each other and hoping they’d never have to know what life was like without the other. 

She had memorized every line on his face by now, every crinkle by his eyes when he laughed. She had always tried to drink in every detail of her life with him and their children, never for a second taking it for granted.

So she didn’t understand why, now when it counted, she couldn’t seem to picture Naruto’s laughing face. 

“When is daddy coming back?”

Hinata stifled a sob and looked down at her son, “Soon, baby. He got a little lost on the way back home.”

“Oh, well...next time let’s draw him a map.”

She nodded, “That’s a great idea, Boruto. Why don’t we do that right now?”

“Yeah?”

She smiled, “Yes, go get your crayons. We can turn on the TV and sit on the floor in the living room.”

Boruto bolted from her side and giddily ran down the hall to his room to gather his coloring supplies.

Hinata tried to wipe her tears and compose herself. It wouldn’t be good for her or the baby to continue down this road. She knew Naruto would be worried if something were to happen to her or their unborn child, so she tried her best to push away any frightening thoughts and instead imagined her golden boy coming home to her once again.

“Mama, can you help me draw the map?”

She nodded as she poured her son a cup of tea and placed a few of his favorite treats in front of him. He smilingly picked one out and started eating, leaving a few crumbs behind. She watched him in awe, still not quite sure how they had managed to create him. Her heart swelled as she watched him, making the young boy furrow his brow and ask, “Are you okay?”

“Ignore me,” She waved her hand and picked up an orange crayon, “Let’s draw this for daddy, yes?”

The pair colored for what seemed like hours. Hinata attempted to focus on the task before her, but every so often her mind wandered and her eyes drifted to the phone. Willing it to finally ring, to finally have someone tell her the inevitable.

She just needed to know, either way. She needed to know if she had to go open the drawer, go through the papers, unlock their apartment, and move out their things.

So many things to do, so little time to process.

“Mama!?” Boruto asked frantically, waving his small hand in front of her face.

“What is it?”

“The phone is ringing!”

Hinata jumped up from her seat and dashed to the phone. With her heart in her throat as she picked up and said into the receiver, “Hello?” she prayed for good news.

“Hinata?” She heard Sakura’s voice ask.

“Yes!?”

“You need to come to the hospital. Let me send someone to bring you and Boruto.”

“I-Is he okay?”

Sakura exhaled, “He’s in rough shape, but he’s going to be fine.”

Hinata’s legs gave out from under her, and she managed to fall upon her knees as she cried into her hands. Boruto quickly picked up the phone and asked, “Auntie Sakura? Mama’s crying.”

“Is she alright?” Sakura asked.

Boruto studied his mother and nodded, “Mmhmm. I think she’s okay, just crying.”

“You take care of her, okay? I’m going to send Sai to bring you over to see your dad.”

“Dad’s back!?”

“Yes he is, we’ll see you soon okay? Take care of your mama.”

Boruto quickly hung up the phone and ran upstairs to grab his coat and his mother’s. Just as he heard Sai knock on the door he grabbed the map he and Hinata had just finished and folded it into his pocket.

He was going to make sure his dad didn’t worry his mom like that ever again. 

---

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Hinata cried as she hugged her husband tightly to her chest. 

“Hina, you know I’d never leave you,” He muttered as he tried to mask the pain she was inflicting onto his already injured body.

“Daddy!” Boruto called as he jumped onto his father’s hospital bed.

“Gentle!” Sakura yelled as she walked in behind him, “He has a long road ahead of him before he can horse around with you again, Boruto.”

Naruto look down at his son and smiled, “Did you take care of mom?”

Boruto nodded solemnly, “Yeah, and we made you this,” he grabbed the map out of his pocket and placed it on Naruto’s lap, “Just to make sure you always make your way back home okay? I don’t want you worrying mama like that again.”

Hinata brushed Boruto’s hair back and kissed his forehead as Naruto tried to push away his tears. 

“No matter where I go, now I know I won’t get lost,” Naruto said proudly as he took Boruto into his embrace and pressed his cheek to Hinata’s swelling belly, “I’ll always know my way back home thanks to you three.”

[thiswasinevitableid]

Demonic Intervention (Indruck)

Prompt for the 7th: “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.” - The Tempest (William Shakespeare). This fill is NSFW

It can't get much worse. 

Indrid is barely scraping by. He can count his friends in town on one hand. He’s gay in a tiny, rural community and one of the few men like him is a goddamn priest. His house is a mess. And his every waking moment is filled with the demons of his past or the devils lurking in his future. There are so many of them in his present too, roaming the streets of Kepler. 

What’s one more in the mix?

He lights the stubby black candle by the bed, scratches the symbols on the floor, and retreats into his cocoon of blankets to wait.

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

Duck hates when it’s his turn on the summoning shifts. All this ancient knowledge and power and he’s stuck waiting to see if some yahoo in a graveyard or a wannabe cult leader will call him up into the world. 

He has brambles that need pruning, damn it. 

His name isn’t well known among humans, so he only gets summoned if someone is just rooting around for a demonic entity without caring who they get. He’s only been summoned twice in the last hundred years. The tingle in his horns tells him it’s about to be three. 

The room he arrives in is gloomier than any graveyard; the lights are off, the curtains are shut, and the place looks like it got hit by a tornado with a grudge. By the light of the candle, a pale-haired head emerges from the blankets of the small bed. A hand reaches for the floor, comes back with a pair of red glasses.

“Greetings, infernal one. Thank you for answering my summons.” The man’s voice is flat.

“Even demons got manners. So, uh, what’s the job?”

“There are so many dishes in the sink that the thought of doing them is an insurmountable task. Please do them for me.”

“...You realize I’m takin somethin’ from you for this, right? Like a piece of soul or a month of your life?”

“Mmmm” The man rolls over and says nothing else. 

“A day of your life for this.” Duck feels like he should haggle more, but then he’d had to pretend he actually thought a higher price was fair. 

“I accept your terms.” A crackle of green and black electricity flickers in the air in the form of  Duck’s signature and the other man’s name: Indrid Cold.

“Pleasure doin’ business with you.” 

Indrid says nothing. Duck is sure to wash and dry before he goes. 

The next day he’s summoned to the exact same room, in the exact same state of depressing mess. 

“Greetings, infernal one. Please clean this room.”

“Same terms?”

“Mmhmm” Indrid is just staring at the ceiling. 

“You gotta say you accept.”

“I accept.” 

Duck snaps, turning on the light, and gets to work. Technically he could do all this with a wave of his hand. But then he’d lose his chance to learn a little more about the guy who’s settled on demonic deals instead of a maid service. It’s the opposite of the usual problem he has in these kinds of situations, where the humans reveal their deepest secrets, desires, and fears within five minutes of meeting him. 

The records he stacks near their player, the clothes all go in the hamper to be magicked clean, then are hung in the closet; they’re loose and soft, not a scratchy fabric to be found. Tarot cards and candles abound, as do art supplies, and under a pile of drawings he finds magazines featuring muscular, hairy men in various sexual positions. Some of them even look like his preferred human form, the one he’s wearing now. 

He glances at the bed; Indrid is on his side, facing him, must have been watching him at some point but has dropped into a restless sleep. The blankets are slipping, showing a The Sonics tank top hanging off skinny shoulders. Right, that was one of the bands in the record stack. 

Duck doesn’t tend to pry into souls or auras or shit like that; there are whole heaps of trouble that lay that direction. But as he flicks the dust from the bookshelf covered in paperbacks, he feels the edges of Indrids and nearly falls on his ass from the wave of exhaustion and loneliness. 

When it’s time to go, he pauses to pull the blankets back up around him, sets his glasses on the bedside table, and turns the calendar on the wall from “September 1974” to “October 1974.”

When he’s summoned right back to Indrid’s room the next evening, he spots the same tank top on him as he sits up in bed.

“Greetings infernal one.”

“You can just call me ‘Duck’. It’s a nickname.” 

“Oh” Indrid blinks, perplexed, “very well. I, ah, there are some bills that need to be paid to keep the lights on.”

“You need the money for them?”

“No, just for someone to fill out the forms and checks and put them in the mail.”

“Okay. But my fee’s a little different this time: you gotta tell me when you last ate.”

“I accept. I ate this morning.”

Duck snaps his fingers

“Two days ago!” Indrid yelps, then slaps his hands over his mouth. He glares, “why does it matter?”

“Because while I’m payin those bills, you’re eatin’ dinner.”

“Everything in the fridge is disgusting and I can’t go to the store.” 

Duck takes the short trip out to the kitchen, opens the fridge to the new sound of Indrid’s footfalls behind him. 

“You got lots of decent stuff in here; could make you some eggs?”

“No, thank you.” Indrid shakes his head, looking a bit ill. 

“Well, what do you want? I can summon it up.”

“I’m out of Lucky Charms.” The humans says sheepishly, staring at his bare feet. 

A fresh box of cereal appears on the table, Duck pulling out the half empty bottle of milk. He thinks back to the drawings he saw yesterday and conjures a bowl covered in a pattern of brightly colored moths. 

He gathers the stack of bills of while hearts, stars, and horseshoes rattle into the bowl. After a few moments of crunching he hears, “May I ask a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why is your nickname Duck? Does that word mean something else in demonic speech?”

Duck stuffs paper into envelopes, “Nah. It’s, uh, kinda silly but, uh, most demons learn how to take on an animal form. When it was my turn, they asked me which I wanted and, uh, I said I wanted to try bein’ a duck. Liked it so much I stayed that way for three months.”

There’s an odd, strangled sound that makes him look up; Indrid has one hand over his mouth and is shaking with little squeaks. He’s laughing. 

“I’m, I’m s-sorry but, but I, I cannot get over the image of you as a little, feathery waterbird.”

Duck smirks, “Only part that ever gave me trouble was the quackin’; always came out too deep.”

He just manages to pull the envelopes back as milk comes out the human’s nose and he giggles uncontrollably. 

“Ow, ow, heeh, oh g-goodness, I’m s-sorry I, I just haven’t laughed in so long, ugh, there’s milk on my shirt-”

“Guess you’re gonna need to shower now too.” 

“Nono, I can just change-”

Duck waves the bills back and forth, “Uh uh, if you want me to actually put these in the mailbox, you gotta agree to shower.”

“But that’s changing the terms!”

“Demon.” Duck grins. 

“Very well. Let me finish my dinner first.” Indrid scarfs the rest of the cereal, pads back towards the bedroom while Duck cleans the table. He waits to hear water running before going to the mailbox. When he gets back he sticks his head into the steamy bathroom.

“I’m gonna go now.”

“Oh, alright. Thank you again.” Indrid pokes his head out from the shower curtain and Duck resists the temptation to make the whole barrier disappear just for a peak. What can he say? He’s always liked his humans a bit unique looking. 

He draws a special sigil in the steamed-up mirror and heads for home. 

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

Indrid sets the candle on the table, lights it, adds the symbol he found in the mirror, and then starts unpacking his groceries. 

“Lookit you doin’ chores.” The whiff of burnt pine needles accompanies Duck’s voice and draws the tension from Indrid’s shoulders. 

“I’ll have you know I swept today as well.” Indrid turns and crunches the bag of potato chips in his fists; Duck hasn’t put his horns or claws away, and his shirt is half unbuttoned. 

“Caught me while I was gardenin, which is why I ain’t as put together as normal. What can I do for you?”

“This may sound strange but, ah, what is the fee for just talking with you?”

Duck’s eyebrows shoot up and then he chuckles, “You’re full of surprises, little moth.”

Indrid touches the luna moth on his shoulder; how much had Duck studied him when he was here? Did he like what he saw? Does he give everyone he makes deals with nicknames that come out in a drawl like summer honey?

“Hows a little nibble of the old soul sound?”

“I accept. Ah, would you like some cookies? A friend of mine brought them over to me.”

“Sure. The fella on the fridge bring ‘em?” The demon indicates the picture of himself and Barclay, the one he can’t bring himself to throw away. 

“No. My friend Dani, she’s in charge of the gardens for the little co-op in town and when the bakery has seconds she often drops them off for me.” 

He really needs to stop staring at Duck’s chest, even demons probably find ogling rude. Duck’s eyes--one blue, one brown-- catch his own and suddenly claw tips are undoing the remaining buttons. Indrid goes pink but manages to get the cookies and two glasses of water on the table without incident. 

“You know, you never told me why you stayed a duck for so long.”

“It’s the least demonic thing you’ve ever heard but, uh, I just thought it was nice. Bein’ out in the woods, paddlin’ on the lake and watchin the world go by. Sleepin under the stars. Just makes you feel like you’re part of somethin’ bigger than yourself. Now, I got a question for you; why go to all the trouble of summonin’ me just to do your chores?”

Indrid bites his lip, “I knew I was in the kind of mental place where I could not manage it myself. And it felt safer to ask you than to ask my friends. Not that they wouldn’t help me. It’s just, when my mind is like that it turns so inward I can’t conceive of a world that might contain things for me.”

The demon says nothing for a moment, sips his water with a thoughtful look. Then he sets down the empty glass, “Glad you’re feelin a little better.” He tilts his head to indicate the sketch on the counter, “that new?”

“Yes” excitement bubbles up in his chest, “I was reading about--ah, well, it’s, it’s sort of a long story, I don’t want to bore you.”

Duck kicks his feet up on the spare chair and gestures for him to continue. So he does, tells the demon about reading every book he could find on the mythology and folklore of the Mexico and the American southwest, about his new inspiration for a series of drawings, his worries that no one will like them or purchase them and he’ll be stuck running his little psychic side business until he dies 

Duck, in turn, tells him about life as a forest demon, about his hellcat, and about the fact he routinely comes up to the human world for french onion soup because the stuff made in his realm never tastes right. When Indrid next looks at the clock, it’s well after midnight. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

“No complaints here. But I oughta get home and feed Winnie before she shreds my cabinets again.” The demon stands, rounding the table, “gotta get my fee first.”

“Right. How should I…” Indrid stiffens as Duck bends forward, wondering if the sharp teeth that smiled at him all night are about to pierce his skin. 

Warm lips meet his forehead and he sighs at the tenderness in the gesture. Duck, however, moans as he pulls back, then quickly covers his mouth.

“Uh, that, that’s a totally, uh, totally not, uh, un-normal reaction, uh, fuck, see you around.” 

He’s gone with a campfire crackle, leaving Indrid to wonder how a demon can be such a terrible liar.

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

“Sweet fuckin hell.” Duck gasps as his living room forms around him. His lips still tingle from kissing the human’s forehead, from the sheer force of the want and yes that came when he took that sip of soul. It’s never like that, never comes so willingly and eagerly, like the soul is searching for someone to look after it. 

Technically, there’s nothing stopping him from zipping right back up there and pinning Indrid to his bed while he takes what the human seems so happy to give. 

Duck takes five deep breaths, then ten, and then goes to retrieve Winnie from the cabinet she clawed her way into.

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

When Barclay suggested Indrid find someone to confide in, Indrid’s going to guess he didn’t mean, “routinely invite a demon into your house to play cards or listen to music.”

Most times, Indrid isn’t even summoning him; they have two standing dates a week, plus a game night with Dani and her new girlfriend, Aubrey (who Duck seems to know but refuses to say more about how). Duck will sometimes drop by unannounced, and he hardly ever collects a fee these days. When he does, it’s always a taste of Indrid’s soul, taken via a kiss on the cheek. 

Indrid would let him take it any way he wanted. He’s well past denying the fact Duck is type in all his forms, that he’s gentler than most humans, and that he’s so charming Indrid would eat out of his hand. 

Duck even goes out with him, like the boyfriend he wishes he had. When he puts on his human form to accompany Indrid around town, he radiates enough residual, demonic energy that the people who normally make Indrid’s life a living hell stay far, far away. In fact, tonight is the first night in months he’s had something close to a disaster, and it was mostly an accident. He’s peeling his beer-soaked shirt over his head when he feels mis-matched eyes on his back.

“Have a little too much fun bartendin’ tonight?” Duck holds out his hand, rendering the shirt fresh and clean when it touches his palm.

“Some caveman hit on one of our regulars and would not back off when asked. She threw a full pint of beer on him and I happened to be standing right behind him when she did.” He wiggles out of his jeans, let’s Duck give them the same treatment he gave the shirt, “ugh, I need a bath, I smell like Rheingold.”

“Allow me.” Duck waves his hand and steam wafts from the bedroom, goes into it and grabs the bubble bath from under the sink as Indrid follows him in his underwear. Duck’s constant glancing at his crotch and legs makes him bold. 

“What’s the fee for such excellent service?”

“No fee, little moth. I’m just doin’ a favor for my friend.”

“And what if your friend wants to repay you anyway?”

When the demon looks up from the tub, his eyes are glowing, “Only if he’s doin’ it because he wants to and not because he owes me.”

“I want to, so very badly.”

In a flash Duck is in the tub, beckoning Indrid to join him. Indrid tests the water with his finger just to be safe.

“Mmm, nice and warm.”

“Hellfire, sugar. Now get your cute ass into the tub or--oh fuck yeah.” Duck growls as Indrid strips and climbs in with him, drags him into his lap and traces his claws up his sides while Indrid yanks him into a kiss.Curious, Indrid reaches one hand up to rub the base of his horn, the dark brown curls like smooth bark beneath his fingers. 

“Fuuuck” Duck groans, “feels like gettin a back-rub.”

“Then I better keep at it. Oh, oh my” Indrid sits back to admire the vines of green appearing in Duck’s skin, “you’re absolutely beautiful.”

“Kinky little thing, you like that I’m a demon.” Duck scrapes his teeth along Indrid’s shoulder, “that really why you summoned me? You were hopin I’d have my, uh, demonic way with you?”

“N-no, I, I, it’s no secret I’m attracted to you but I, you make me feel so happy, I’m so safe when I’m with you, and, and if all your care and affection towards me has been part of some malevolent plan please, please just tell me because I, I think I’m falling in love with you.” He kisses Duck with far more force than before, forestalling the inevitable confession that this was all just a game for his soul and his own, pathetic admission that he’s not sure that changes anything. 

“Oh, sugar” Duck keeps brushing their lips together as he speaks, “First time I tasted your soul I knew I was fucked. Knew I wanted to keep seein’ you, even if you never gave me another goddamn thing.”

Indrid buries his face in Duck’s shoulder, letting out shuddery sighs as Duck pets his back. He’s never leaving this spot, Duck is just going to have to carry him about while he does his infernal business and his housekeeping.

“Tell me what you want, little moth.” Duck kisses the shell of his ear. It still tingles, even when his soul stays put.

“Please fuck me? Oh! Oh that’s very efficient and extremely strange.” He squirms in Duck’s lap as his ass turns slick and stretched, like someone has pulled four fingers from it.

“Do it the traditional way some other time” The curved head of a cock bumps his ass, “you wanna feel just to be sure you can take it?”

He flails in the water a moment, finds a warm, responsive shaft with four, bumpy ridges leading to the head. It’s no bigger than the one toy he splurged on during his last trip to the city.

“Yes, certainly, oh, oh, AHHhnnnn yes.” The cock is hotter than his body as it slides in and he wonders if it will just melt him from the inside out, if Duck’s cum will be just as warm, how it will feel on his tongue and down his throat when he drags the demon into his bed.

“That’s it sugar, take it all the way. Fuck, been jerkin off to the thought of you on my dick for months.”

“Nnngh” Is his eloquent reply, the ridges of Duck’s cock making his toes curl and his fingers dig into Duck’s skin. 

“You like that idea, little moth? Knowin I could be out temptin anyone I wanted to and instead I was in bed thinkin’ about you?”

“Mhhmmm” He whines, the desire pouring off the demon wrapping around him and soothing his insecurities. 

Duck slows the thrusts of his hips and his voice is gentle when he whispers, “Course I did; no one can compare to you, ‘Drid.”

“Ohgod, Duck, please, please, please, want to be yours, always yours-”

“Careful,sugar, that sounds like you’re anglin’ for an infernal marriage.”

“A, a what? OHhhhnnyes” He moans as claws knead his ass.

“It’s a special kind of deal where a human agrees to marry a demon. Soon as they’re dead, they go straight to their spouse, no other options provided.” Duck cups his face, holding it steady so he can look into his eyes, “but there ain’t no need for that right now; way I see it, we can do this like we were just two normal fellas for now.”

“But it sounds fun.” Indrid offers a teasing pout and gets an adoring kiss in return. 

“Yeah? What if I tell you a lot of demons mark their spouses by piercing these” He pinches Indrid’s nipples, the pain making him bounce more determinedly on his dick. His demon growls, drops one hand down to thumb at the head of his aching cock, “pierce here too. Won’t even do it in public like you’re supposed to; do it at home so no one else will see just what a sweet, needy thing you are for me--whoah, fuck, did not expect you to cum just from playin with this nice dick a little.”

“V-very sensitive” Indrid gasps against the green swirls in Duck’s shoulder, his orgasm such a surprise he’s still registering it, hips twitching and tongue threatening to loll out of his mouth.

“Keep that in mind for next time. Might even bring a cage so you don’t cum too early and spoil my plans. Now, hold tight, little moth.” 

Indrid clings to the warm bulk of Duck’s body as his cock pounds up into him, the demon easily holding his hips up and his ass open so all he can do is whimper and writhe on it. When he cums it’s hot enough that Indrid squirms

“Don’t hurt does it?” Duck pets his sides, concerned. 

“Nono, it, it’s nice, just very strange.” Indrid winces as Duck pulls out, watches him wave his fingers to clear away the mess. When the demon makes no move to let go, Indrid looks up, “you really meant what you said? About wanting me as a boyfriend?”

“Damn right I do. Now c’mere, lemme get the beer outta your hair.”

Indrid hums as Duck scrubs his scalp and runs warm water over his skin, talking all the while about how they should go camping as a first date so no one will bother them, says he’ll even turn into a duck to make Indrid smile. 

Indrid says he knows just the spot, let’s his boyfriend dry them off and bundle them to bed and then, for the first time, falls asleep with a devil in his arms.

[rainbuckets8]

Why you should watch RWBY

TL;DR:

Summary: RWBY is an epic fantasy with themes like found family, the struggle to remain hopeful, the younger generation growing up, villain redemption, and systemic evils.

Strengths: RWBY has unique and memorable characters. The show is smart. It has excellent cinematography and animation. It has representation. It tackles hard topics. It’s got incredible music and it’s free on RT’s website.

Weaknesses: RWBY has some early growing pains, specifically volume 2’s finale, as well as budget and polish. Later on, volume 4 is weaker than the rest. Volume 8's finale is extremely distressing for a lot of viewers (and we haven't seen the follow up to those events yet). The fandom can be bad at times.

Misinformation: The early volumes being bad, the racism plot line, and the animation (not the same as “budget and polish”) are not as bad as you may have heard from YouTube.

Suggested viewing order

Red Trailer, White Trailer, Black Trailer, Yellow Trailer

Volume 1

Volume 2

Volume 3

Volume 4 Character Short

Volume 4

Volume 5 Weiss Character Short, Volume 5 Blake Character Short, Volume 5 Yang Character Short

Volume 5

Volume 6 Adam Character Short

Volume 6

Volume 7

Volume 8

(I did my best to make this spoiler-free. When there are spoilers, they’re worded ambiguously enough that someone new to the show would never guess what’s going to happen just by reading this.)

What to expect

The world of Remnant is filled with monsters called the creatures of Grimm. Warriors called Huntsmen and Huntresses defend humanity. Ruby, Weiss, Blake, and Yang go to school to become the next generation of heroes. Together they make Team RWBY (pronounced, “Ruby”)! Joining them is team JNPR (“Juniper”), made up of Jaune, Nora, Pyrrha, and Ren. But evils even more dangerous than the Grimm are ready to make their move, and school quickly becomes an afterthought…

(I mention these next two topics specifically bc they can immediately turn someone away based on bad expectations.) There is a fantasy school setting, but RWBY is not a show about school. School topics are not a dominant idea: it seems to resemble a setting like Harry Potter, but the actual focus of the show rarely touches on things like classes or homework or tests, and we quickly move on. There is romance and it has a role in the plot, but RWBY is not a romance show. On the scale of romance in FMAB to She-Ra, RWBY falls somewhere in the middle.

What is RWBY about, then? RWBY is like an epic fantasy or high fantasy, despite first appearances. Perhaps not every genre convention is followed, but at its core, RWBY is about an epic struggle of good and evil.

RWBY contains themes such as found family, the struggle to remain hopeful, the younger generation growing up, villain redemption, and systemic evils.

Strengths of the show

The characters are unique and memorable. One of the cool things is that they all draw inspiration from a real life fairy tale, myth, or something else. They designs are all top notch. One character who died with extremely little screen time even got so much fandom love, they included the character in a mid-hiatus short later. The characters have unique weapons, too; in the world of Remnant, a weapon is an extension of ones’ soul, and they reflect the variety of their owners. They’re also just plain cool; Monty was famous for following the “Rule of Cool.” And their individual stories are all compelling and interesting.

The show is smart. As a fandom, we generally pick up on the narrative hints the creators are dropping. And our predictions usually come true, but not in a way that makes the show predictable and boring. We very rarely guess exactly what will happen, but we have some similar idea of it. It’s just excellent foreshadowing.

RWBY also likes to play with tropes, as an extension of this. Often it will challenge them, or subvert expectations. In other cases, RWBY uses tropes to avoid showing us what we already know will happen. This occurs in both characters and plot. For example…

SLIGHT SPOILERS FOR VOLUME ONE FOR THE REST OF THIS PARAGRAPH: Jaune’s entire character arc is about trying to be the anime protagonist, and learning that he doesn’t have to do things alone, and it’s ok to be a support main. The show sets up the narrative in a way that looks like, oh of course the direction it will go is him becoming the main character, but then it destroys toxic masculinity instead.

Our characters are smart, too. Plot-induced stupidity generally doesn’t happen. (A few big mistakes or errors in this regard aren’t actually the fault of the narrative, either, but animation and miscommunication and failure to execute. And those aren’t common.) It goes beyond just “not being dumb,” however. The villains’ plans are incredibly clever, and our heroes sometimes even guess at the usual “plot twists.”

The cinematography is just incredible. There are numerous freeze frames with extreme attention to detail that reveal character motivations or arcs or foreshadowing, there are many effective cuts and moving parts, there are soooo many parallels and callbacks, and visual cues such as lighting and color all are used appropriately to convey emotion and assist the narrative. It is one of the biggest overlooked strengths of the show, imo, simply because a lot of people in the fandom don’t notice these things as much for whatever reason, or else don’t give as much praise about them.

The animation is extremely good as well. Budget issues and technology issues aside (which means a lack of polish), the actual animation? The fight choreography, and all the other parts of animation that aren’t just “expensive CGI” are all wonderful. You can have very shiny, polished turds after all, and RWBY is like the opposite: not very polished, especially early on, but very well animated. All the trailers, volume 1 episode 8, the volume 1 finale, the volume 2 penultimate episode, and basically everything else hold up extremely well even today. If anything, the worst fight animation was in volumes 4 and 5 because of Maya growing pains, and those are an example of being more polished, but not necessarily better animated. Animation of faces has always been good, animation of characters has always felt lively. Aside from a few small actual hiccups (that one person running across rooftops for instance), it’s well done.

There are LGBTQ+ characters. The treatment of one of the recent trans characters, in volume 8, was nothing short of amazing. They worked with a VA who was trans. The moment of canon confirmation was important to the character for backstory, because of course that affects the character’s life, but not the only important thing about the character. The representation is not in-your-face or pandering. And there is a split of representation among the main cast and the minor characters, with promises of more to come (notably they’ve said they’re working on more mlm for future volumes, too).

RWBY is not afraid to tackle hard topics. It deals with things like mental illness, systematic racism, and cycles of abuse. It’s not because the show is trying to earn “gritty and dark” points, it’s because those are some of the topics that real people have to struggle with as well. And the show handles most or all of them very well, in a way that shows respect and an honest attempt to depict these things as best they can. (NOTE ABOUT VOLUME 8: THERE IS A VERY DIFFUCLT CONVERSATION CURRENTLY HAPPENING. I am on the side of, let’s wait and see what happens next because the story isn’t over, so we haven’t really seen the fall out. But I understand why this paragraph feels really difficult to agree with if you've seen the volume 8 finale. I trust the track record of the rest of the show, personally.)

As an example, the show has a theme that villains are rarely evil just because. A lot of villains choose to do bad things because they were hurt in some way. Some lived in poverty; some were hurt by racism; many of them are victims of abuse. But the show doesn’t make excuses for them. It’s possible to be both sympathetic and still choose evil over and over again (that’s called tragic). The ones who eventually do try to do good again are not always forgiven, either.

The music is amazing. I can probably count on my hands the number of times I’ve heard someone say otherwise, which is astonishing when you consider this fandom.

It’s also free on RT’s website. (A paid, “FIRST” subscription removes ads and lets you see new episodes one week early, but they all eventually release for free.)

Weaknesses of the show

Early volumes’ growing pains exist, much like most or all other shows. (Even some of the greatest were not immune to this, like ATLA.) In this case, however, it’s a little bit rougher. A large reason why is that this was kind of the first big thing from RT to ever come out. If you remember back almost a decade ago, their only other big thing at the time was RvB, which was machinima. They pretty much started from scratch with everything, from assets to VAs to animation to writing. Imagine if a random twitch streamer, like Ninja (idk who’s popular these days) said one day, “OK let me just direct something that’s intended to be the next great movie series of all time, like Star Wars, with a $4 bill and an iPhone camera.” Then went out and actually made something. Of course it would be rough…but then it turns out the movie is actually really good. And then you get to watch over the next several years as everything gets better and better until it’s honest-to-god comparable to the MCU. That’s kind of what happened with RWBY.

One specific growing pain was the volume 2 finale. Pretty much everything else up until that point, I love about the show. But the finale just fails to deliver on the build up of tension from other episodes. Some of it is because of later plot developments that we didn’t know at the time; some of it is because of just not great writing; some of it is because of just not great animation; and yes, some of it is budget. Regardless, it’s a low point for the show.

Speaking of, the budget for the early volumes is super small. The infamous volume one shadow people, the infamous person jumping across the rooftops in volume two, and just production quality isn’t high compared to a major release from some established studio. These are real weaknesses of the show that for some people, make it unwatchable, and if that’s you, that’s ok.

One last weakness of the show, the screen time per episode, especially early on, is NOT a full 20 minutes like you may expect of an anime (or anime-inspired-western-media, for those of you who will die on the “RWBY is not an anime” hill). This is a trend that has stuck with the show, a shorter run time per episode, for generally the entire lifetime. On one hand, it means it’s a little less daunting to catch up or rewatch than the number of episodes might imply. On the other, early on, some episodes have a little weird pacing. It also means the writing had to adjust for this, so while RWBY got really good at telling a story within a shorter amount of time, there’s also challenges with that too. Perhaps one of the notable ones is the pacing, with slower moments sometimes feeling like it takes up too much screen time, or not enough. Volume 4 was a particular struggle for the crew, both because they switched animation engines and also for the story.

Common complaints that I don’t agree with

I don’t agree that the early volumes were actually bad overall. Growing pains, yes, but not bad. I attribute that complaint to overly focusing on one character’s storyline, back when it wasn’t clear there was so much more to come and before people realized the show would challenge the tropes instead of falling into them. It’s pretty much just volume 1 when people say this anyway, most of them I’ve heard admit that volume 2 was a lot better (except the finale) and almost everyone loves volume 3. And looking back on it, I do think volume 1 holds up.

Tying into this, the racism plot line is another common complaint. I don’t think it’s actually executed quite that badly. I think it makes sense for there to be regional differences in the amount of racism we see, it just so happened that we only saw a very small and isolated environment, Beacon, for much of the early volumes. (Incidentally, that’s actually similar the environment I myself grew up in.) It’s not perfect, though. But there’s no doubt that the later volumes do a better job portraying this. Again, I attribute it mostly to people not knowing how long the show would run for at the time, so of course if that’s all we saw, it would’ve been bad. But it’s not. I have a lot of respect for Miles and Kerry for even attempting to handle the racism topic in the first place. And for the faults that DO exist in this plot line, I credit them for learning and growing past that too, and doing better in later volumes.

The animation is not bad. I’ve already touched on that earlier, but people confuse “budget and polish” with “animation.” Give me RWBY any day over Michael Bay’s Transformers: no matter how much polish those robots have, they’re still a confusing mess to try and follow. And the polish isn’t even an issue once we get past the growing pains of Maya and get a bigger budget, because wow does this show look good now.

Between these three complaints I hear about often, I think those are the biggest ones. And they’re all generally done in bad faith, based not on just those but on other more provocative statements people also make with them. That’s part of my issue with the fandom, specifically the vocal but small parts of the fandom, because they’re just repeating these things from early days that aren’t true. But YouTubers gotta get those rage and hate clicks somehow, right? Unfortunately it discredits the show a lot and influences other people’s opinions into not giving it a fair chance, because it’s become a narrative of “RWBY IS BAD” when they all won’t shut up about it. So yeah, fandom can be bad, join at your own discretion. (Of course, all fandoms have annoying parts, and my interactions with the fandom have been good overall, otherwise.)

Onto other complaints, some say the cast is bloated. I don’t agree, but I don’t think this one is in bad faith. I think we get the important characters as much screen time as we can, and the minor characters don’t actually detract from that; one of the differences between good minor characters and bad ones, is that bad ones take up too much time. RWBY has a ton of characters but many of the minor ones don’t actually take up too much time. So it appears bloated, but actually I don’t think it is.

Finally, a small word on the no-no topics. Adam, and Monty. Adam is like the champion of the Monty topic. Which essentially boils down to “Miles and Kerry are ruining Monty’s vision for the show.” Toxic fandom is truly awful and I have no respect for anyone who says anything like that. Shame on all of you. This isn’t really anything negative about the show, but the fandom, and tbf all fandoms have toxic parts. But toxic fandom can be a real and valid reason to not watch a show. Thankfully they seem fewer in number these days, but I think they’ve evolved into hiding behind other characters or topics, so you know. Beware. Again, it's not too hard to avoid them or block them, and my interactions otherwise with most fans have been good.

[langdxn]

James March Breeding Kink??? Please

I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to hear those four words! Thank you so much! BREEDING KINKS ASSEMBLE... this could be a long one 🥵

“I requested you dress up for dinner tonight,” James hummed contentedly while observing your figure, leaning back in his seat at the dinner table. “But I did not anticipate you dressing to outshine the dinner entirely.”

“I take it you approve?” Your coy question could barely conceal your pride in rendering your husband almost speechless with your attire, a plunging black lace number that exposed your navel as you leaned forward. “Will Drake designed it for me.”

“The man has more taste than I initially perceived,” James husked, slipping a finger beneath his tie to loosen the knot, visibly hot under the collar. “I am quite undone.”

“So what are we celebrating?” You nonchalantly twirled a dessert fork in the air.

“A couple checked into the hotel yesterday, a young man and his... his girlfriend,” James hesitated as if the words left a lump in his throat. “She was expecting.”

“You... you killed a pregnant lady?” Your brows furrowed, leaning closer over the table to close the gap between you. Concern and terror washed over your face, robbing your features of their colour and leaving a deathlike pallor in their wake.

“No, not at all, but that in itself is my dilemma,” James frowned, sweeping a hand down his face as he struggled to process his emotions and hold back some form of tears. “I couldn’t bring myself to do anything. I stood back and watched them in the Blue Parrot lounge, I observed them billing and cooing over each other and I failed to do my work. They checked out this morning without a scratch between the both of them.”

“Why, James?” Rising to your feet, you teetered over to his side of the table on your impossibly high stilettos. Arriving at his seat, you nudged his plate away and perched on the edge of the table in front of him, resting your hands on his knees. “What stopped you?”

“You did, my hummingbird,” James sniffled, clasping your hands within his and locking a loving gaze into your eyes. “For the first time, I thought about how I would feel if you were in her shoes. If you were murdered in cold blood while you were with child.”

“Did you, did you just—“

James cleared his throat nervously, gaze darting feverishly around the room for a distraction.

“Forgive me, I digress… I realised I could never reconcile myself if I had slaughtered a life before it had even begun.”

“You said if I were with child,” you pressed further, causing him to uncomfortably fidget in his chair.

“I did?”

“James…”

Drawing his lip between his teeth and clenching ever so slightly that his cheeks dimpled, James nodded to himself and acknowledged the elephant in the room.

“Mrs March,” his voice broke softly. “Would you consider... would you be interested... could we possibly...?”

Draping your arms over his shoulders, you drew James in and fixed a haunting kiss to his lips. When you resurfaced, you spotted a lovelorn glaze over his eyes, frenetically searching your face for affirmation.

“I thought you would never want children,” you sighed through a disbelieving smile. “Especially after Bartholomew...”

“Bartholomew is not my son,” James snapped momentarily, his pout more prominent. “He is a vampire, which neither of us are, why should that prevent us from producing an heir to the Cortez?”

“Even so, could a human and a ghost conceive? Could that ever work? I might give birth to the antichrist or… a redhead.”

“Or,” James leapt to his feet, scooping his arms around your waist and dipping his head into your neck to plant searing kisses into your collarbone. “We could have the happiest, healthiest baby ever seen in your world and mine.”

Melting into his touch as always, every nerve in your body set aflame by his touch, by his sincerity, by his devotion, you let out a soft moan.

“The Countess,” you murmured, realising another obstacle in your path. “She’ll kill me the moment I start showing.”

“I will protect you, my love,” he hummed against your skin between pecks, his hands journeying up your spine and consuming every inch of you in his arms. “She will not be an obstruction to our happiness for one single moment.”

“James, I—“

“My darling,” he lifted his head to face you. “If you insist on conjuring innumerable reasons why we should not start a family, I should prefer if you rejected me more plainly.”

“No, no... James, that’s not what I’m saying,” you stuttered, reaching to cup his face in both hands. “I’m just scared. For you, for me, bringing a baby into this hotel, it’s a lot to think about.”

“I understand your trepidation,” James sighed, tapping his forehead against yours. “But answer me this: what does your heart tell you?”

Your gaze instinctively dropped to your chest, finally noticing your racing heartbeat caged inside. A blazing, unfettered fire within you as you contemplated the most monumental step in your relationship since you wed in front of the entire hotel years before.

“My heart says I want to have a baby with you, James Patrick March,” you beamed from ear to ear. “My heart says you would be a perfect father, certainly the only one that could show our child how to love with every fibre of your being.”

The same fire that raged in your own heart spread to James’, his eyes igniting with adoration as his hand rested on your abdomen, his palm flattening intently.

“In return, mine says you will be the perfect mother. The only mother that could show our child the love of the living, the love I can no longer express.”

You both gazed down to your stomach, looking on as his fingertips traced lazy circles into the lace draped over your figure. The palpable connection between you, the fierce kind of love that knew no bounds, coursed like electricity between your body and his hand.

As your eyes returned to meet each other’s, you both melted simultaneously into a passionate kiss, teeth recklessly clacking together as you closed the gap between you. Moaning weakly, your back arched into him as his one hand fiercely blazed up your thigh, hitching your skirt around your hips as the other executed his escape from his dress pants.

“J... James,” you stuttered breathlessly while he pulled you to the edge of the table, your dress rolling further upwards as you hooked your legs around his hips. “James, I need you—“

“Shh, hummingbird,” he cooed softly, swiping your panties to one side and deftly lining his tip with your already yearning folds. “Let me breed you.”

With one smooth buck of his hips, James buried his length inside you. Dipping into your neck to place more kisses into your delicate skin, James purred softly.

“You shall... you will look,” he stammered between elicit groans, his structured eloquence slipping with every swift stroke. “I won’t be able to resist you while you are carrying our child.”

Reaching to tousle his slicked hair through your fingers, you chuckled gently.

“James, you can’t resist me even when I’m not pregnant!”

A sharp snap of his hips reprimanded you for the comment, pressing his tip deep into your walls to force a gasp from your lips.

“The fact remains, Mrs March,” he grunted, rearing back to plow deeper inside you. “You will be the most beautiful expectant mother.”

“Even when I’m the size of the hotel?”

Another brisk thrust caught you deeper than he had ever hit you before, sparking a hollow, consuming burn inside that robbed you of all strength. Your head crashed against James’ chest, your back giving way beneath you and your legs losing their grip on his waist.

“Wait, darling, stay with me,” James panicked, clasping your head in both hands to hold you upright, his face fading in and out of view while your vision blurred frantically. “Please, stay with me.”

“James, I...” you stuttered weakly between egregious moans, your last remaining bolts of energy sent to constrict and pulse your walls around his length, a final wave of arousal gushing inside.

“It’s okay my love, I’ve got you.”

Your kaleidoscopic gaze returned to look into his eyes, ablaze with love and lust in equal measure. Caressing your cheeks as his hips keened desperately chasing his own climax, James smiled warmly.

“You will be a mother soon, my little hummingbird,” James moaned with his eyes fluttering closed, his thrusts slowing to a steady rock while his length twitched eagerly spilling against your walls. “You will be a mother soon.”

As you again collapsed against his chest, James wrapped his arms tightly around you, planting sincere kisses atop your hair.

“I...” he trailed off, exhausted.

“I... I know,” you sighed back, straining to curl your arms around him in return. “Do you think it worked?”

“Only… only time will tell,” James panted, holding you tighter and tighter with every fractured, weary word. “Would you object to another attempt after dinner?”

[buckyswinterbaby]

Always By My Side — Chapter 1

Click here to read the Prologue.

Synopsis: The fates have spent millenniums correcting the daily mishaps that interfere with soulmates ever meeting. Will they find a way to bring together Bucky and Zara, two people separated by time and circumstance, just as they’ve done a thousand times before?

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Black!OFC Ziarah Heartwell

Warnings (will change with each chapter): flashbacks, PTSD, mentions of past sexual assault, angst, bits of fluff

Word Count: 3,791

Acknowledgement: I’ve created this AU alongside my best friend Taylor in roleplays, along with many of the plots and scenes that will be featured. I’m posting this with his expressed permission as we both continue to work on the story in our chat. Credit for its creation goes to both of us.

Please like, comment, and reblog (I love that shit). The divider was created by me, please credit me if you use it. The gifs are not mine. Click here to fill out the form to be added to my tag list!

Note: Here’s chapter one of my new series “Always By My Side”. It takes place in a soulmate AU where a bond is triggered when one or both halves experience a life threatening level of distress. The bond allows them to see imaginary versions of their soulmates to help support them while they wait to meet their other half. Just a warning, up until we reach the current time in the story, there will be significant time skips for plot progression’s sake. The time changes will always be labeled.

Addition: I said I’d tag you when I posted my WOC OFC story so here’s chapter one, @bucky-the-thigh-slayer !

[Bucharest, Romania -- 2016]

The Romanian streets were bustling with early morning energy as Bucky took the final steps outside of the clearly worn apartment complex that he had been calling home for sometime. He seemed unfazed by the sixteen year old girl practically jogging to keep up in step with his longer strides. He had grown rather accustomed to her presence and her commentary since she first appeared to him in 2014. It had been during his final brainwashing session with Hydra before they fell. He couldn’t help but view her as a banshee of sorts, harkening the end of what remained of his mental stability. He couldn’t fathom another reason as to why he would hallucinate an opinionated teenage girl.

Even so, he found comfort in their conversations and how at ease she seemed around him. Almost as if she had always been with him, a piece of himself that still saw the good that was left. Never addressing him with fear or apprehension, never as the monster and killer he was forced to become.

Her features were young and innocent, seemingly unscarred by life despite the bruises that graced her skin--which he was never sure why they existed. At first, he feared that she had been one of his countless victims who had returned to haunt him in her afterlife, though the theory became less likely to him as more time passed.

The defined coils of her hair were pushed up into a messy bun, edges laid smoothly to her forehead in defined loops. When she first started showing up, Bucky had attempted to make sense of the witty phrases and references that so frequently adorned her clothes but he had long since given up on ever understanding them. He had to admit that the shirt she wore that day, a middle finger painted with pink, yellow, and blue, was quite the fashion choice. Not that he could particularly judge with his similar pieces of clothing that were practically identical besides in color.

The pair made their way down the familiar stretch of pavement on their way to the outdoor market that Bucky had made a habit of visiting. He had found that a reliable schedule throughout his week helped him better grasp the passing of time, a fact that his companion had been informing him of for weeks before it finally seemed to click.

The girl’s nose clinked as they neared the fresh fish stand, just as it did every week. Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle at her childish antics as they were so few and far between for someone who seemed quite mature despite her appearance.

“It smells like cat food,” she whined, making a clear act of breathing primarily through her mouth as she jogged to keep up. “How are you not gagging?”

“Not all of us have the luxury of being a figment of someone’s imagination, Zara. If I start gagging, I have a feeling a few people will start to notice.” The man gave her a knowing look. Drawing attention to himself was the exact opposite of what he wanted during his brief outings. “Besides, I can’t say I’ve smelt cat food or have any intention to. So I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

Zara rolled her eyes as the smell began to dissipate the further they moved past the stand, her trademark smile working its way onto her features. “Could’ve had me fooled, I thought that was your guilty pleasure. I can’t say I’ve ever intentionally gotten a whiff, but when I feed the outdoor cats at my house, it’s kinda unavoidable.” She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly as if it was the most natural thing in the world for an imaginary person to have their own home and animals.

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed as he narrowed his eyes down to her smaller form beside him. “You don’t have a cat because you aren’t even real,” he retorted. Somehow the idea that she could be real made her presence in his life even harder. The idea that she was just some girl he had passed by in the street or on a mission and his brain decided she’d make the ideal emotional support apparition.

“Who are you to declare that?”

“The creepy hundred year old man who hallucinates a sixteen year old girl, occasionally in her pajamas, for one.” His voice raised a bit louder than he intended, drawing the attention of a few nearby pedestrians. Bucky offered them an awkward smile before ducking back down under the bill of his hat and picking up his pace a bit. She couldn’t argue with his logic so she focused on keeping up until they reached their destination, the produce stand that had the best plums in the city, or so Bucky described.

Zara watched as he spoke Romanian with the merchant, only catching a few words she had learnt over the past few months from their conversations. She couldn’t help but smile at how effortlessly Bucky seemed to interact with the man and how it contrasted so starkly to how he acted when he first arrived in the city. Decades of next to no positive human interaction left the soldier awkward and clunky in his exchanges, often stumbling through questions and requests, or simply forgetting them altogether. It had taken a great deal of patience and metaphorical hand holding to build up his confidence and ease his anxiety on the matter.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to blend in, in fact he was almost too good at it at times. Over their conversations, she had managed to show him that yes, blending in made him go through the motions of life, which was better than nothing. Yet, the beauty of his life now and the freedom that came with it was that he no longer had to settle for simply surviving and he could instead use it as a chance to learn to live again. It started small, like convincing him to get a pillow and blanket for the mattress on the floor, to which they compromised with a sleeping bag. Soon came two pillows for the couch and a lone floor lamp that he shoved in the corner near his bed for the late nights when night terrors had him scribbling away in his journals. They were minor improvements, in truth, but the progress spoke volumes as Bucky worked on building a place that felt a bit more permanent than his last few hideouts.

Zara had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t even registered that Bucky completed his purchase and had moved to stand at the edge of the sidewalk. She approached him curiously, watching the way he hesitantly analyzed the seemingly anxious newspaper peddler from across the street. It was very clear something was wrong from the way his demeanor had changed.

“Buchanan?” Her voice raised a bit at the end of his name, concern now replacing her curiosity as he began to make his way to the stand. He either didn’t hear her--which she found unlikely--or he simply opted to ignore her as he picked up the paper, ocean blue eyes scanning over the headline. The color seemed to drain from both of their faces as they took the accusation in, not having to speak to know what it meant.

Bucky would have to pick up his life, yet again, and run. Find a new country, new home, and start the process all over again. The ex-assassin hardly seemed surprised at the realization, as there is no rest for the wicked.

[Boston, Massachusetts -- 2016]

Zara made her way down the hallway to her bedroom, an imaginary version of Bucky trailing along behind her. She let her book bag drop to the floor once she entered the room, stepping out of her shoes before flopping down onto the soft, sunflower themed duvet of her bed. A look of weightlessness overtook her features as she let the events of the day settle in. Today she would graduate with a PhD in Biomedical Engineering from MIT, top of her class. It was the culmination of years of pouring herself over every textbook her parent’s provided, testing out and early graduations. At only sixteen, Zara would join the ranks of some of the youngest individuals to ever receive a doctoral degree. It truly seemed unreal to her.

Emerald eyes drifted to where Bucky sat at her desk, his arms crossed loosely in front of his chest.

“I wish you could be there tomorrow,” Zara commented, propping herself up on her elbows as her fingers pulled at the frayed threads on the yellow quilt folded at the end of her bed.

A smile teased the corner of Bucky’s lips as he leaned back against her swivel chair, long hair swaying as he tilted his head to the left to look at her. “I will be there, maybe not in person, but I’ll be there cheering right along with everyone else,’ he assured.

“It’s not the same and you know it, Buchanan.”

“I know. Just try to focus on the positives. Tomorrow is your day, you’ve more than earned it.”

Zara nodded, though her disappointment was still evident. On the average day, Bucky’s seemingly invisible presence to everyone else but her came in handy. As she was willing to bet her parents wouldn’t be too keen on the amount of time she spent alone with the grown man, let alone if they knew who he was. The public’s perception of James Buchanan Barnes, who she had quickly identified him as, was low to say the very least. Though it was days like this that she found herself wishing the most that he could truly exist in her life outside of her mind.

She could never quite pinpoint why she began hallucinating him two years prior. Though, the time before and after her fourteenth birthday had flown by in a post traumatic daze so it was even more difficult to analyze. The aftermath of four older boys assaulting her in her own bedroom left her wishing to repress that portion of her life altogether. Zara squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the ghost of their hands on her body. Grabbing, groping, pulling and tearing at clothes. She had hardly seen them since their attack but her mind was still trapped in the room with them.The feeling took her back to meeting Bucky that night, or more so the Winter Soldier, as he appeared at that time.

Upon entering her room, Zara failed to notice the masked man sitting silently in the corner of the room, illuminated only by the small lamp on her bedside stand. When she caught a glimpse of the figure, her body jumped to it’s fight response, just as it had an hour or so before. The young girl grabbed the closest thing she could find, a textbook on advanced chemistry, and held onto it tightly before turning to face the intruder.

“You need to leave,” she ordered, her voice wavering at the end of the demand. Her green eyes only met a pair of dark glasses securely strapped to his face. She couldn’t make out any facial features to identify him by, as all but his forehead and hair was covered.

It wasn’t just his silence that sent an unnerved shiver down her spine. It was his demeanor, cold and nearly unresponsive to her presence and defensive stance. Had his head not briefly turned her way when she started to speak, she’d question if he even heard her at all.

A large gun, likely a rifle from what she could tell, was resting across his lap. His hands weren’t actively gripping it, but something told her he could take aim in the time it took her to breathe her next breath. A variety of handguns and knives were also visible from the holsters adorning his thighs. If he had this many weapons visible, Zara could only imagine how many he had stashed under his tactical vest and heavy boots.

Her green eyes followed where she believed his gaze had drifted. He seemed laser focused on the strip of light just barely visible from under her door as a roar of laughter could be heard from just outside. His hand moved to rest just over the barrel of his gun. The young girl analyzed him for another moment before lowering the textbook, while still keeping it tightly in her hands.

“Will you at least tell me why you’re here?” There was a hint of desperation in her voice, one that vocalized all of the fear she had been trying to hide. She was met with more silence, which quickly became deafening to her. She was afraid to make a move to get his attention again, naturally unsure of how he would react. Yet, at the same time she couldn’t relax, not with him in her space.

After another few moments of no response, she allowed herself to consider the possibility that he wasn’t actually there. She had just been through something horribly traumatic and it was entirely possible that this was her brain's way of coping with the stress and fear. That it had conjured some masked figure to sit at her bedroom door and keep all the bad away.

She knew how best to test her theory, but she recognized the risk that came with it as she picked up a neon pink highlighter that she had been using earlier that night. She gripped it for a moment while weighing her options, throwing it across the room only seconds later. She didn’t put too much force behind it, hoping that if it gently came into contact, he’d be less likely to be angry. The consideration meant very little as the marker passed straight through the man and knocked against the wall before falling to the floor. She watched as it rolled across the floor and disappeared underneath her nearby dresser, a bittersweet feeling washing over her. On one hand, he wasn’t real and couldn’t hurt her. On the other, she was truly alone and definitely going crazy.

“This is fine,” Zara tried to reassure herself with very little luck.

She was pulled back from her thoughts as Bucky called her name for the third time, snapping her back to reality. Their eyes connected for a moment as she attempted to ground herself again, focusing on the small changes between how he was now versus then.

He had since lost the mask and goggles, she remembered him removing them a month or so after he first appeared. His current casual attire contrasted starkly with the hard kevlar of the tactical vest she first met him in. His features were more at ease now, no longer reflecting the fear that she could only compare to an animal in captivity. While she wasn’t fond of the comparison, following what she had learned of the real James Barnes, it wasn’t entirely far off.

As if the world was reading her mind, she faintly heard the voice of the local news anchor from the living room directly below her bedroom. Her features scrunched as she focused in on hearing the report, only catching snippets here and there. The words explosion and Sokovia Accords were most of what she could make out along with what she could’ve sworn was the suspect’s name, James Buchanan Barnes.

Before Zara could even question it further, she found herself racing down the main staircase of their suburban home, sock clad feet skidding to a halt on the polished dark oak flooring. Her eyes widened as she took in the security camera footage that was believed to place Bucky near the scene of the crime. Despite having no real proof, something deep within her gut screamed that it wasn’t true. She knew him, maybe not the real version, but he’d never do that.

Imaginary Bucky followed her into the living room a minute later, his pace slow and relaxed in comparison as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Being held responsible for the most recent atrocity was honestly just beginning to feel like the average Tuesday to him. More than anything, it was Zara’s reaction that took him the most by surprise. Her unwavering faith and loyalty was unexpected and as he believed, undeserved.

He had committed unspeakable acts over the years and this was likely far from the worst he was accused of. Sure, they had grown close in the two years since he first appeared and he imagined that made it easier for her to block out the rest of the stories, since she knew at least some version of the person in question.

Zara was good, in every sense of the word. Of course she had flaws, but who didn’t, especially at sixteen. But he saw the way that she looked at the world with love and curiosity despite the violence and violations she had experienced. It was a strength of character that he truly wished he could grow to embody. Bucky couldn’t help but find it funny that he was left looking up to a teenager who hadn’t even passed her driver’s test yet; but she honestly had more morals and heart than most of the adults he had met in his life. All of those facts being true is what made her belief in his innocence all the more confusing.

His eyes fell to her father, Gabriel, as he sat on the couch to take in the evening news. The man’s head shook in what seemed to be disappointment, or maybe it was anger, Bucky honestly couldn’t be sure anymore. They had never spoken, as Bucky’s intangible form made communication with anyone other than Zara impossible, but he knew Gabriel was a black and white kind of person. He couldn’t help but accept that to anyone who didn’t know him, the evidence would be damning.

“They need to just put him down while they have the chance,” Gabriel scoffed, speaking to no one in particular while switching the flatscreen off before they could finish the broadcast.

“He’s not a wild animal to be euthanized.” Zara’s expression twisted in disgust at her father’s casual nature. “He’s a human being. If he's guilty, and that’s a really big if with how blurry that security footage is, he deserves a trial just like anyone else!”

Gabe turned to look over the back of the couch, clearly displeased that she would defend the man. “I’m in no mood to debate with you, Ziarah.” He rose from his seat and dropped the remote onto the foot stool before leaving towards his study.

Zara watched him leave, her eye practically twitching with each step he took. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, to make him see that there were likely more sides to the story than they were seeing but she knew that it was useless. Her father rarely took her opinions or beliefs to heart on things that actually mattered to him, a topic like this would truly be a lost cause.

She looked up at Bucky as he shook his head lightly, letting her tension fade away as she accepted that it was pointless. “It’s okay, Zar,” Bucky assured, his small smile wiping away any lingering doubts she had. “There are more important battles to pick with him. This isn’t a hill worth dying on.”

Zara would’ve liked to argue that defending her friend was more than a worthy cause but she nodded nonetheless.

“How about we go find your mom. I bet she’s already working on the cake for your graduation and knowing you, you can convince her to let you lick the spoon.” His tone was playful as he coaxed her into motion, the promise of sweets and a friendly face luring her into the kitchen behind him.

Hanna was busy mixing away the different batters she would need for the next tier, the sweet aroma of baked goods filling the air. She hummed lightly as she worked, creating her own personal mix of her favorite 80’s songs together in a unique medley. Her green eyes moved to the doorway as she heard Zara walk in, a bright smile overtook her features as she set down her mixing bowl.

“There’s my little scholar,” she praised, moving around the kitchen island to take her daughter into her arms. Her warm embrace was a welcomed escape as Zara melted.

“Momma,” Zara grumbled as her mother placed a series of kisses on her forehead. “I thought you stopped doing that since I was a baby.” While Zara whined, deep down she always loved her mother’s open displays of affection. Not that she was willing to admit it.

“That’s the beauty of you always being my baby. You’re never too old for me to embarrass you. Just be grateful that I’ve opted to do it now instead of at your party.” The woman grinned away as she moved back to her work.

Zara honestly couldn’t argue with the logic as she found a seat on one of the tall bar stools. She quickly lost herself in the pleasant conversion with her mother, happily opting to clean the excess batter and frosting off of the bowls and mixing spoons like the helpful child she was. Imaginary Bucky sat quietly at the kitchen table, watching the women as they fell into the usual banter and discussion. After they finished her conversation she quickly grabbed a snack and made her way towards the door.

“I believe you’re forgetting something,” Hanna reminded, sending Zara a knowing look.

She huffed lightly before turning on her heels to grab her blood testing and insulin kit, waving it at her mother knowingly. She quickly turned back around and left the kitchen, making her way back upstairs.

Bucky didn’t hesitate to follow after her, stopping only when he saw Zara staring in her old room, which now housed her older brother Daniel. He could practically see the wheels turning in her mind as she ran over the events that more often than not had her scurrying past said room without acknowledging it. It was easier to just pretend it didn’t exist.

A few more moments passed before Zara pulled herself back from the darker parts of her mind, focusing in on everything else in her life that was good and worth celebrating. She had known pain and a time in her life where she often considered if it would’ve been easier to just fade away, but she had made it through to the other side. She had a lot going for her now and that was enough to push her feet forward again.

Chapter 2

[isis-astarte-diana]

Milk and Honey: Day 1

Day 1 ‖ Day 2 ‖ Day 3

Summary: “I can’t keep a houseplant alive, never mind a Time Lord.” You aren’t thrilled when the Doctor asks you to observe a wounded Missy while she heals, but in close quarters you see a side of her you’d never expected.

Warnings: Mentions of injury, blood and gore, but nothing too graphic. Sexual tension and a teeny tiny bit of non-sexual nudity. Missy is her own warning (I’m going to start using an acronym for this because it comes up far too much). SFW. Very, very soft.

Word Count: 2820

NB: This ran away from me so badly, so it will be continued! I read the whole Wiki page on Gallifreyan physiology for this. They really do have orange blood, and they really can’t take aspirin. I also took the liberty of throwing in the “only one bed” trope and making it gay.

“I don’t even know first aid.”

The Doctor scoffs, dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “Wouldn’t help much anyway. Very different anatomy.”

“Doctor, I’m serious. My Nintendogs all ran away from neglect. Every Tamagotchi I’ve ever had has starved to death. I can’t keep a houseplant alive, never mind a Time Lord.”

“Time Lords are easier. They tell you when they need feeding. Look,” he reaches out to touch your arm, his voice lowering. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t need to. I can’t monitor the vault all day while I’m working, and somebody has to keep watch while she recovers. Bill doesn’t have her own place and Nardole is... Nardole. She doesn’t need medical care; she’ll heal on her own in a few days. She just needs observation.”

You cross your arms tightly and throw a glance at the closed bathroom door. “Observation while she rips my throat out?”

“Don’t be like that. Missy gets on with you. Besides which, she’s in no condition to cause trouble.”

“Okay, see, that?” You point an accusatory finger at his chest, close to yours where you stand in the narrow hallway of your flat. “That sounds far too much like tempting fate.” He takes your hand in both of his. The pleading look on his face makes you soften. “What happened to her, anyway?”

“Ah. Silurians, apparently. Stabbed in the back. They fight dirty.” He chuckles. “So does she.”

“Are you sure she doesn’t need stitches, or anything?”

“No need; it’ll take care of itself. Temporal platelets. Ad-hoc regeneration.” Sensing your confusion, he explains, “surface wounds heal quickly. It’s probably already scabbed over. It’s the internal damage that takes time.”

“I just don’t know if I’m the right person to do this.”

“You are.” It’s heavy with sincerity. “There’s nobody else in the universe that I would trust.”

You scoff. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“Of course it will.” He grins and gives your hand one final squeeze before dropping it. “I’ll come and check in on you both tomorrow, alright? I’ll drop some things off for her.”

“Yeah, alright.”

He’s halfway out the door when he pauses and looks back over his shoulder. “Oh, don’t give her any aspirin. Incompatible with Gallifreyan physiology. It works like rat poison.”

“Duly noted.”

+++++

You’ve been standing outside the bathroom door for the best part of two minutes now, trying to decide whether or not to make your presence known.

Inside, over the sound of the bath running, you can hear Missy swearing. She’s always had a more colourful taste in language than the Doctor, but this is something new. There are choice words that you recognise and strange sounds you can only assume to be Gallifreyan expletives, all strung together in a near-constant stream of profanity.

You jump back when there’s a loud thud against the door. It sounds like she’s slammed her hand into it. Already wincing in anticipation, you reach out and knock tentatively.

“Missy?” Your voice is apologetic. “You okay?”

Silence. The door cracks open just enough for you to see her face, still stained with dry blood. Her eyes are red and puffy.

“Could you give me a hand?” She winces like it pains her to ask. “Please.”

You think it might be the first time you’ve heard her say that.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. What- what do you need?”

“I can’t- I’m having trouble with my laces.” A half-smile as she tries to claw back the power she’s unused to handing over. “On account of the whopping great stab wound, and whatnot.”

“Yeah, those can be inconvenient.”

She pushes the door wider and lets you into the bathroom. Your eyes are drawn to the pile of white and violet on the floor, her discarded skirt and blouse. Her cameo brooch is balanced on the sink. Its ivory face is obscured with smears of orange.

“I just need somebody to loosen them,” she continues, turning to show you her back, mercifully ignoring the way your gaze flits about the room and tries to avoid settling on her. “Unfortunately I’m very good at tying knots.”

For some reason, that makes your mouth go dry.

“I’ll do my best.”

She’s facing away from you, towards the mirror. Her hair falls down over one shoulder, already brushed conveniently out of your way. The chemise she wears is thin, pale linen, stiff and brown in places with dried blood, pinned in place beneath the corset she can’t remove herself. It curves under her bust and across her back.

From here, you can see how the knife must have entered between the laces in the small of her back, caking them with blood. The tight bow is undamaged. You begin to pick it apart, trying not to touch her, as much in modesty as for fear of aggravating the injury.

“Let me know if I hurt you.”

“Hmm.” She grips the sink, angling her body to give you better access. Drawing your bottom lip between your teeth, you focus on the knots slowly giving beneath your fingers, trying in vain to ignore her closeness and the way her hips are just barely touching your own.

You’re glad of the cacophony of rushing water from the tap. The pressure of your pulse in your throat is almost painful. Sweat beads at your temples. Steam. It’s a hot room. That’s all.

“Okay.” The laces fall slack in your hands, the bow finally coming apart. “Just- loosen them?”

“Please.” There it is again.

“This might- you know-”

“I know.”

Her hands tighten on the sink when you hook one finger beneath the first row of laces above her waist and tug, drawing slack from the loose ends, releasing some of the tension. When she doesn’t make any sound of protest, you move higher up and repeat the motion. It’s not until the entire top half of the corset is loosened that she lets out a slow, shallow breath you hadn’t realised she was holding, shifting her position.

“Okay?”

“Fine.” It comes out short. She makes an effort to soften her voice. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll carry on.”

You know that the other side will be worse. The wound is just lower than where the bow had been, and the stiff garment has probably held it closed quite effectively. Removing it is unlikely to help the pain.

Sure enough, when you pull on the first lace Missy makes a low noise behind her teeth. She’s white-knuckled on the edge of the sink, threatening to crack the cheap porcelain. You imagine explaining that to the landlord and try to hide an inappropriate smile.

“Keep going,” she prompts tightly.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

You work as gently as you can, but it’s clear that even the smallest motion is painful. By the time you reach the bottom of the corset, her breathing is ragged and her eyes are screwed shut. You feel profoundly guilty.

“Can you- take it off, or should I?”

“Could you?” She gestures to her stomach and quickly steadies herself again. “Clasps are at the front.”

“Sure.”

Swallowing thickly, you move closer to reach around her waist. The backs of her thighs press against you from the position. When your hands land on her stomach, gripping the starched material at the bottom, you can feel her four-beat pulse through the panels. Your fingers are trembling.

The hooks and eyes slide apart with a chorus of metallic clicks, leaving just the top fastenings still holding. She grunts, twitching, pushing back against you. She’s warm.

“Almost done.” It’s as much for your benefit as hers. You follow the material upwards, drawing back as if burned when the fabric of her chemise brushes your fingers, and release the final two clasps. She lets out a heavy exhale in relief, glancing up from the sink, and for a long moment she catches your eye in the mirror. Her features are strained from the ordeal, messy hair in her face, lips parted as she catches her breath. You look awestruck.

“Thank you,” she murmurs into the reflection.

You pull back too quickly, dropping the corset to the floor with her other clothes and reaching over awkwardly to turn the tap off. The bath is full.

“I’ll put you some clothes ready,” you say hurriedly, nearly tripping on the pile of laundry in your haste to leave the room. “Just shout if you need anything else.”

Back in the kitchen, you wash the orange-brown stains of Missy’s blood from your hands. When you drag them harshly down your face, trying to steady yourself with a splash of cold water, they smell like pennies.

+++++

“Don’t laugh.”

“Jesus!” You nearly jump out of your skin, dropping the butter knife you’re holding and throwing a hand up to your pounding heart. “Don’t you make any noise when you walk?”

“Not if I can help it. Which I can.” Missy pauses. “What are you doing?”

“Making toast. Pretty standard human stuff. Breakfast? Toast. Flu? Toast. Tonsils out? Toast. Mortally wounded?” You shrug. “Toast.”

“I’m not mortally wounded,” she snaps. “You have to be mortal for that. I’m temporarily, slightly incapacitated.”

“Oh, of course,” you concede, looking back at her over your shoulder. “Luckily, there’s toast for-”

Your voice catches in your throat.

She’s obviously found the clothes you set out for her; an oversized tee shirt that swamps her frame and a pair of pyjama trousers. Her dark hair falls in a thick, wet braid. With her face clean you can see for the first time where she’s injured.

There’s a graze on her cheek, spanning across her nose, pink and sore-looking. Her bottom lip is swollen and split on the same side. A long, dark scab bisects the patch of rough skin, reaching from her jaw up towards her eye. It looks like her face has been slammed into the ground repeatedly.

You’ve never really seen her without her trademark boots and careful tailoring. She’s shorter than you imagined. There’s a soft, feminine curve to her stomach that’s usually concealed by the corset, and a faint musculature to her biceps.

“You look-”

“Don’t,” she cuts you off sharply. “Don’t say it. Let’s not add insult to injury.”

“I was going to say that you look nice.”

“Oh.” Her face softens. Some of the tightness leaves her brow. “Nice is fine. You can say that.”

It’s true, but the unsaid hangs heavily between you. She looks human. Hurt and freshly showered, standing in your kitchen in a pair of your pyjamas and with fuzzy striped socks on her feet, she looks so... soft. Touchable. Loveable.

Wait, what? Where did that come from?

The toaster pops and you turn to it, infinitely grateful for the distraction. You can feel her eyes on the back of your neck.

“Anything I can do?”

“No, I’m good.” The words come out too quickly. You throw her a weak smile. “I’ve got this. Thank you. You sit down.”

“Matron knows best.”

Her fingers brush over your elbow as she turns to leave. It could be a thank you. It’s hard to say.

+++++

You’ve been to other planets. You’ve travelled in time. You’ve seen cyborgs, and dinosaurs, and aliens of every description; but nothing has ever felt more bizarre than sitting on your sofa beside Missy, having tea and toast, watching a soap opera on a Thursday evening.

She’s leaning against an armrest, two pillows propped behind her back, keeping her weight off the healing wound. Her bright eyes are fixed on the television. She’d actually requested this programme, finding the endless human conflicts relentlessly amusing.

“He’s buried under the allotment.”

"Who is? The brother?”

“Definitely.” She sips from one of your prized novelty mugs. It’s purple and shaped like a cartoon octopus. “It was his wife. She poisoned him.”

“It’s always poison when it’s a woman.” You munch at your toast. “You know, most poisoners are men.”

“Most murderers are men, love.” The endearment nearly makes you choke. “You’re privileged enough to be sitting next to one of the minority.”

“Girl power,” you mutter around a mouthful of crumbs. She laughs. There’s something warm and genuine about it that makes your heart clench. You finish eating in companionable silence, watching as Missy’s prediction is revealed to be true just before the credits roll. 

“Told you.” She leans in to set her empty plate down on the coffee table on top of yours. As she moves, she winces and lets out a soft sound of discomfort. One hand reaches back to press against the injury. You frown.

“How’s it feeling?”

“Quite a lot like I was stabbed, actually.” She rubs her forehead. “I think I need to do that thing. What’s it called? Like a healing coma, but less.” Glancing sideways at your furrowed brow, she prompts, “you know. You do it all the time. Eight hours a week, or something.”

"Sleep?”

“Sleep! That’s the one. Clever girl.” You can’t supress a shiver at the way she rolls the ‘r’. “Been a while since I’ve done that.”

“That would explain a lot.” You move the dishes, leaving them for the morning. “Just let me get changed and grab a blanket. You can take the bed.”

“Oh, no need.” She waves you away. “I’m perfectly fine here. Think I was in the desert, last time, so this is a step up.”

“There’s no way I’m leaving you to sleep on a sofa when you’re recovering from a stab wound, Missy, Gallifreyan constitution or not. Besides which, this is a particularly bad one to spend the night on. Believe me, I speak from experience. The desert may actually be preferable.”

“I’m not throwing you out of your own bed,” she snaps, so harshly that it makes you flinch. “I’m enough of a nuisance as it is.”

Here we go.

Wounded pride is something you’ve dealt with from the Doctor time innumerable, but you’ve never had to address it with Missy before. You realise how difficult it must have been for her to ask for your help with the corset and wonder how much pain she’d put herself through trying to do it alone. For the first time, you imagine the conversation she must have had with the Doctor before he brought her here. How long did she fight him on it? How long did she insist that she could cope on her own in the vault? You’d assumed that he wanted to keep her supervised in case the injury didn’t heal well, but maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe he just didn’t want her to be alone.

“We could share.”

She lifts her head, setting those ancient eyes on you. “Share?”

“Share the bed. It’s big enough. No point in one of us being uncomfortable if we don’t have to be. Bill and I share when she comes over.” You feel like you’re babbling. This may be the worst idea you’ve ever had.

“Do you?”

“Course we do. Friends do that.”

Friends. She blinks a few times.

“Well then. When in Rome, as they say.” She rises unsteadily to her feet, one hand braced on the arm of the sofa. “Although apparently, that doesn’t mean that you can crucify someone for stealing a mule. The Doctor was so cross with me that weekend.”

+++++

“You’re going to fall off the bed.”

Missy’s voice is muffled by the pillow jammed awkwardly under her cheek. She’s lying on her stomach, arms under her head, her face twisted towards you so that she isn’t leaning on the injured side.

You wince at having been caught out. You’re as close to the edge as it’s possible to be, balanced uncomfortably on your side with your back to her. Even so, you can feel her behind you; she has no such qualms about taking up space.

“I’m not contagious, you know.” In her exhausted state - she’s been half-asleep since her head hit the pillow - she actually sounds insulted. “There’s no epidemic of knife wounds.”

“Please don’t jinx it.”

She snorts. Suitably chagrined, you squirm back towards the middle of the bed, settling into your usual sleeping position. You still make sure to keep your face turned away. There’s an odd feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach. You can’t shake the idea that if you roll over and look at her face, the cuts and grazes there cast in sharp relief by the thin light of the bedside lamp, something terrible will happen.

You reach for the switch. “Light off?”

Her leg brushes against yours, warm even through the pyjamas, and your heart skips a beat. “Leave it on?” She sounds so small in the dark. You pause for a second before tucking your arm back under the duvet.

“Of course.” It sounds rough. You clear your throat. “Goodnight, Missy.”

“Night,” she murmurs back, already thick and drowsy.

Sleep comes easy to you both.

[amydancepants-peralta]

Okay hi! Don’t mind me just jumping back onto my AU wagon with a Bodyguard!Jake fic inspired by The West Wing that absolutely nobody asked for but I couldn’t help but write ... 😎🚨 anyway it’s called let down your guard and you can find it on under the cut or on ao3! 

let down your guard 

chapter one: there’s so much that you just don’t see 

There are a collection of nuclei in the temporal lobe of the brain known as the amygdala, that are best known for their role in sparking the fight or flight reaction in most people when met with emotions like fear.  Amy had read about it once, in a medical journal that she’d found at Rosa’s house (it’s presence on her coffee table, to this day, remains unexplained).  According to the article; once the amygdala sparks, your brain’s ability to retain memory increases, and in hindsight can make a patch of time feel as though it has stretched on forever.

As she stands in the world’s slowest elevator at Medstar Washington Hospital this evening, with her heart smashing against her ribcage and her toes tapping against the faded linoleum floor; Amy is certain that her amygdala has kicked into overdrive.  

Panicking, her frantic mind keeps bouncing around between the urges to run like hell and stay until the bitter end, and it definitely isn’t like Amy because she’s never run away from a fight, but maybe there’s a part of her that already knows that what could happen next has the potential to change everything. 

Her eyes remain glued to the squares inset along the top of the car, their white laminate long since turned a faded yellow; the number eleven scratched out almost to the point of non-existence.  She counts, a slow progression in her head that tries it’s very best at blocking out the thoughts racing around - the thoughts that keep telling her that she might have just lost the greatest thing to happen to her before it could ever really happen - and she can’t bear to look at her watch right now, but she’s positive that three minutes pass before the dim light behind the number four decides to amble it’s way towards five.  

“Shots were fired in a store on 14th Street,” was the message she’d received, a mere half an hour ago (also, approximately the time she’d gotten on this damn elevator).  Boyle’s pale face, and a choked out number.  “Room 9554.”  The rest is muddled - she knows she started running; remembers hearing Terry call out to her departing figure, and she’s pretty sure her purse is somewhere back at the theatre lobby - but there was a force stronger than anything she can label that was pulling her to the hospital, and in that moment Amy had absolutely no intention of stopping.  

The squares for six and seven remains mute yet eight comes to life, and the knots in her stomach begin to clench even tighter.  There’s a mantra that’s been playing in the back of her mind - from the very moment she’d stepped into the lobby and saw Charles make a beeline in her direction - and it takes over any other rational thought as finally level nine lights up, and the doors to her metallic prison slide open.  Please let him be okay.  Please let him be okay.

I don’t know what I’ll do, if Jake is not okay.

The sterility of the ward burns her nostrils and the clack of her heels sound vaguely like the rattling snare drums at the last inauguration, interrupting the otherwise calm environment of the floor as the numbered plaques beside each room begin to blur.  She dodges past nurses, doctors, and patients alike; and she can tell that they recognise her face (which means there’s a very good chance that this will be in the paper tomorrow), but it doesn’t matter that they know her, it doesn’t matter if the press find out about this - nothing else matters if he is not okay - and then finally, FINALLY, the numbers 9544 are before her.  

Her fingers feel limp, but somehow she manages to grip the doorknob and turn - pushing her weight against the wood as though somehow it is the reason she hasn’t been able to get here earlier - and then suddenly the only sound Amy hears is the frenzied heaving of her own breath.

The room is empty, save for a bed in the middle - stripped clean and returned to it’s regular scrutiny from the harsh fluorescent buzzing above.  A clipboard cleared of any history hangs lax from its base, and on the very edge of the mattress sits a leather jacket; the same jacket that had once hung on the back of her apartment door … and the same jacket that Amy’s fingers had gripped the edge of a mere three hours before.  

She feels her stomach drop to her feet, glued to position as her mind moves into overdrive, eyes trained solely on the scene before her as the realisation hits.  

Jake was not okay.  And nothing was ever going to be the same again.    

*

Five months earlier … 

“On to other news.  We can confirm that there has been a surge in counterfeit notes across the nation, with several states reporting projections of significant economic loss.”

Amy pauses as the small crowd in front of her transform into a cacophony of sound, pen-clenched fingers and miniature recorders thrusting towards the ceiling in desperate attempts to get her attention and break their version of the story.  Blinking, she gives them her best I’m not done yet look, and after a few beats the reporters in front of her fall silent.

“President Holt has already been in discussion with the Secret Service, and are confident that the lead they are running on will come to fruition.”

From the back, Matthews from The Sun raises his hand, and Amy gives a quick nod.  “You said there were several states reporting loss.  Do we have an estimation?”

“Presently, the calculations are upwards of 3 million dollars, which - ” she emphasises, as the sea of hands raise once again, “is why there are teams working around the clock to stop the fraudulent currency from getting into circulation.  In the meantime, The White House has released an image of the forged notes,” nodding to her left, Amy waits for the screen beside her to light up, “and the differences are clearly distinguishable.”

The room falls quiet as the reporters all turn their attention to the image, and Amy watches as they all slowly turn back to her with varying expressions of confusion.  Suppressing a sigh, she uses the remote in her hand to zoom in on the imitation of the offical seal, the same one that is on every U.S. dollar bill, and undoubtedly in the pocket or purse of every single person here.  Not a day goes by that she doesn’t wish that Latin would finally wake up from its long nap (or it’s conquiescamus, as it were).  “Pluribus.  There are two Rs.”  She waits a beat, and continues in a dry tone.  “There should only be one.”

To her right, Ginns from The Examiner clears his throat; glancing up at Amy to ensure he has her attention before flipping open his notebook.  The Chicago-born columnist was unashamed in his opinion - as were his loyal followers - and his coverage of Holt’s campaign had leant towards unfavourable.  With a tight smile, Amy swallows the urge to scream at whatever was about to come next.  “Yeah, so - with regards to the Secret Service.  After his inauguration, President Holt elected a new head of the Presidential Detail, a .. ” pausing, Ginns refers to his notes, creasing his brow.   “Rosa Dye-az.”  

Pushing her tongue against the back of her teeth, Amy wills herself not to interrupt and correct Ginns’ pronunciation, waiting for some kind of sign of potential redemption.  Instead, he leans forward and continues.  

“Apart from what has already been published, her history and previous credentials appear to be incredibly difficult to correlate.  Given her obvious reluctance to divulge anything to the American public, and the fact that this role has never been held by a female prior to today, what reassurance can we the people have that Miss Dye-az was the best choice?”

Feeling her back teeth begin to grind together, Amy takes a measured breath before fixing Ginns with a steely gaze.  Questions such as these have been a common denominator since Holt was sworn in over a month ago, particularly due to choosing Olivia Crawford as his VP; and while expected, the overwhelmingly misogynistic responses were beginning to wear thin.

“I can assure you, Mr Ginns, that President Holt’s vetting process for all roles was incredibly thorough - and Ms Dee-az,”  she pauses, raising a singular brow, “remained incredibly co-operative throughout.  We cannot bow to the curiosities of the general public on every request for detail, or we’d never stop.  After all, the public continues to let you write for one of D.C’s most prolific news journals without knowing the details of your Christmas Card list, and somehow the world continues to spin.”

Ginns’ responding eye roll is poorly concealed, and Amy’s fingernails begin to dig into the edge of her podium.  “Furthermore, I would suggest that despite Ms Diaz having a uterus, the bar set by her predecessors will continue to ascend.  One could even argue that the lack of … other certain parts of the human anatomy will only assist in keeping a clear head in the most intense of situations.”

The reporter shifts uncomfortably in his seat, blessedly silent in his rebuttal, and Amy directs the end of her statement towards the rest of the crowd.  “President Holt and his administration are aware that a small percentage of the public lack confidence in the roles he has filled.  Criticism is necessary, and welcome.  But unmerited accusations regarding a person’s ability based entirely on their sex is where he draws the line.”  Slamming the file in front of her closed, Amy takes a step back before leaning closer to the microphone, delivering her final line.  “That concludes the presidential briefing for today.  Thank you.”

Terry hovers by the doorway as Amy exits, his leather yoked suspenders proudly displaying the commemorative pin gifted to him upon being sworn in as the president’s Chief of Staff, and he cocks his head towards her as they move swiftly down the corridor towards Amy’s office.  “Interesting briefing you held there, Santiago.”

“You mis-pronounced psychotic, Ter-bear,” interjects Gina as she passes them both, head already bowed down to her cellphone before either can respond.  

Already feeling defensive, Amy shakes her head quickly, raising one hand to gesture at the room she’d just departed.  “We’ve been fielding commentary like that since the early days of the campaign, Terry.  At some point, we just need to point out the baselessness of their remarks, and remind them that there simply isn’t a place for it in modern society.”

Raising his hands in surrender, Terry shrugs.  “Don’t get me wrong.  Terry hates closed minded attitudes.  As do the rest of the cabinet.  I just find it fascinating to watch how close our new Press Secretary came to literally biting a reporter’s head off.”

“Ugh.  I’m fairly certain it would just pop like a balloon.  Full of hot air and not much else.”

Nodding, Terry points in the direction of Amy’s office.  “You might be onto something there.  Heads up, though - I saw Diaz making a beeline to your office just as you were wrapping things up.”  He pauses, shoving his hands into his pockets while giving her the side-eye.  “Terry wishes you luck.”

Smiling at an intern as they hand her an updated schedule, Amy casts a quick glance down the hallway and grimaces.  “Well, at least she hasn’t gone straight to grinding her axe.” 

“I didn’t see both hands, but let’s assume you’re right.”

Throwing Terry an exasperated glance, Amy bids him farewell before moving towards her office, deliberately taking on a confident stride as she squares her shoulders in preparation for confrontation.  

With her jet black curly hair and the zero fucks aura surrounding her, most members of the team had learned on their own that Special Agent Rosa Diaz was not somebody to be trifled with.  Not meeting until the last couple of months of Holt’s campaign, Amy had spent the first few weeks largely being ignored by Diaz - until one afternoon, when a particularly vocal protester tried to pull Amy in for a debate, only to be met by Rosa’s steely glare and the unspoken promise of worse to come.  She’d muttered, on their way back to the car, that they needed to have each other backs; and over time their working relationship had grown into a something closer to friendship.  

(A friend that occasionally intimidates you with their intensity, but a friend all the same.)

With her trademark leather jacket covering her like a second skin Rosa is easy to point out in the busy walkway, but it’s the two men standing with her that captures Amy’s attention as she draws near.  One was tall with a distinctive profile; the other slightly shorter, and sporting a hairstyle that looked like it could survive a hurricane.  Although the taller one wore shades, Amy could tell that both of them were casing their environment, taking in their surroundings with a stern exterior that gave away exactly who they were.  

These men were Secret Service, and for some reason they were standing outside her office door.

Her curiosity overshadowing the possibility that she may need to eat a slice of humble pie, Amy thrusts the hand still holding the schedule towards the two men as she passes Rosa, giving them her best Suspicious Face.

“Who are those guys?”

“Good morning to you too, Santiago.”  Rosa’s dark eyes follow Amy’s path around to her desk, tilting her chin upwards after a beat.  “My uterus thanks you for it’s shout-out this morning.”

“Ugh, okay.”  Returning her planner to it’s designated top-left-corner position, Amy feels her shoulders drop as she throws an apologetic look at the woman in front of her.  “I know that wasn’t my best work.  But the guy was being a jerk, and I was 100% done with the conversation.”

“No, really.  It’s fine.”  Rosa’s voice takes on no other inflection to demonstrate her approval, but Amy learned a long time ago not to read into her monotone.  “My uterus is a bad-ass.  Definitely tries to punch me from the inside out at least once a month.”  She smirks, a sight familiar to only a select few, and raises one eyebrow.  “Somehow, I still manage to keep the President and all his flunkies alive.  It really is shocking.”

Without invitation, the mystery men have followed Amy into her office, hovering along the outskirts of the room while she checks her messages, listening with half an ear as Rosa continues to go into alarming detail on how she’d personally like to deal with reporters like Ginns.  It’s as the taller of the two reaches out to investigate an award propped up on her well-stocked shelf that Amy finally looks up, dropping the slips of paper to the desk and throwing Rosa an exasperated look.  “Seriously, who are these guys?  And why are they in my office?”

 “Oh, right.  About that.  Amy, this is Special Agent Peralta,” Rosa pauses, thrusting her thumb towards the taller guard in shades, “and this guy is Special Agent Boyle.”  Clearing her throat, she fixes Amy with her typical Rosa’s Way Or The Highway look.  “They’re going to be your new security detail.”

A grinning Agent Peralta throws a tiny wave in Amy’s direction, and she lets out a petulant huff, planting her hands on the empty section of her desk.  “Rosa, we’ve talked about this.  I’m a visible target.  I go out there every other day and announce policies and updates and god knows what else.  It’s inevitable that I end up with a few snarky emails every now and then.  People need a face to complain to, and this guy’s obviously chosen me.”

“Sorry,” Rosa replies, in a tone that suggests that she’s not sorry at all.  “President’s orders.”

Damn it.  With her next refutation dying in her throat, Amy folds her arms over her chest, studying her friend’s expression carefully.  There was a good chance that Rosa was just saying it was presidential orders, knowing that Amy would be unable to resist any directive that came from her superior.  But there was equally enough chance that the request had come from higher up, and refusal of the service would most definitely land her in hot water.  

In other words, Rosa had Amy exactly where she wanted her, and there was not a darn thing she could do about it.  

“Just seems like a lot for a bunch of stupid emails,”  Amy mutters, dropping down into her seat, defeated.  With a furrowed brow, Agent Boyle looks over at Rosa; but before Amy can question it, Rosa perches herself along the edge of the couch.  

“So, Peralta and Boyle will work on opposite shifts and shadow you on your day to day operations.  Additional detail has already been arranged for your home address, and all correspondence will now be cleared through us.”

“I’m also going to need the contact information for any recent or previous relationships you may have had, ma’am,” pipes up Peralta from Amy’s left, breaking out into another grin when she looks over at him.  “Gotta weed this creep out, and you’d be surprised how often they end up being much closer to home than expected."

Blinking, Amy turns back to Rosa, the extent of her security detail only now sinking in.  “A constant shadow and surveillance on my apartment?  Seriously, Rosa … this is all coming from Holt?  Can’t I just change my email address or something?”

A silence falls quickly over her office, and Amy makes special effort this time to take note of the not-so-secret looks the two agents gave each other.  A louder protest is bubbling up through her chest when Rosa stands, her sharply manicured fingers holding a document folder Amy hadn’t noticed until now, and walks towards her.  

The heavy thud of Rosa’s booted footsteps come to a stop at the side of Amy’s desk and she places the file in front of her, leaning in slightly as the folder’s contents become clear.

Photographs.  Stacks of photographs, all of Amy, and all from various parts of her very busy week.  Her heart begins to climb its way up to the base of her throat as the images begin to blur, one shot after the other of an unaware woman as she lunches with friends, visits the gym, drives to her brother’s house and - oh god - even gets changed at home near what she’d always considered to be a relatively protective curtain.  

Leaning in, Rosa’s voice drops to a whisper.  “The boys haven’t seen those last ones, but they know they exist.”  She straightens, returning to her regular volume.  “All of these were on a USB that was delivered to us from an unconfirmed address, and arrived early this morning.  Peralta and Boyle have been pulled in to oversee the operation, and I will monitor from afar.  The detail starts from now, and ends once this Mr Anonymous is behind bars.  Is everyone clear?”

Numb, Amy nods without really understanding, the cotton of her tailored blazer feeling inadequate underneath her fingernails as she pulls the two sides closer together.  She feels foolish for disregarding the warning signs for so long, confused as to how out of all people, she is the one who’s become a target; terrified because if these photographs are anything to go by, she is being hunted … for god only knows what.    

A knot begins to churn in her stomach, and there’s a very good chance that she’s about to be sick.    

“Excuse me, Ms Diaz?”  Ramirez, Terry’s secretary, pops his head around the doorframe, startling Amy out of her spiralling thoughts.  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed in the oval office.”

“Alright, I’ve gotta go, the Powers That Be have spoken.”  Rosa mumbles, scooping up the photographs on Amy’s desk and holding onto the file with her vice-like grip.  Noticing the look on Amy’s face, she stops short of her exit from the room, tipping her head towards the two men as they hover by the bookshelf.  “Listen.  I’ve put two of my best men on this case.  Peralta especially, I’ve known since our days at the academy.  They’re not going to rest until we’ve caught the bad guy, and neither will I.  Got it?”

Amy gives her friend a tentative smile, taking her message to heart.  If there was anybody that could shut this mess down, it was Rosa ‘I could kick your ass with my pinky finger’ Diaz.  

With one final glance towards her two agents, Rosa swivels on her heel, leaving Amy’s office in silence.  The sound of one of Amy’s favourite tchotchkes hits the floor, dropping out of Peralta’s fidgeting fingers, and he cringes.  “Yikes.  Sorry about that, it just looked like one that I -”

Jumping out from behind her desk, Amy snatches the item out of the agent’s hands, running the edge of her thumb along it’s familiar curves before carefully returning it to it’s original position.  “Please don’t break my belongings, Peralta.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If I may, Ms Santiago … what Special Agent Diaz told you was correct.  Peralta and I are here to keep you out of harm’s way, and it’s only going to be a matter of time before we catch him in the act.”  Standing to her right, Amy finds herself surprised at the gentleness of Boyle’s tone, and she eyes him curiously before nodding.  

Leaning his weight against one of the lower bookshelves, Peralta slides his sunglasses off, face turning slightly more somber, and Amy blinks in surprise.  “You have our word.”  His eyes were surprisingly warm, a kind of chocolatey brown that seemed to draw Amy in, and her arms fall away from their defensively crossed position across her chest.  

“Alright.  Thank you.  This is just … a lot.”  Her stomach twists again, and even though this time it feels less like she’s about to be sick, Amy really doesn’t want to take any chances.  “If I leave this office, you two are going to follow me, aren’t you?”

“Just around the perimeters of the hallway, Ms Santiago.  And only Peralta - I’m going to stick around and see if I can trace where these emails are coming from.”  

“Consider me your shadow, ma’am.”  Jake grins, and Amy feels an odd mixture of irritation and anticipation run through her.  “And, look.  I can already tell what you’re thinking.”  Pushing his weight off of the bookshelves, he gestures vaguely with his hands.  “You’re thinking this is going to be all longing glances and secret earpiece conversations … me carrying you in my arms as I race you away from the danger, you running out of planes at tarmacs to give me one last kiss goodbye … you know, all the standard bodyguard stuff.”

Rolling her eyes towards the ceiling, Amy feels a knot of tension leave her shoulders, but she’s not quite ready to laugh yet.  “Yes.  You’re right.  That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“Knew it, nailed it.  Well I’m sorry to disappoint you ma’am, but this stuff is nothing like the movies.  It shouldn’t really be any more than a few weeks, just need to catch this weirdo out and let the law take care of the rest.”  He pauses, glancing over at Agent Boyle before continuing.  “Which … will be made all the more faster with your co-operation.  Including the details of people who may have had closer access to you than others.”

Sighing, Amy presses the tip of her index finger against the middle of her brow, a nervous tick that has long since become habit.  This guy really needed to stop calling her ma’am.  “Fine.  Teddy Wells was my last boyfriend, but we broke up several months ago.  I highly doubt that he’s the one you’re looking for.”

“We really need to look into all avenues, Ms. Santiago,”  Agent Boyle interjects, and for the first time Amy notices how the beige colour of his tie is almost a perfect match to his skin tone.  

“Fine.”  Leaning down, she scribbles Teddy’s phone number onto a new post-it, thrusting it in Agent Peralta’s direction.  “See for yourself.  Better yet, invite him out for a drink.  He’s got some real interesting stories, especially about beer.  One could almost say, he’s got ‘the cheers for the beers’, you know?”

(She knows that she’s setting Peralta up for a trap, all too familiar with endless nights listening to Tedford ‘Thrills for the Pils’ Wells.  But there was much too much bravado seeping out of every pore of this guy, and he deserved to suffer - if only just a little.)

“Huh, a beer guy.   Noice.”

Amy stifles her grin, tucking her pen back into the pocket of her blazer as she heads towards the doorway, ignoring the echo of Peralta’s footsteps behind hers.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen … I have a hundred or so meetings to attend.”

“Just one last thing, ma’am.”  Agent Peralta interjects, and Amy turns in time to watch him drop one shoulder in an obvious attempt at Dramatic Effect.  

The edge of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the ridiculous sunglasses that have inexplicably returned to his face despite the sunlight pouring in through the surrounding windows (she thinks, perhaps, entirely for the purpose of his next move) slide down his prominent nose.  “No matter what happens, you’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”

The urge to roll her eyes again is almost unbearable, but she is a professional if nothing else, and so Amy puts on her best smile and nods at the suited man in front of her.  

“Won’t be a problem.”

[italiansteebie]

Heyylo, hope you're doing well! ❤️ This is a Harringrove request, I've seen a lot of fics with angel Billy (wings and the whole scbang) but only ONE :( fic with angel Steve. I think it would suit our boy, don't you? Maybe you can write an angel Steve + Human Billy or Demon Bills? Please and thank you, love your blog! 🥰

Hi!! thank u so much!! i hope this is good, i've only read one angel!steve fic and i don't really know much on the topic! sorry if it's not quite what you're looking for! i hope you like it anyways 💜💜💜💫

An Angels Wings

No one has ever seen Steve Harrington’s wings. It’s no secret that he’s an angel, his mother is an angel as well, and she flaunted her son from an early age before her husband deemed his wings “Un-manly.” When he was young, Steve’s wings were very large, too big for his body, and the resembled that of a hummingbirds, except quite large, and long in wingspan. The stereotype of white-winged angels was true for most, only the purest of angels got graced with wings of color, and Steve’s were magnificent. In picture from when he proudly flaunted his wings, the blue-green and gold speckled beauties were hard to miss.

They had been dating for a year and Billy has never seen Steve’s wings in person. It’s become his goal to make Steve comfortable enough to show off his wings again. There’s only 3 other angels that reside in Hawkins. Their wings are all white, and Billy doesn’t bother to get to know them. He has the most special angel, in his opinion. Billy is lost in thought when Steve comes home from work. “Hey Bill,” Steve greets with a soft smile, and sits next to him on the couch. He grunts softly as he leans back and puts pressure on his wings. He looks over at Billy with kind eyes, “Bill. I need to ask you something.” Billy gives Steve his full attention, “Yeah?”

Steve’s eyes flash fear for half a second, “I need you to help me unbind my wings. Robin noticed blood today and I don’t want to risk infection.” Steve sniffs, teary after the emotional confession. Billy nods his head, willing to support Steve in whatever he needs but he feels guilty for being excited to see Steve’s wings while he’s in pain. Pushing his thoughts away he turns to Steve and helps him take his shirt off, gasping softly when he sees the blood soaked ace wrap. “Doll, I know why you bind, but wouldn’t you feel much better at least sleeping with them out?” Billy asks gently, pulling at the ace wrap. Steve shakes his head and sniffles, “I would, but I’m scared.” “I know, babe. I’m here for you, what ever you need to do. Right now, we need to get you better.”

Steve starts the unwrapping process, slowly taking the elastic bandage away. The color of his wings starts to peak out behind the wrap, and Billy runs his hand over Steve’s shoulders, relaxing him. The last of the bandage falls into Steve’s lap, and his wings are out for Billy to stare in awe and grief. Steve’s once large and full wings are now small and crushed. There’s an unpleasant cracking sound as Steve unfurls his wings all the way, once they’re spread out Billy can see that the color is just as vibrant as they were in his childhood, but they were small, and feeble looking. Billy is shaken out of his trance when Steve speaks, “Can you grab the cream that's on the bathroom counter? On the left side?” Billy gets up without question and grabs the container, its label isn’t in English, it’s not in any language Billy can recognize.

Steve grabs it from his hands, opens it and takes a generous scoop. He reaches to his back and spreads it over the cracked skin as best he can. Billy watches as the cream starts to glow, and the cracked skin begins mending itself, the process is almost beautiful. Watching his lover surrounded in calming purple light as he his healed. “The cream only works in the hands of an angel, the language is an ancient dialect that isn’t spoken by any one except the angels that still live in the original village in The Netherlands.” Steve reveals, “I hope I never have to use it on you,” he says. Billy hushes him and re-assures him that he will never have to.

The process of healing is over and Steve reaches for his bandage and begins to wrap, starting with his chest. “What if,” Billy starts, grabbing Steve’s hand gently to stop him wrapping any further, “What if an hour everyday at home, you leave your wings out?” Steve looks unsure at the idea, but agrees.

Weeks pass by and the hour of free wings turns into 2, and then 5, and then sleeping un wrapped, and then spending weekends free, and so forth. After 6 months and few therapy sessions, attendance requested by Billy, Steve now flaunts his wing proudly again, and uses his angel abilities as much as he needs too. It’s fun for him, he can heat food up without using the microwave, and heal the kids scrapes and bruises. And then, the healing power is not so fun. On one of Steve’s days off, Billy goes into town to buy groceries for dinner. After about an hour Steve gets a frantic call from Max, she’s calling from a landline near Mirkwood, and Billy’s hurt. Neil found him at the grocery store, and Steve come quick, please. I’m scared. Steve drops the phone and runs out the door, he hasn't tried flying in a very long time, but with the adrenaline pumping he forgets his hesitations.

He finds Billy in 30 seconds, and lands haphazardly, asphalt cracks beneath his feet. Max runs over to him, tears steadily streaming down her face, “Please help him, Steve. I don’t know what to do.” Steve runs over to where Billy is propped up against the Camaro, the puddle of blood makes Steve pause for a second, but he shakes the fog from his head. In his haste he forgot the healing cream but he knows he has the power to heal alone. He presses again Billy’s wound, Steve acknowledges it as a stab wound, and presses firmly. The veins in his hand glow light purple, and the golden spots scattered on his wing illuminate with the same color. Steve breaths in through his nose, and pushes his energy through his wings into his hand into Billys side. The wound spasms, and Billy grunts and jumps in pain, “Pretty boy, I don’t know if that’s gonna work. I’m too far...” Steve hushes him, and takes another breath, the light purple moves into a deep blue, and the wound starts to heal. The glow from the action draws a crowd and townsfolk watch in awe as the wound is reversed.

Billy is healed, the wound is gone without a scar, and Steve collapses in fatigue. “Steve? Steve, baby. Wake up,” Billy says, patting his face softly. Steve opens his eyes, and cracks a smile, “There he is. There’s my guardian angel.” Billy says. He leans in to kiss Steve once the crowd has dispersed and just Max is left. They share another passionate kiss, “Never. Make me do that again. Okay?” Steve says sternly. Billy laughs, he’s not planning to.

[thatringboy]

The Day Before Halloween - Supernerds

I had some people ask me how Matrix became a superhero so I decided to write out part of his origin story! Also, last name reveals for Oliver and Matty

Word Count: 2,306

Warnings: Blood mention

Matthew Oeste was a superhero, but not a usual one.

He had no flashy powers, striking physique, booming voice, nothing that would make him stand out. He learned from a young age that firewalls on the internet didn’t apply to him. Passwords? Nonexistent. He had the entire digital world at his fingertips and he could control it all with a thought.

Matthew didn’t ever plan on becoming a hero. He kept his head down, helped his parents around their bodega, got good grades and lived a normal life. He refused to cut his hair when it started growing down his back, went to prom with a pretty girl, got a scholarship for a two year degree at a local university and floated through life without many problems. With his powers, Matthew could easily rise to the top of the advertising and marketing world, being able to monitor trends all across the globe at once.

His parents always told him that the hardest part was not changing things. It was a cheesy line that they had stolen from some superhero movie, but Matthew thought about it often. Every time he checked his phone, he could feel his mind wanting to slip within the cyberspace and roam around, so he learned not to. Even if the digital world was usually much more interesting than his real life.

For the most part, Matthew’s life was also superhero-free. Sure, there was the resident team of superhumans that lived in the city, but the young man was never swept up in a battle that flattened city blocks, he didn’t participate in online forums about which hero was the coolest, he didn’t pay attention to which villains got arrested and which escaped prison. For the most part.

There was one incident in his childhood that always popped up in the back of his mind from time to time. He was either nine or ten, it was October 30th, he had just walked home from fourth grade and was thinking about how Mama and Papai had saved up enough money to get him a brand new superhero costume for Halloween. This year, little Matthew was going as “Cyclone”, the resident leader of the city’s heroes who enforced justice with his magnificent wind powers.

He had skipped into the Oeste’s corner shop with such a wide smile, happy to show his parents how well he had drawn himself in his costume. It was a very excellent stick figure, his teacher had said, the best she had ever seen. He was a little worried about telling his parents about how he broke two hair ties during recess, but he had also found two whole dollars on the street that could go towards paying for more. He was a big boy, a freaking fourth grader already! He could pay for his own dang hair ties!

Matthew had waved to the young cashier who’s name he could never remember and immediately went to the backroom so that he could pull out his drawing and get it ready for presentation.

While he worked on smoothing out the paper on the small plastic table he often did his homework on, Matthew heard a noise from the alleyway outside, the only thing separating him from where the dumpsters sat and the bodega’s backroom being a door that was only locked at night. Matthew got up and balled his small fists before stepping over to the door. He had superpowers, he could fight off whatever raccoon or rat was digging around in the trash no problem! 

Would you want to fight a fourth grader who could change the tv channel with a thought? I didn’t think so.

Matthew slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open before jumping out of the doorway with the scariest face he could put on.

Sitting on the street, curled up next to the dumpster was a boy only a couple years older than Matthew, unkempt hair falling in his face and arms wrapped around his frail form. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in over a week.

The younger boy dropped the hero act and ran to his side with a worried face. “Hey, are you okay?”

The older boy flinched and tried to scoot away from the child approaching him, but just pressed further into the dumpster. His clothing smelled of sewage and he had a blood stain on his cheek. Whether it was his blood or someone else's, Matthew couldn’t tell.

The younger boy thought for a second before digging the two dollars out of his pocket. “Wait here!”

He ran back inside and slapped the crumpled bills onto the bodega counter. “How much food can I buy with this?”

The teenager working the cash register gave the little boy a smile before pointing to a bag of chips on one of the shelves. “Two bucks can get ya one of those.”

It would have to do. Matthew grabbed the back and ran back to the backroom before locating a towel and wetting it in the backroom’s sink. He jogged back outside to see the older boy hadn’t moved at all, his breathing was slow and labored.

“I got you some chips! I would have gotten you some clothes, but mine are all too small for you. Sorry.” He offered the bag to the starving boy.

The older boy snatched it from Matthew’s fingers and tore it open before shoveling the bbq potato chips into his mouth with such ferocity that Matthew was impressed that he didn’t hurt himself.

As he ate, Matthew got a chance to rub the damp towel across his cheek like his own Mama would when he scraped his skin if he fell. The blood came away and luckily, it wasn’t from a wound. Well, lucky for the boy, not for whoever the blood belonged to.

“I’m Matthew, what’s your name? Do you go to school around here? Do you need my Papai to call your’s?”

The older boy didn’t answer him, opting to dig his fingertips into the chip bag to scoop up the crumbs. As Matthew worked, he ended up shifting the old jacket the older boy wore and noticed that he wore a faded orange uniform underneath it. Printed on his breast pocket was a single word and some numbers that Matthew didn’t understand.

[CHAVEZ #10824006]

“Is your name ‘Chavez’? That’s a funny name, my substitute teacher was named Mr. Chavez today, but you two don’t look alike.” Matthew continued to wipe the blood away. He had watched enough Fast N Furious movies with his parents to know that the uniform belonged to a prison, but why would a little boy be wearing one?

Chavez crumbled up the bag and tossed it aside before slowly getting to his feet, his worn sneakers digging into the pavement. He was over a head taller than Matthew when he stood up straight.

“Thank you.” He whispered to Matthew.

The younger boy opened his mouth to say something, but he heard his mother call his name from inside the bodega. 

He spun around and cupped his mouth with his hands. “I’m out here, Mama!”

She appeared in the doorway and looked around the alleyway behind her son. “Meu filho, were you feeding the street animals again?”

“Huh?” Matthew turned around and the older boy was gone, the balled up chip bag discarded on the ground.

Matthew still went trick-or-treating in his new costume after that, but he threw his drawing away and never wore the costume again. For the next week, the little boy had nightmares about the boy named Chavez in the dirty prison uniform, but he could never figure out why. After that day, Matthew stopped paying attention to superhero news, stopped drawing himself as a hero and stopped making up scenarios in his head where he used his powers to throw bad guys in jail. If locking up kids like Chavez was part of the heroing job, then he wanted no part of it.

It wasn’t until he was all grown up, almost twelve full years later, that Matty looked into what happened to Chavez after that fateful meeting behind his bodega. 

He was lounging in bed with Oliver after working out together and neither had the energy to do anything else for the day after they had showered. Oliver was reading a book with half of his body laying against Matty’s, his head leaning against the younger’s shoulder like he was a human pillow.

Matty had his phone in one hand and the other was tangled in Oliver’s hair, slowly petting the supervillain like he was a large dog lying on him.

“Hey, Ollie?”

“Hmm?” Oliver shifted so he could turn his head and look at his lover, setting his book down on his chest.

“What’s your last name?”

The supervillain pressed a small kiss to Matty’s jaw. “Why d’ya need to know?”

“You wanted help in finding what tribe you’re from, right? If I plug your family name into a database then the search could be easier.”

“Aight,” Oliver went back to his original position and pulled his book back up. “Chavez, Oliver Chavez.”

A common name, but it was a start. Matty gripped his phone and shut his eyes, his head falling back onto the pillow as he let his mind sink into the small device. He couldn’t actually see anything in this mode, but Matty could visualize a keyboard and a search engine appearing before him.

He didn’t have to move a muscle before his lover’s name appeared in the search bar and his mind dove deeper into the internet. But before he could move to plant the name into an ancestry tracking site, a news article from twelve years ago caught his interest. Matty willed the article forward to read the title.

NATIVE AMERICAN SUPERHUMAN FOUND GUILTY OF CITY-WIDE BLACKOUT & DEATH OF MAYOR

Oliver Chavez, an undocumented superhuman from the Docks District, has been charged with the murder of the late Mayor Murbenks on Tuesday, October 21st.

The image the article used of Oliver Chavez was hidden under several paragraphs describing how a superhuman with electric powers caused a city-wide power outage during when the old mayor was getting his heart operated on. The picture of the superhuman in question showed that Oliver Chavez was a young boy wearing a scared expression on his eerily familiar face.

The memory of the day behind the bodega flooded into Matty’s mind and jerked him back into his body, the feeling of his lover reading on his chest grounding him when his heart beat faster with the rage boiling inside of him.

Not once did the article mention the boy’s age. All the article spoke about was how the boy used his powers to overload the circuits in the power plants and caused power to go out in the entire city. Oliver Chavez was thirteen and all the article spoke about was that he was a Native American who grew up in the foster system and was from a poorer district of the city.

Matty opened his eyes and leaned over to press a kiss to Oliver’s hair, causing the older man to hum softly as he turned the page of his book. “That was quick, what'd ya find?”

“Found out that I was hungry, that’s what. Mind moving, big guy?”

Oliver grunted and groaned as he sat up, his muscles sore from his work out, but happy to let his partner slide out of bed and make his way to the door.

Matty took his time walking to the lair cafeteria and picking up two backs of bbq potato chips before heading back to Oliver’s bedroom and sliding back into his original spot, smiling when Oliver sat back up to let him back in.

The ex-hero dropped one of the bags onto Oliver’s chest and pulled open his own. “There ya go, Chavez.”

Oliver frowned and moved the bag out of his line of sight. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

Matty sighed and popped a chip into his mouth. “Funny, you didn’t ask for anything the first time I gave you some chips either. You just said ‘thank you’ like a polite little boy.”

The supervillain closed his book and set it aside, sitting up and twisting to make a confused face at his lover. “When did this happen? Am I forgetting something?”

The ex-hero snorted and gave his boyfriend a loving smile. “You don’t remember? Day before Halloween, a little over a decade ago, Chavez No.10824006? A little Portuguese kid giving you some food and cleaning you off?”

Matty watched as Oliver clearly raked his mind for the memory and how his eyes slowly widened in realization. “Holy shit, the little fucker in the stupid jacket was you?!”

“Hey, my Mama got me that jacket!” Matty pouted.

He let out a noise as Oliver’s large arms wrapped around him and he felt the weight of his lover fall on his chest. “Damn, I guess you’ve really been saving me since day fucking one.”

Matty hummed and kissed the top of Oliver’s head again with another smile. “I guess I am. But truth be told, your last name is kinda boring.”

Oliver lifted his head up with a cocked eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm, I think you’d do much better with mine instead.”

It took the supervillain a hot minute to run what Matty had said through his brain. When he did, Matty relished in the way his face burned and how he pushed his face into the ex-hero’s chest with a whine. “Matty-y-y-y, you fucking ughmmnm, that was smooth as hell.”

“I know.” He kissed Oliver’s hair again and attempted to pull his arm out of the embrace so he could grab his chips and pop them into his mouth with a satisfying crunch.

[thatfanficstuff]

Impossible - Chapter 7

Pairing: Eric Northman x reader

Warnings: canon typical

A/N: Why yes, all the things do happen in this chapter. It’s a long one. Enjoy. 

***

Your phone ringing around noon a couple of days later was not how you wanted to wake up. Especially after staying up until sunrise talking to Eric. You sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand down your face as you answered. “Yeah?”

“Hey, Y/N. It’s Sam.”

You grunted in acknowledgement. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, we’re a little short handed around here. I was sort of hoping you could help us out tonight.”

You glanced at Eric sleeping behind you. He would be annoyed, but he could just deal with it. You needed to check in with Sookie anyway.  “Yeah, sure, Sam. No problem.”

He huffed out a breath. “Thank you. You’re a real lifesaver.”

“So, I’ve been told.” You hung up and shifted so your back was leaning against Eric’s headboard. He’d brought you to his house to stay due to your lack of furniture. And while you’d fallen asleep in his arms every night, that and a few kisses were the extent of your intimacy. Well, that and the blood exchange. On some levels that was more intimate than intercourse. You brushed Eric’s hair back and ran your gaze over his face.

A week ago, you would have thought waking up beside him ever again an impossibility. You weren’t about to take the time with him for granted. Never again. You leaned your head back and closed your eyes as you ran through the list of things you needed to do. Your father had finally arranged for someone to deliver your furniture and Eric was having someone meet them so you didn’t need to be there. There were some things left in your apartment you wanted. A couple of hours and you could probably have it all packed up. You might as well get it over with.

You got dressed, opting for wearing the dress shirt Eric had worn the night before and your jeans. Sam could just deal with you not wearing the Merlotte’s uniform. You’d probably be behind the bar anyway. You jotted off a quick note to Eric and headed out the door.

***

As you’d predicted it didn’t take long for you to pack the rest of your things. The furniture and things you didn’t care for, you left for Sam. He could get more renting out a furnished apartment anyway. You’d loaded everything in the cab of your truck and grabbed a couple of more hours of sleep before heading into the bar.

Sam frowned at your clothes but didn’t say a word. Smart man. You were filling in where needed for the night, switching roles if necessary.

Sookie greeted you with a grin and a hug. “Y/N, it is so good to see you. It’s a great day. Isn’t it a great day?”

You lifted a brow and your lips twitched. Your gaze landed on the scarf at her neck. Bill. As much as you disliked the man, as long as he was making Sookie happy, you’d cut him some slack. “I missed you. How have you been?”

“Just fabulous.”

“Well, aren’t you in a good mood,” Arlene said as she joined the conversation.

“Yes, I am.” Sookie grabbed her tray and spun away, her hips swinging as she went. Sam and Arlene both looked from her to you.

You shrugged. “What? I just got here. I know nothing.”

The door opened to the bar opened and three of the biggest jackoffs in Bon Temps walked through the door. Sam must have noticed the look on your face because he turned to see them as well.

“Shit. Cover the bar, would you?” He hurried off to intercept Lafayette without waiting for your response.

You glanced beneath the bar to make sure the baseball bat was still where you’d last seen it and pulled a beer for the customer at the end of the bar. At least you wouldn’t be bored.

***

“Sookie has been with that vampire,” Arlene told her boyfriend instead of delivering the two beers you’d pulled for her.

“Ah, that’s just bar talk.”

“She told me so herself.”

Well, that certainly got Sam’s attention. Your jaw tightened but you stayed quiet. For the moment. You had to resist the urge to roll your eyes when Arlene mentioned Sookie getting pregnant and babies with fangs. Seriously?

Sam ripping the scarf from Sookie’s neck was your cue to get involved. You grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him away from her even as she shoved him. You watched silently as she said her piece. She was right it wasn’t anyone’s business what she got up to with Bill. And as much as you liked Sam, he hadn’t bothered to make a move until someone else was interested so he could go to hell too.

When she stormed off, Sam turned to you. “You can’t honestly tell me you’re okay with this?”

You smirked and flipped the collar of Eric’s shirt to the side so the bite on your neck was visible. “Course, I haven’t fucked mine. Not lately anyway. But she’s right. It’s none of your business. She was in a good mood. Why’d you have to bring her down? You really suck sometimes, Sam.”

You went back to your spot behind the bar, ignoring the eyes now fixated on you. If it took some of the attention off Sookie, so much the better.

***

Eric tapped his fingers against his thigh. He wanted to call you. Or at least send a text just to make certain you were all right. Which was stupid. He could feel you. He knew you were fine if slightly irritated. He also knew you were in Bon Temps right where you’d told him you’d be. No, the truth was, he missed you. Now that you were back in his life, he wanted you by his side where you belonged.

Pam appeared beside him and leaned one arm on the back of his chair. “Having fun yet?”

The corner of his mouth kicked up. “Always.”

“I may be able to brighten your evening. See the blonde male by the bar? The sweaty, nervous one?”

Eric ran his gaze over the crowd. “The one that is obviously detoxing?”

She made a sound of agreement. “Name’s Jason Stackhouse. He’s Sookie’s brother.”

“And why do I care?” Pam wasn’t one for idle conversation so there was obviously a point to this.

“Because, if I recall correctly Y/N said she was hit because emotions were running high. And as he’s here looking for V, he would have been strong enough to leave that bruise.”

Eric leaned forward in his seat, all of his focus now on his target. “I’ll be in my office. Bring him to me.”

***

You handed Sookie a pitcher of beer for the three assholes and watched her as she went to deliver it. As you predicted, they immediately started to give her shit about Bill. Before you could intervene, the front door slammed open and the three figures that entered drew everyone’s attention.

These three were trouble. You’d looked into them after Sookie had an encounter with them at Bill’s house. Malcolm, Liam and Diane. Their only purpose here would be to cause trouble. You undid a button on your shirt and pulled the collar wide so Eric’s bite was on display. If they knew what was good for them, they wouldn’t fuck with you. Somehow you doubted things would go that smoothly.

The three of them slunk around the bar like the slime they were. Diane got in one of the customers faces and Sam stepped out to confront them.

“Get us three True Blood’s,” Malcom ordered no one in particular.

The only person that moved was Sam who took a step forward. “You need to leave. This is a family establishment. Locals only.”

While Malcom explained that they’d just bought a house in the area, you grasped the handle of the bat beneath the bar and pulled it out. Resting it on your shoulder, you stepped around the end of the bar and onto the floor. Liam’s gaze followed you the entire time.

You merely lifted a brow and gave him a nod. He didn’t scare you.

“Discrimination against vampires is punishable by the law in the great state of Louisiana,” Malcom said in response to Sam telling him to leave a second time. “Not that I give a fuck, but I am thirsty.”

“He’s telling you to leave because you’re an asshole. Not because you’re a vampire,” you piped up to draw his attention to you. “Discriminating against assholes isn’t against the law. Though, I wish he’d do it more often.”

All three vampires put their full attention on you. Malcom opened his mouth to respond but Sookie caught his attention first. He gasped. “How nice to see you again, Sookie. You are looking delectable as always.” He sauntered toward her, ignoring you completely. Obviously, he didn’t consider you much of a threat.

Idiot.

You allowed his moment of…whatever the fuck he was doing with Sookie. She’d only get pissed if you intervened before she needed it.

“I am his,” she declared and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes. She had no idea what that meant. Not really.

“Well, he’s not here, is he?” Malcom said with a tilt of his head. “And when Bill is away, Malcom will play.” He extended his fangs and you moved forward. You placed the end of the bat on his chest and pushed him away from her.

“That’s not how that works and you know it. Behave.”

He snarled. “And just who are you?” He glanced at his companions and huffed a laugh. “And just what do you think you’ll be able to do with that?” His hand grabbed the end of the bat and shoved it aside.

You allowed him to do so. “My name’s Y/N and you’d be surprised.”

“Well, Y/N, I’m going to drain you so slowly, you’ll be begging me to kill you.” You weren’t impressed.

Suddenly, Terry Bellefleur charged forward and was tossed through the air for his efforts. He slammed into the ground. Sam grabbed a pool cue and broke it over his knee.

Malcom pointed at him. “You are a dead man.”

“Sam.”

His gaze shifted to you. Apparently, he understood what you were trying to tell him because he smirked. “Maybe so, but you’ll have to go through her first.” He tossed you the cue and you dropped the bat to snatch it from the air.

***

Eric leaned against the front of his desk with his arms crossed over his chest. It didn’t take long for Pam to appear with the human. He stank of desperation and Eric’s lip curled in response.

“You, uh, wanted to talk to me?” His gaze darted around the room, never settling anywhere for long.

Eric dismissed Pam with a lift of his chin. When she’d left the room, he gestured to one of the chairs in front of him. “Sit.”

“I’m good.”

Was this human always this oblivious or was it worse because he was in need of a hit? Eric sincerely hoped it was the latter. “I wasn’t asking.”

“Oh.”

The other man sat and Eric moved around his desk to take his own seat. He folded his hands together and leaned forward. “I understand you know Y/N Y/L/N.”

Stackhouse licked his lips. “Yeah. Kind of, I guess. She’s friends with my sister.”

“Well, I have a problem with Ms. Y/L/N that I’m hoping you can help me with. Maybe then we can help you with your little problem.” Eric maintained the neutral expression he’d spent centuries perfecting.

The man in front of him leaned forward eagerly. “Sure. Anything.”

“She has a bit of a reputation as a troublemaker. When she came to the bar the other night, she had a bruise. Here.” He ran his finger across his cheek to indicate where her injury had been. “I’m certain she was causing trouble but I could get her to admit to nothing. Do you happen to know what happened?”

Stackhouse huffed and waved a hand through the air. “That was me. She wouldn’t let me in my gran’s house to talk to Sookie. Ain’t nothing for you to worry about.”

Eric gripped the other man by the throat and lifted him into the air before he could even blink. “You dare?”

Wide confused eyes were the only answer as hands gripped Eric’s wrist, looking for mercy.

“You dare touch what doesn’t belong to you?” He wanted to snap his neck. It wouldn’t take much effort. A twist of the wrist and this human would bother you no more. But something told him you wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. In fact, you were likely to make his life hell for even considering it. Eric released his grip.

Stackhouse fell back in his chair. His feet scrambled trying to put more distance between him and the vampire before him but there was nowhere for him to go. Eric simply looked at him with the same blank expression as always.

“As she didn’t kill you herself for the indiscretion, I can only assume she wishes you alive for some reason. If you touch her again, I won’t care. Do you understand?”

He nodded frantically. “Yeah, yeah. I understand.”

Eric placed his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned into the other man’s space. “And as for the vampire blood, if I even catch a whisper that you tasted it, I will remove your balls with a rusty spoon. And I have ears everywhere.”

Eric couldn’t refrain from smirking when Stackhouse folded in on himself. His hands covered his groin on instinct. The vampire straightened and took a step back. “Remove yourself from my bar, Mr. Stackhouse, and don’t bother coming back.”

If the man moved any faster, Eric would have thought him a vampire. A beat later, Pam stepped into the office with an amused look. “I take it the conversation went well.”

He hummed in agreement just as a flash of emotion went through him. Anger and anxiety with a dash of fear. You were in trouble.

***

Liam charged and you spun away, tripping him in the process. You shoved the stake into his chest, purposely missing his heart. He stared at you in confusion as he gasped in pain. You kicked Diane, sending her stumbling back when she came to his rescue.

Malcom took advantage of the distraction she posed and grabbed the cue from your hand. He launched it across the bar and it embedded in the wall. When you swung at him, he grasped your wrist and squeezed. If you’d been fully human, it would be broken. He pushed you backward into the bar, his free hand on your chest.

“Stop this.” Bill had apparently arrived.

Neither you or Malcom were impressed. He glanced over his shoulder at the other vampire. “Not now, Bill. I’m having a conversation. Don’t interrupt.”

Malcom turned back to you, his fangs fully extended. You’d expected him to be furious but he looked more intrigued than anything. He let go of your wrist and gripped your chin. He turned your head to the side to expose the line of your throat. “Is this Bill’s work as well? Has he been greedy with the local offerings?”

You scoffed. “Fuck Bill. And fuck you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’m counting on it, sweetheart. But you really must tell me who you belong to. After all, I’ll need to offer my condolences.”

“That would be me.”

Malcom went still and you grinned. Eric always did have impeccable timing. He released you and took a step back, his hands held up as he turned to face your vampire. Eric looked past him to run his gaze over you. You gave him a little wave and his lips twitched.

“Why, Eric, it is lovely to see you again.” That false placating voice rubbed your nerves raw. “I wasn’t aware you were claiming your food now. Had I known—”

“Y/N is my mate.”

The other vampires in the room shifted their gazes between the two of you. Mates were rare. Rarer still that both parties weren’t vampires. You were just as shocked as they were but you did a better job of hiding it. At least you hoped so. Not that it mattered. Eric would feel it through your bond. But damn it, he couldn’t just spring shit like that on you. Stupid vampire.

“Why are you bothering these people? You’ve been warned about this behavior before,” Eric said, shifting the focus off your relationship.

“We were just saying hello to the new neighbors. That’s all.” Malcom’s voice had lost its confident edge.

Eric’s jaw was tight and you knew he was biting back much of what he wanted to say. He needed to placate the humans in the bar, but they didn’t need to know details. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow. Bill will accompany you to ensure you don’t get lost on the way home.”

Bill stepped away from Sookie’s side with a nod. The four vampires headed toward the door, not bothering to look anywhere but at their sheriff. Eric stopped Malcom with a hand on his arm as he passed by. He lowered his voice but you could still hear him, though you doubted most of the humans could. “If I were you, Malcom, I would do my best to ensure I didn’t fuck this up anymore than I already had.”

Malcom didn’t respond beyond jerking his arm away and following the others outside. Eric crossed the bar in several long strides until he was standing beside you with his arm around your shoulders. “I apologize for the disturbance, everyone. I assure you that they will not bother you again.”

“Everyone go back about your business. Next round’s on the house,” Sam announced as he came over to the two of you.

“Eric, this is Sam Merlotte. He owns the bar. Sam, this is Eric Northman, he owns Fangtasia,” you introduced them.

“And you, apparently,” Sam added with a look of distaste.

You straightened your spine. “Really, Sam? Who do you think you’re talking to? After everything…No, you know what. Forget it. It’s not even worth it. You’re welcome by the way, you ungrateful bastard.” You stepped behind the bar and grabbed your bag. “I’ll see you later, Sam. Sookie.”

Eric wore an amused grin as he fell into step behind you and followed you out the door.  

[onenerdtwonagas]

Cultural Exchange

It had been nearly a month since the demigod moved in to Uriah’s apartment, and yet it didn’t feel nearly as odd as the young man had expected. Lessons on human etiquette were going surprisingly well, and it only took a week for Orpheus to stop growling or flinching every time an appliance beeped, or a car horn sounded from the streets below. Learning to use said appliances, however, would still take time, but Uriah was at least confident that Orpheus knew not to try operating any of them on his own just yet. He wasn’t stupid, by any means, just very new to the advances of human technology. It was like teaching a toddler to read or spell for the first time.

That being said, feeding and caring for a naga demigod was not always so simple. Uriah could and absolutely did his best to make sure Orpheus got enough to eat, though it was making a bit of a dent in his grocery bill. Finding clothes for him for the first time was a trial, too; he couldn’t very well take Orpheus with him, so finding clothes meant buying various styles and brands and having to traverse the stores multiple times to return whatever wasn’t going to work. And it certainly tried his poor nerves having to watch Orpheus in so many snug shirts and pants. A man can only take so much.

All the extra food and shopping expenses meant more work was needed, and until Orpheus was versed enough in human culture to have a job of any sort, that meant overtime for Uriah. He felt terrible, not being able to spend more time with Orpheus, but bills didn’t stop coming just because he wished they would. When he came home, Orpheus was always waiting for him, smiling and boasting whatever he’d managed to accomplish on his ‘homework’ assigned by Uriah. The first day he’d managed to memorize the alphabet, he’d been practically giddy.

Uriah recalled that evening as he pulled out his keys and unlocked the door, smiling to himself. The eagerness in Orpheus’ eyes when he’d asked to be shown how to spell Uriah’s name... The last ‘assignment’ he’d been working on was handwriting. Uriah could only imagine how excited Orpheus would be to show off his improvements.

“Babe, I’m home!”

He re-locked the door and shrugged off his jacket, cracking his neck to the left, then the right. The lights in the kitchen were on low, but it was quiet. His brow perked.

“Orpheus?”

Silence answered him. Odd. Normally he’d be halfway smothered in coils at that point, doing his best to fend off an almost-too-affectionate naga. Uriah set his small work bag on the counter and smoothed out his t-shirt, glancing into the living room space as he rounded the corner to the hallway. The only other light on came from the partially-open bedroom door, which Uriah cautiously eased in to.

“...Orpheus?”

The naga didn’t respond. He was reclined on the bed, tail sprawled partially on the mattress before spilling out on to the floor, and surrounding him were about half a dozen sheets of paper and a discarded pen. His bare chest rose and fell slowly, sound asleep, practically dead to the waking world.

Uriah snuck past the lazily wound tail on the floor and peeked over at the papers. Glancing up to make sure he hadn’t disturbed his lover, he leaned over and pulled the pages one by one, and turned them over. They were absolutely littered with Orpheus’ rough, but mildly improved handwriting, with hundreds of attempts at spelling Uriah’s name. Uriah muffled a sheepish groan with the pages pressed to his face as he caught sight of several flocks of hearts scribbled around what he assumed were Orpheus’ favorite attempts.

Good God, he’s so...

Uriah slid the papers down and peeked at Orpheus, still dozing. Usually, Orpheus made it a point to be the last to fall asleep, either by convenient hypnosis or Uriah’s own exhaustion. He liked to, as he put it, watch how peaceful he looked. It was a sweet sentiment, if not terribly embarrassing. But for the first time, Uriah got a good look at his sweetheart in the vulnerable state of sleep, all of his features softened and at ease. He’d never taken in Orpheus’ features like that before. The gentle, natural curve of his mouth, the length of his eyelashes, the way his silver hair fell across his face...

Uriah carefully eased up on to the bed, setting the papers aside and sitting close to Orpheus. It struck him how absolutely, completely, infinitely fortunate he was, that a demigod would love him so much. That someone, anyone, mortal or otherwise, would leave their home to be with him, to take the time to learn his culture, to understand an entirely new society’s way of doing things. Orpheus, heir to an immortal title of Night God, loved him, a mere human, so much that he spent hours practicing how to write his name, and littering the spaces between with fond scribbles of affection.

He smiled, watched Orpheus for a few moments more, and then reached out to brush his hair behind his ear. The naga stirred, his breath catching for a moment before his eyelids lazily fluttered open. It was almost a shame to wake him.

“Hmm...? Uriah?”

“Hi.”

“You’re home,” he said thickly, blinking. “What time...?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Orpheus shifted, looking up at Uriah. Something came to him.

“Oh. Oh, I uh—“ He stifled a yawn, barely hiding his fangs. “—practiced your name today. I wanted to show you.”

“I saw,” Uriah chuckled. He held up the papers briefly. “You must’ve been at it for a while.”

“Guess I was. Fell asleep doing it.”

He cocked his head slightly when he noticed Uriah’s eyes hadn’t left his face.

“What is it?”

“You,” Uriah said simply.

“Me? Do I have ink on me somewhere, or something?”

“No. It’s just... I realized how lucky I am, with you.”

Uriah stroked the line of Orpheus’ cheekbone with his thumb.

“How lucky I am to have met you, and that you love me, and how unbelievable it is that you’re mine. And you’re doing so much to learn how to live with me.”

Orpheus turned his face in to Uriah’s palm and nuzzled affectionately.

“I’d do anything for you, love.”

He shifted to sit up, but Uriah placed his hand on his chest.

“No, stay there. I want to enjoy this,” Uriah whispered, leaning over him. “Having a demigod all to myself...”

Orpheus smirked up at him, resettling into the pillows as Uriah hovered over him. He purred as Uriah closed the space between them, lips meeting for a blissfully long, tender moment. Uriah’s fingers combed through his hair, taking his time drawing sighs out of the naga beneath him.

“Mm...Not that I’m not thoroughly savoring this, but aren’t you tired? You worked all day,” Orpheus murmured. He traced a finger along Uriah’s jaw.

“No. I’ve got time for you. Especially after how hard you studied today. Ive gotta ask, though, but what possessed you to add all those goofy hearts?”

“You call those little things hearts?”

“What did you think they were?”

“Well, I assumed they meant ‘love’, at least, but I didn’t know what they were called, exactly,” Orpheus admitted. His cheeks tinted a mildly purple hue as he blushed. “They...they do mean ‘love’, don’t they?”

Uriah forced himself not to laugh.

“Yes, that’s what they mean.”

He paused, only mildly aware Orpheus was still touching his face.

“Do your kind have a symbol like that?”

“A love symbol? Of course, but it’s nothing like the one you humans use,” Orpheus answered. His hand dropped from Uriah’s cheek to stroke a knuckle along his collarbone. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I...just figure it’s only fair I learn about your culture, if you’re learning about mine.”

Orpheus’ smile grew a little wider.

“Let me see... Naga culture is fairly diverse, mind you, but there are a few universal words and symbols within our language.”

“Nagas have dialects?”

“Oh, dozens, hundreds. A naga from the desert will be infinitely different from one born in the mountains, or a river basin. And some will have accents within that.”

Uriah nodded.

“But the symbol for love tends to be rather similar, with just a little variation for some,” he continued. Orpheus’ hand dropped from Uriah’s collarbone to the center of his chest, a single claw tracing out the simple but twisting shape. He stared into Uriah’s eyes after, his gaze soft.

“That’s ‘love’. The two bound together, and space in the center containing all that is between them.”

Uriah felt warmth tingling across his face, and radiating beneath Orpheus’ finger where it remained on his chest.

“So...like this?”

He gently traced the same winding shape on Orpheus’ chest, looking into his face afterwards. Uriah wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the naga so smitten with him before.

“Just like that,” he praised.

“A-And, um...do you have a name for it, too?”

“We do.”

Orpheus bent up, his cheek brushing seductively against Uriah’s, and whispered into his ear in a language he couldn’t name. It was soft, lilting almost, with a silken hiss. He wouldn’t have been able to replicate it even if he tried, he was certain; no one could make it sound as sweet as it did coming off of Orpheus’ tongue. Uriah closed his eyes and repeated the gesture of the symbol on the naga’s chest.

“Say it again?” he asked shyly. Orpheus obliged and retraced the shape himself before kissing Uriah’s cheek, warm and affectionate.

“I-I wish I could pronounce that,” he confessed, a feather-light laugh escaping him.

“Maybe I can teach you,” Orpheus purred, beckoning Uriah back down with him. His strong arms wrapped around him, hands tracing over the man’s spine, coaxing his head onto his chest.

“It sounds beautiful. I’ve never heard you use that language before.”

“That’s the ancient tongue. It’s simplified quite a bit over the years, and in some areas I know we’ve mingled with human languages. Latin, for one, which sounds divine when you use it, by the way.”

“Oh, stop. I only know it for science jargon.”

“Divine jargon.”

They both shared a laugh, brief but sincere, before Uriah settled more comfortably against Orpheus. He loved laying with him like that, with his head over his heart, listening to his strong and steady pulse. Orpheus’ claws glided effortlessly through his curls, just barely ghosting against his scalp. Uriah loosely twirled a strand of his lover’s hair around his finger and let himself melt.

“I’m going to love learning with you. Every little thing.”

“I’d love nothing more.”

[thiswasinevitableid]

For the meet ugly prompts, 15 and/or 21 for ot4?

Here you go! I went with 15: I step out of the bathroom and right into the middle of a bar fight and you punch me accidentally so I punch back on instinct. There's no sex scene, but quite a bit of talk about sex.

Duck’s taken a few hits in his life. He’s not expecting one when he steps from the bathroom of Tarkensian’s General Store and Lunch Counter, but that’s what he gets, sharp and hard in the eye.

“Fuck” He yelps, swinging his fist out to keep whoever the fuck is pissed at him from doing it again. He misses, catching sight of a tall government suit as his momentum spins him into the wall.

At the gunshots, he drops to the floor.

“Goddamn it.” His attacker sprints towards the front of the store. Another shot, squealing tires, banging doors. By the time he’s made a cautious journey to the cash register to make sure Leo is okay, the man who punched him is arguing with another suit in front of a Dusenberg with bullet holes in the right front tire.

“I told you to never discharge your weapon unless absolutely necessary.” All six feet of mr quick fists is staring down at his partner.

“They were getting away!”

“Necessary means life or death, Agent Roberts; if we tracked them once, we can track them again, and stopping them today is not worth the life of the civilians in that store. Or anywhere else.”

“Who gives a damn if some hill-billys take a hit, this is government business-”

“That’s enough.” The taller man’s voice sharpens, “Protecting the people down here is why we’re doing this in the first place. If you can’t get that through your skull, you’re asking for a one way ticket back to the tiny police force they pulled you from.”

The shorter man rips his badge from his pocket, bouncing it off the other’s chest, “Save yourself the fucking trouble, I fucking quit.” With that he stomps down the dusty road towards the only hotel in town.

Duck and Leo, who’ve been watching the exchange like it’s a picture show, pivot to setting knocked cans and scattered boxes right as the remaining agent steps through the door. He stands, waiting for them to look his way and clearing his throat to speed them along.

“I, um, I apologize, Mr. Tarkesian. I only meant to question those two men in a friendly way, but the moment they saw my badge one threw a haymaker. Which leads me to assume they are bootleggers, a conclusion I was deferring until I could speak to them. That’s neither here nor there. Are you alright? Are your customers?”

“All in one piece, sir. Your partner ended a sack of flour, but nothin’ else.” Leo tilts his head at the pile of white dust, “though you gave Duck here a hell of a shiner.”

“Oh my lord.” The man puts a hand over his mouth when he sees Duck’s face, “I’m sorry. You stepped out of the washroom right when I tried to stop the younger brother.”

“S’okay. Not, uh, not the worst thing to ever happen to me at dinner time.” Duck would rather not get involved in whatever the hell is going on here.

“No, it’s not.” The man runs a hand over his slick-backed black hair, “will you let me buy you dinner as an apology? Or at least some ice for your eye?” The chagrin is unusual from a government man in this part of the country, and Duck can think of worse evenings than letting a handsome face pay for his meal.

“You buy me dinner” he tilts his head at the lunch counter, “I won’t be sore about bein’ sore.”

The man smiles, “That seems fair. Mr. Tarkesian, if you’re able to write up a bill for the damaged goods I’ll...well, I’ll do my best to get you paid back for it. Have someone drop it off at Amnesty Lodge for Agent Stern.”

“Will do.” Leo nods, then adds, “Duck, ask Pigeon for some ice on the house for that eye.”

Once their orders are in and Duck’s eye is chilling, the agent sets a thoughtful hand on his hat where it’s resting on the counter.

“I really am sorry.”

“Not the first time someone’s slugged me. Definitely the hardest, though. So, uh, guess that’s somethin.”

“If it’s any consolation, my hand sympathizes with your eye.” He holds up his right hand, bruises blooming on the knuckles. Duck holds out the ice but the agent shakes his head, “it’s my own fault for not opting for a more efficient way of apprehending those men.”

“Take it you’re here tryin to bust some moonshiners?”

“Yes. As you might imagine, it hasn’t led to the best reception.” He tilts his head towards the quartet of men scowling at them from down the counter.

“Doubt your partner helped with that any.”

“You don’t know the half of it. One of those men who wants the respect for his badge but doesn’t give a damn about earning it.” He sighs as Pigeon sets their sandwiches in front of them, “Nevermind. I shouldn’t complain about a fellow agent. Um. What do you do here in Kepler?”

“Arborist for every town in the county. The bigwigs at city hall realized any money they saved lettin me go when things got bad wouldn’t make up for what would happen if trees took out houses or the brush got too high and made it easy for the whole damn town square to burn to the ground.”

“Sounds like they’re lucky to have you.”

“Yep.”

They eat in silence, evening sun searing their backs through the windows.

“I’m, um, well I was going to say I’m usually better at conversation than this. But it’s been so long since I did any talking that wasn’t part of an investigation or government business I’ve forgotten how to be charming. Or even interesting.”

“Buyin a fella dinner is pretty charming.”

“No, it’s just the decent thing to do.”

“Take the compliment city boy.”

The agent raises an eyebrow and Duck prepares to be hit again for disrespect. Then Stern laughs, soft and tired, before sending a Clark Gable caliber smile his way, “It’s nice to be talked to like a person instead of a suit.”

Duck shifts on the stool to more easily enjoy the way blue eyes glint when he says, “Even easier if you told me your name.”

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

“Well, Joe, this is me.” Duck gestures to the house that’s been in the Newton family since it was built. He’s the last one left in town, so the faded paint and sturdy foundation are all his.

The agent regards the house with the same cool curiosity he’s applied to everything else they’ve encountered tonight. It’s only when his gaze lands on Duck that it takes on a new dimension, friendly and almost innocent in it’s hope.

“You, uh, feel like joinin’ me for some coffee? Wouldn’t wanna interfere with government business by keepin you.” He teases.

Joe is already joining him on the porch, “Roberts probably reported on our earlier altercation. I’ll have better luck keeping Agent Hayes from shouting my ear off if I give him until tomorrow to cool off.”

Duck gets the lights on as Joe hangs his hat and jacket by the door. He opens the cabinet, searching for clean glasses and mugs, spotting the bottle of bourbon that was there long before prohibition started right when the taller man steps behind him.

“Uh, any chance I can convince you that’s a bottle of vinegar or somethin’?”

“No. It doesn’t matter, though.” Since Duck’s hands are full, Joe closes the cabinet, “I don’t give a damn if people drink. I don’t care if someone wants to brew up moonshine in their yard or run a bar. What I care about is how this whole mess has made it easier for mobs to flourish, for normal people to get caught in the crossfire of a corrupt police force and ruthless criminals.” The sofa creaks as he sits down, “I’m not in Kepler because I think it’s some cesspool; I’m here because I know a major bootlegging ring has a leg here, and that the people who benefit from it won’t be the people who get arrested in my investigation casts to small a net.”

Duck keeps his mouth shut; he could tell Joe just how much Kepler’s changed since a certain family got their hands on it. But he’s not sure what else he’d reveal without even meaning to.

Even exhausted, Joe manages to look handsome when he adds, “All that’s to say, I wouldn’t mind a drop of that bottle in my coffee.”

The longer he sits on the couch with his coffee cup, the more relaxed Joe turns. He also doesn’t move when Duck scoots closer, and soon their legs and hands keep bumping each other.

“Do you know Amnesty Lodge?”

“Yep. Few of my friends work there, it’s full of good folks.”

“I agree. I, um, the only other person in town who’ll talk to me like I’m a human works there. Barclay’s one of the few people who doesn’t seem scared of me. Or, he did at the beginning. Now, well, some days I’m almost convinced he’s happy to see me.” A secretive blush dusts his cheeks, “I’m sorry, I get rambly after ten p.m. It’s just nice to have someone to talk to about him.”

Duck happens to be privy to what a man in love with Barclay Cobb looks like. So he keeps some gentleness in his tone when he teases, “City boy likes his men a little country?”

“Barclay is from San Francisco.” Joe looks up from his nails, bringing them almost nose to nose.

“That don’t answer the question.”

“Maybe this will.” Joe drops backwards onto the cushions, taking Duck with him courtesy of a kiss and not letting him up until dawn.

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

Practically everyone in Kepler has a job on the side, some legal and others not. Duck considers himself lucky that his is all pleasure with a chaser of business.

He let’s himself into what could generously be called a shack, the ragged exterior giving way to walls of beautiful drawings and a floor that’s more paper than wood. Seated in the far corner at a three-legged desk is a tall, skinny man with pale hair and red spectacles. Kepler’s Van Gogh of Vice, Indrid Cold.

At Duck’s footsteps he turns, angular cheeks and sharp nose a bit sunburnt but smile putting that star (and any other) to shame.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite model.” He stands, undershirt and denim pants hanging off him as he gathers Duck into a kiss. Then he pulls back, concerned, “goodness, what happened to your eye?”

“Hey, sugar.” Duck kisses his chin, “Got caught up in some trouble at Leo’s. Nothin to worry about. What am I today?”

“A brush salesman. Go put on that jacket, the rest of your clothing will do just fine.”

It’s the same routine every time; Indrid sketches Duck in some poor replica of a costume (a policeman, a boxer, a salesman), then instructs him to strip down to some level of undress. If it’s a weekend, Indrid will ask if he can sketch Duck for more complex drawings, some nude and some not, rather than the Tijuana Bibles that help line his threadbare pockets.

He always pays Duck for his time, even though Duck points out that, as his boyfriend, he can see him naked and hard any time for free.

They talk about birds and work, about going to the city sometime soon for a real night out, until Indrid instructs him to remove his shirt.

“My, my, what did you get up to last night?” Indrid traces a finger around the hickey on Duck’s lower belly.

Duck tells him, letting Indrid scoldingly nibble his collarbone as punishment for not inviting him to join.

“I’ve given Agent Stern a wide berth, so it is reassuring to know he’s a decent sort. Though someone really ought to inform him that Barclay shares his feelings.”

“Yeah. Barclay.” Duck chuckles, “they’re two grown men, if they can’t figure out they wanna fuck, I ain’t gonna hold their hands and drag ‘em into bed. Uh, wait, fuck-”

“I got both your intended meaning and the double one. Now kindly remove your trousers and lay on the bed.”

“Any specific pose?”

“Whichever one allows me to be in you the quickest.”

“You’re the boss, sugar.”

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

“He did what?” Barclay thunks the last crate into the back of Indrid’s car.

“Dearest, I know you’re attached to Joseph, but Duck did nothing wrong by sleeping with him-”

“That’s not what I meant.” The cook sets the bags atop the clinking crates, “Duck can’t lie. Him fucking around with Joseph could end really badly.”

“Duck doesn’t know about this” Indrid closes the car, fidgets with the key.

“Yeah, which means he doesn’t know what things to hide. Joseph is smart, Duck could say something totally innocent and give him a clue.”

Indrid rubs his forehead, “We can discuss it further when I get back from this run.”

Barclay mumbles, “okay.” Then Indrid is being lovingly crushed in a hug as his boyfriend speaks into his shoulder, “Sorry I snapped. I get so fucking nervous when you do this.”

“That makes two of us. But I didn’t come by my nickname for nothing. I slip by as quietly as a moth in the dark.”

“But what if the cops lay a trap? Or some other family wants in on Leeshon’s territory and decides to hijack you? Or-”

“Leave the what-ifs to me, dearest. I’ll be back in two days. I promise.”

When Indrid is no more than a shadow on the backroad, Barclay trudges back to the Lodge. He hates this, hates the men who put him in this position, hates the feds who sniff around like dogs waiting to bite, hates how one of the two men who can stop his heart with his smile is also one who could throw him in jail.

The instant he sees Joseph in his usual corner seat, that all evaporates. He knows the agent originally used the Lodge restaurant as a place to eavesdrop. When he’s here these days, it’s solely for Barclay’s cooking and attention. Barclay will give him as much of both as he desires, feed him full of it in hopes of delaying the inevitable. So when the chairs are up and it’s only Joseph leaning on the counter asking if Barclay will join him for a slice of pie, the cook sits on the stool beside him, leaning in as close as he dares, and tries not to think of the future.

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

“Mr. Cold?”

“I’m on the back porch.” Indrid calls, cleaning up his paints as Joseph rounds the house, his pristine shirt, shoes, and hair making Indrid feel a rare bust of self-consciousness at his dishevelment. He stands, brushing off his pants, “how can I assist you?”

“By letting me take a look inside your home. I’ve heard rumors that you deal in items that are only bought in back rooms and I need to see if they’re true. I don’t have a warrant, and I’ll get one if I have to, but then I’ll have to bring other kinds of law enforcement with me who might, um, might....look, you’re important to Duck; I don’t want this to escalate any more than it has to.”

Indrid grins, waving him inside, “Say no more. I do believe there’s been a misunderstanding. Your mind, on account of your profession, went straight to bootlegging. I deal in something a bit different” He flips open a briefcase and gets the pleasure of watching Joseph Sten blush.

“It’s not the kind of art I’d sell if I had my choice, but I have a talent for rendering all manner of lewd acts on paper. Owners of bowling alleys and hunting clubs pay decently enough for them.”

“I, um, I see.” Joseph picks up one booklet, flipping through it, “I must admit these are more realistic than the ones I've encountered in the past.”

“I use models whenever possible in both these and my other work” he gestures to the non-explicit paintings on the wall, “in fact, you know two of my preferred muses.”

“Duck” Joseph’s thumb runs tenderly over the illustration.

“Indeed. And this one…” he holds up a second book, “is based on Barclay.”

“Good lord.”

“That’s the general consensus on that part of his body.” Indrid places both booklets safely in their spots, “does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Yes.” Joseph runs a hand over his hair, “very much. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Cold.”

“Of course. And by all means, call me Indrid. Should you ever be interested in modeling...” he let's Stern feel the full force of his appreciative gaze, "do let me know."

The agent leaves in more of a hurry than he arrived. Indrid closes the door, slumps against and says to the dust specks, “that was too close.”

He reiterates this point to Barclay in the evening, who agrees with him that, as much as Joseph means to him and Duck, when Indrid returns from this run they’ll talk with Mama about how to get the agent out of the Lodge and, ideally, the town. They finish their conversation right as three members of the Leeshon family arrive, electing to travel north along with their goods for some “official business.” Apparently, word of the The Moth as a skilled driver is spreading, the implications of which are keeping Indrid up at night.

He stoops and smiles for the men with menacing shapes under their coats, blows a final kiss to Barclay, and speeds off into the night.

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

“Is everything alright?” Joseph hovers over Duck’s shoulder, his eyes locked onto Barclay.

“‘Drid does these trips to sell his stuff, and he ain’t back yet. Ain’t called either of us, which is mighty strange. Usually he lets us know when he’s headin home.”

“And I tried the motel where he usually stays on his last night back down. They haven’t seen him.” Barclay wipes the same spot of table for the fiftieth time, “Duck’s truck is busted and Mama’s got the one we use for Lodge business, so we can’t go look for him ourselves.”

“We could take my car.” Joseph offers without hesitation, “if you know his usual route, we can at least rule out a wreck.”

Barclay shudders; he doesn’t want to think about Indrid, caged and lifeless in twisted metal. He wants to think about it so little that he does the most foolish thing possible; he decides to give a federal agent a guided tour of their bootlegging route.

Soon, they’re creeping along the winding backroad, Barclay navigating from the front seat while Duck bounces his leg in the back. The longer they drive, the more somber the expression from the man beside him.

“Indrid’s the Moth, isn’t he?” Joseph murmurs.

“Hate to say it Joe, but you’re so outta bounds you ain’t even in...the...game” he catches Barclay’s eyes in the mirror, “oh you gotta be fuckin kiddin me.”

“Wish I was” Barclay locks his hands in his lap, “Started about six months ago. Leeshon and his mob decided Kepler was a good spot to stage some of their smuggling. They went to the lodge first; Mama told ‘em hell no, told ‘em to get gone, and they threatened to shoot her then and there to burn the whole place and everyone in it. I stepped in, offered to do it. I was so fucking bad at the driving I almost got caught. Indrid offered to help to keep me safe and keep them from going after the Lodge.” He glances at Joseph, “we’re just trying to protect our family.”

“I don’t doubt it. But you haven’t exactly put me in an easy position. I had a hunch after I was in Indrid’s house; the faint smell of alcohol on certain bags, the regular trips along the exact same route. I just...I was hoping I was wrong.”

“You know damn well ‘Drid ain’t a threat to anyone.”

“He’s aiding the mob”

“To protect us--ohfuck” Barclay’s door is open before Joseph even stops the car. At the crossroads before them are two cars, each riddled with bullet holes. The one on the right, back half full of shattered bottles, is Indrid’s.

“No!” Barclay dodges the other bodies, Duck right behind him, and wrenches the driver-side door open. There’s bullets in the seat, but no body.

“Rival family, I can tell by the rings. They must have ambushed them.” Joseph stares down at one of the bodies by the second car.

“We gotta find him, he might still be, there-” Duck grabs Barclay’s arm, pointing towards the brush, “someone dragged themself that way.”

Duck leads the scramble through the foliage, following signs Barclay can’t see until they reach scuffed shoes on long legs.

“‘Drid, fuck, fuck, c’mon sugar talk to me.” Duck is on his knees, guiding the unconscious man into his arms.

“He’s breathing.” Barclay runs his hands over Indrid’s body, looking for broken bones. Finds one on his left leg, making his boyfriend groan in pain.

“You’re gonna be okay, we’ll get you home.” There’s a clanking noise from the direction they came, “I like Joe an awful lot, but if we gotta steal his car I will.”

Indrid manages to smile with dry lips, “I tried so hard to get back. Hard to crawl on a broken leg after playing dead for as long as it took everyone who’d been shot to finish dying. I just...can we...I want to go home.”

“You clear a path, I’ll carry him.” Barclay scoops Indrid up, follows Duck back towards the car as he snaps and pushes at brush.

“Thank the lord.” Joseph opens the back door of the car, “here, he can lay down. We’ll take him to the doctor right away.”

Duck stays in the back, Indrid’s head in his lap, petting his hair and whispering to him as Joseph turns the car towards town.

“You realize I have to report the shoot out.”

Barclay never takes his eyes off Indrid, “Do what you have to. Just don’t expect a warm welcome back.”

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

“....no, Agent Hayes, there were no survivors of the shoot-out.”

“Any records on the cars?”

“Only one. The other didn’t have plates.” Joseph keeps his breathing even as his boss mulls over his report.

“Alright. I won’t send a second man down, but if this escalates I expect you to alert me at once.”

“Understood, sir.” He hangs up, relieved, and steps into the hall of the Lodge. There’s not much spring in his step, since he doesn’t dare show his face in the restaurant.

Then there’s a lot of spring as he’s yanked through a door. Before he can raise a fist, calloused hands cup his cheeks and a beard prickles his skin as Barclay pins him to the wall in a kiss.

“Did, did you hear the callmmpph” He holds tight to Barclays shoulders as the cook manhandles him towards bed.

“Yep, had Aubrey eavesdrop on you.” Duck grins from his spot on Indrid’s comfy sickbed, “you gonna tell us why you covered our asses?”

“Barclay may have to release him for that.” Indrid pats the space next to Duck and the cook let’s Joseph drop into it.

“Arresting Indrid would have put the whole Lodge in danger and done nothing to stop the mobs vying for power on this bootlegging route. It’s the better call to let people think you’re dead for a time and see if I can catch Leeshon as he’s sniffing around for a new driver. And, um, I, I couldn’t hurt you. Any of you. You’ve made me happier than I’ve been in years and I, I just want to help you protect the town.”

“Aww, knew you were soft deep-down, city boy.” Duck kisses his cheek.

“I never did get to thank you for your role in saving my life. Come here.” Indrid crooks his finger and Joseph leans in, expecting a kiss on the cheek. He gets one full on the lips, Indrid humming when he brushes their tongues together. He purrs when they part, “after all, if you’re staying in town, I intend to join my boyfriends in their admiration of you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Wonderful. Iin that case, perhaps you’ll model for me.”

“Only if you buy me dinner.”

“Hey, I had to get punched to get dinner.” Duck teases.

“Let me go get it started.” Barclay winks, “don’t get into too much trouble until I get back.”

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - How A Star Is Born ch.V

A Hercules AU, founded by @evaroze, whom this fic is a gift for. I hope y’all like it!

ch.IV - ch.VI

AO3 link

~~~~~~~~~~

Years went by. Both Dipper and Mabel went through vigorous training under their uncles’ supervision. After allowing Mabel to visit the world, Stanford had combat training be added to her lessons so, if needed, she could defend herself. Now a master of duel swords and a brand new goddess of the arts, Mabel spent her days inspiring humans, helping to keep Olympus beautiful and safe, and exploring the woods throughout Greece.

She also spent a lot of time talking to Dipper. At least once a week he would sit at night and draw in his journal to talk to his sister, swapping stories and inspiring each other to learn and grow.

Dipper was no longer a scrawny little boy, but a strong, muscular, clever young man of seventeen. Stan had never been more proud in his entire life, boxing with the kid and having him go through trials and tests and watching him grow up. He even managed to teach Dipper a few swears.

Stan coughed into his fist, standing at the end of the most difficult obstacle course Dipper had ever been set to. He grinned as Dipper emerged from shark-infested waters, blazing hoops, electric spikes, and racist homophobes, without a scratch on him, and Stan and Dipper high-hived and cheered and celebrated.

“You did it, kid! You were great!”

“Thanks, I couldn’t have done without you.” Dipper said with a smile.

“Obviously.” Stan smirked, earning him a soft punch in the beer belly. “Oof! Okay, okay. You go pack up, ya gremlin. We’re going to Thebes!”

“Isn’t that place, like, the worst place in Greece?” Dipper asked as they headed back to the Mystery Shack.

“You got it, you’ll be just what the doctor ordered.” Stan explained. “Young hero like you can help a lot of people in an Underworld-hole like that. Great place to start out. If you can make it at the Big Olive, you can make it anywhere.”

The men set sail before the sun rose the next morning. For some odd reason, Stan locked up the shack in a way that made it seem like they were never coming back, but Dipper assumed it was only because Stan believed that Dipper could make it big. The young man smiled, determined not to let his teacher down, and made sure they were on the right track.

After sailing across the ocean for a few hours, they floated into a river that traveled along the woods, taking a shortcut for Thebes rather than travel through the sea for Greece. Stan was resting in a chair with a cold drink in his hand, letting Dipper sail for a while, when they heard a scream.

The old man shot up and grinned. “Perfect! A damsel in distress! Good warm-up before we hit down. Lower the anchor here.”

Dipper did as he was told and they crept down the river for the waterfall, where they saw a young lady stumble away, groaning and growling in her throat.

The girl had long, beautiful blonde hair and stunning blue eyes that crackled like raging fire, wearing a long baby-blue dress. She hurried to her feet but was soon scooped up by the enemy that came around the river bend.

A huge Manotaur with a toga around his waist was so huge he grabbed the woman in his fist around the waist. “Not so fast, sweetheart.” He growled.

“Put me down right now, Chutzpah, or I’ll…!” The woman threw a punch at the monster, but he held her away and laughed.

“I like ‘em fiery!”

“HEY!” Dipper yelled from the riverbank and stomped on the river, leaving Stan in the bushes to munch on some popcorn.

“My money’s on Hooves.”

The girl and Chutzpah stared at the newcomer and the monster growled, “Beat it, twerp, I’m busy.”

“Sorry, mister, but you’re gonna let her go, or…”

“Keep moving, junior.” The girl sneered.

“... or I’ll…” Dipper’s sentence dropped and shattered. “But aren’t you… er, a damsel in distress?”

“I’m a damsel.” The woman said as she tried to pull herself free from the giant fist. “I’m in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day.” She said with a sly grin with cold blue eyes.

Dipper swallowed and cleared his throat, reaching for his sword. “Uh, ma’am, I think you might be too close to this situation to realize your…” But the Manotaur punched him with so much force that Dipper flew onto a big boulder on the other side of the river.

Stan winced while Chutzpah laughed and the damsel looked bored. “C’mon kid, shake it off!” The old man coached.

Dipper charged, leaving his sword behind, and started to toss left and right hooks back and forth and landing, making the monster dizzy, and then used his head to hit him so hard it was his turn to fly back onto a hard surface, landing behind the waterfall and dropping the girl in the process.

“YES! That’s what I’m talking about, sport! Keep it up!”

“UGH!”

Dipper looked down at the wet girl and gently scooped her up out of the river to sit on a rock. “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. That was dumb… Excuse me, please.” And he and Chutzpah resumed their battle, the demigod using his strength to throw the Manotaur over his shoulder and putting him in a head-lock.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” Stan chanted while the girl rang her hair dry, a smirk on her face.

“Not bad, not bad.”

“What are you talking about, he’s great!” Stan cheered. “Throw him a left! Atta boy!”

With one final punch, Dipper made Chutzpah the Manotaur fly up in the air and then come back crashing down face first in the water, a shiny bruise on his snooze button.

“Alright! Nice work!” Stan coached. “You could’ve gone without the distraction from a pair of big goo-goo eyes, but good recovery! Alright, let’s hit the water and move on.” And he walked off for the boat.

But once again, Dipper was distracted. The woman was rubbing her arms dry and sliding off the rock to stand, stretching her slender back; Dipper’s face felt hot and his whole body felt like it wasn’t even there. “Uh… are you alright, miss…?”

“Pacifica.” The girl said with a voice that dripped with sarcasm, like she believed she had better things to do than be standing here and talking to him, but she didn’t know what. “I’m fine. Thanks for the save. So, you got a name to go with all those rippling pectorals?”

“Uh… um, ah… I’m uh… uh…”

“Don’t speak Greek or something?”

“Dipper!” The man cleared his throat and answered in a calmer tone. “M-My name is Dipper. How did you get mixed up with the…”

“Knucklehead with hooves?” Pacifica finished for him. “Ah, you know how men are. They all think ‘no’ means ‘yes,’ and ‘get lost’ means ‘take me, I’m yours.’ Well, thanks for everything, Dip. Bye-bye.” And Pacifica began to walk away.

“Wait!” Dipper called out quickly, a reflex of seeing someone beautiful and cool-headed going away, and he offered sheepishly, “Uh, c-c-can I give you a ride on my boat, erm, me and Stan’s boat?”

“I’m fine,” Pacifica giggled coldly. “I’m a big tough girl, I tie my own sandals and everything. I can look after myself. See ya, Dippin’ Dots.” And Dipper watched as she disappeared beneath a hill.

“Uh… bye.” Dipper said weakly, clumsy on his feet as Stan sailed their small boat behind him, going down the river for Thebes.

“OY! Knucklehead! We going or what?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah… yeah…”

Dipper pulled himself on board, smiling with his head in the clouds. Stan sighed and shook his head, muttering, “Twitterpated.”

As Pacifica walked further and further into the woods, the atmosphere got darker and darker. The young lady walked as coldly as the air, unafraid and all too familiar with who was approaching her. When a huge gust of blue fire erupted from the Earth and a floating triangle appeared before the teenage girl, she rolled her eyes and sneered, “Great, I needed cheddar for dinner.”

Bill cackled as he held his three-sided body and kicked his legs in the air. “Oh, my little Llama. Care to explain what exactly happened?” He made a chess board appear before him with various pieces of monsters and anomalies on the board. “I thought you were gonna persuade the River Guardian to join my team for the uprising and, here I am, kinda River Guardian-less.”

“I gave it my best shot,” Pacifica said coldly as she flicked Chutzpah off the board. “But he made an offer I had to refuse.”

“Okay, fine,” Bill replied as he made the board disappear, closing it like a book. “Instead of taking two year from your lifetime sentence, Imma add two on, okay? You got your best shot?”

Pacifica groaned and walked away, leaning against a dead tree. “Look, it wasn’t my fault, okay. It was this Wonderboy who beat your Manotaur up.”

“Wonderboy?” Bill repeated.

“Some new hero who came with this big innocent farm-boy routine, but I could see through that in a Peloponnesian minute.” Pacifica said with a cold snap of her fingers.

“New hero, huh?” Bill said, a hand to what might have been his chin but was really just under his eye. “If some new guy is beating up my minions it could weaken our chances of over-throwing Sixer…” The demon stopped his talking when he heard a voice. He swooped Pacifica up into the trees as a dark cloud, just in time to hide from the intruder.

Mabel was running through the woods with a pig at her feet. He had grown quite large since the young muse had met the pig, and now they both ran as fast as they could, but the teenage girl made it to a tree first, planting a hand on it, making the dead tree sprout leaves with life, and she jumped and cheered and punched the air. “That’s twenty-two for me… How about twenty-two out of forty-five?” She asked Waddles.

The big tired pig flopped over and showed his belly lazily. Mabel awed and fell to her knees to scratch him. “Aw, you’re just a big dummy-dumb. C’mon, why don’t we go see if Grunkle Ford is too busy to hang out. This Mabel’s gotta have some family time.” And she picked up her pet pig and skipped back home.

Bill plunged back onto the ground, dropping Pacifica, who sat on a rock boringly, as Bill glowed red with fire and yelled loudly, “WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!” And soon every tree circling them was no more.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Who’s a cute lil guy? You are!” Gideon said into his hand mirror, sitting at the front desk of the Underworld.

The huge doors flew open as Bill, still red and fiery with anger, entered and grew to the size of a giant before his minion. “YOU SAID YOU TOOK CARE OF THE TWINS!”

“The what now?” Gideon asked calmly.

Bill towered down at the white-haired chubby teenager and bellowed, “Sixer’s brats! The ones destined to stop me from ruling this dimension! You said they were dead as doornails! But the girl is still alive!”

“Yeah, so?” Gideon asked. “The prophecy said both twins had to be there for you to lose. There’s only one. So there. And besides it took you seventeen years to realize Stanford was still dotting on his niece. If anything you suck at keeping up with your own prey.”

Bill shrunk down, shaking with anger and still red, but he had to admit that the jerk was right. “Fine, but the boy, Mason, is dead, right?”

“More or less.”

“”WHAT DO YOU MEAN MORE OR LESS?!”

“He will be when the mortal world is done with him.” Gideon sneered with a crooked smile. “That scrawny twerp doesn’t stand a chance in Thebes.”

“And you know all of this HOW?!”

“It’s fun watching him struggle and lose.” Gideon admitted with a shrug.

“I’m not taking any chances!” Bill yelled and floated away. “We’ve got one year until I can free my friends and take over this dimension! Since I can’t curse Shooting Star into a mortal, I can still kill Pinetree.”

“I’m telling you,” Gideon said, following his boss. “That loser doesn’t stand a chance. I know just who to send to kill him.”

And Bill’s anger melted away as he listened to his minion’s plan and helped make it better.

[plumeriaheart]

in your arms [diavolo/f!oc]

Hey guys, I finally finished the first commission from my current batch! This was my first time writing for Diavolo, and I’ll be honest: I really struggled to find his voice, seeing as how I usually only write for the seven brothers - but once I found a voice that seemed to fit, writing this was a lot of fun! I hope it’s just as fun to read. 💞

Thank you so much to @demonboysandlotsoftoys for commissioning me, and also for your patience! I hope I was able to do your OC and your vision justice. If there’s anything at all that you’re unhappy with, do let me know so I can make sure to fix it for you! 💞

FANDOM: Obey Me!

RATING: nsfw, 18+

KINKS: dirty talk

WORD COUNT: 1.8k

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She finds somber thoughts looming over her more often than not, a weight on her chest that Blaise can’t seem to explain. A sense of dread that threatens to overwhelm her, and though she tries to hide it from the people around her, they are far too observant to be fooled for long -- perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise, she wonders.

“You’ve got your head in the clouds again, Sunspot,” a voice calls out to her, snapping her back to reality. With heat-flushed cheeks, she looks up to find the demon prince next to her; a smile laced with concern gracing his features. 

“Is it that obvious?” Blaise responds, turning to face Diavolo. 

“I’m afraid so. Say, are you unhappy here?” His smile begins to fade, replaced by a more worried expression now. It pains him to even consider this possibility, and a part of him begins to think of ways to counter her mood. 

Is that what it seems like to the demons around her? Her stay at the devildom has been the best time of her life, she’d say; a place filled with people who care about her. Not only has she made an abundance of new friends, but she has also found love -- in the most unexpected of places. When she looks at her boyfriend, her heart aches at his worried expression. How could she ever be unhappy when the last few months had brought her nothing but joy? 

“What? No, not at all! I’ve never been as happy as I have been since the exchange program started!” Her words come out more exasperated than she expects, but upon hearing them, Diavolo’s frown disappears.

“Is that so? Maybe you should just stay here forever, what do you think?” Though his question is meant as a joke -- for the most part, at least -- it knocks the air right out of her lungs.

‘Stay here forever.’ She replays the words in her mind, realising that she would love nothing more. Nothing worthwhile is waiting for her back in the human realm. Bills, deadlines, loneliness… None of which she would have to worry about if she could just remain here. 

“Ah, was my joke out of line? You know I would never want to force you to do something against your will, Aisey--” 

“No!” She almost shouts, shaking her head. “No, that’s… That’s not it, Diavolo.” Torn between wanting to look at him and feeling abashed about her sudden outburst, the girl starts to play with the hem of her shirt.

“Then what is it?” Large hands cup both of her cheeks, gently raising her head to look into her eyes. “You know you can tell me anything, my dear,” he says, giving her an encouraging smile. She can see the patience in his gaze, feel the love in his careful touch, sending a wave of comfort through her body.

“I’m just wondering… Do you really mean what you said? Would you… Really want me to stay here, even after the exchange program is over?” Blaise’s voice is low, careful, as if anything but a whisper might expose this to be nothing but a dream -- and if it is, she’d rather not wake up so soon. 

“Of course I would! To wake up to your beautiful face every morning sounds like a dream come true. What could be more wonderful than that?” Nothing but pure joy radiates from the demon prince as he pictures a future with Blaise. “I would want nothing more than that, my dear, but only if it’s what you want as well.”

His words bring tears to her eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips. “I… I think I’d like that, too,” she whispers with a nod, only for Diavolo to cup her face in his hands. Running his thumbs along her cheekbones slowly, catching the tears that threaten to spill, he leans down to press his lips against hers. Warmth spreads through her body, a fire inside of her chest ignited by his fierce and loving lips. When he pulls away, Blaise finds herself leaning forward almost by instinct, longing for more than just a small taste. Diavolo chuckles, a grin on his lips. He sees the glimmer in her eyes, the hunger for more -- who is he to deny her? He feels the same desire stir deep within him when he looks at her. 

“If you’d like, I could show you a glimpse of what every night in the devildom would look like if you stayed by my side…” The demon prince suggests, drawing out each word in a low voice, and upon seeing another flush on the girl’s cheeks, he smirks. “Come on.” Without missing a beat, he scoops Blaise up in his arms to carry her back to his room, feeling the fire inside of his chest burn hotter with each step. 

“So you have thought about it before?” Blaise inquires, her fingertips tracing little hearts on his chest as she studies his features. 

“I have, sunspot. So many times,” he replies, casting a lustful gaze down at her. She feels his heartbeat quicken beneath her touch, a testament to his words. “I’ve thought about what it would be like to go to bed with you every night, and to wake with you in my arms. But when I think about you in my bed, I can’t help but let my thoughts wander.” 

“And you have not shared your thoughts with me? How rude of you, Dee.”

“I simply thought it would be more fun to show you -- if you’ll have me.” Though every word of his is dripping with pleasure, he is careful as he shuts the door to his bedroom and sits her down on his bed. 

“You can have all of me.” 

That’s all it takes for the demon to join her on the bed, pushing her down ever so gently before his lips are pressed against hers. His hands roam the sides of her body, soon enough finding their way to the hem of her shirt, and he lets out a delighted hum when he hears Blaise sigh against his mouth. There’s a tentativeness in his touch as he pushes her shirt further up, only breaking the kiss to remove it entirely. He takes a few seconds to appreciate the sight in front of him, taking in every inch of her exposed skin while he unbuttons his own shirt.

“In all my years, I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you,” Diavolo says, leaning down to kiss her once more. She arches her back, pressing her body against his and lets out a moan when his heat infects her, spreading through her limbs, her mind foggy with desire. Distracted by the kiss, Blaise barely notices one of his hands moving down to her pants, only letting out a choked moan when he palms her clothed core. Her hips buck upwards on their own, pleading for more, and the demon is more than happy to oblige by slipping his hand beneath the fabric of her clothes. 

“You’re already wet for me, Aisey… Are you that excited for me to fuck you?” He hums, fingertips slick with her need, circling her clit agonisingly slow. 

“You know, you’re not the only one who thought about this,” she breathes, eyes shut to savour the pleasure. 

“No? Then I have to make sure to live up to your expectations.” With that, he pulls his hand away to pull down her pants and underwear in one swift movement; instinctively, she tries to close her legs only for him to gently pry them apart again. “Don’t hide your pretty pussy from me, Aisey.”

Blaise does as she’s told, allowing him to spread her thighs apart once more and exposing her dripping core, shivering at the cool air hitting her. “Do you like what you see, Dee?” She watches with curiosity as he unbuckles his belt, letting his own pants drop down to his ankles before kneeling in front of her.

“Do you even have to ask? I love the view in front of me -- just like I love you.” 

The demon prince doesn’t waste any time as he begins to lap at her pussy, long and lavish strokes to savour the taste of his beloved. Soon enough Blaise’s moans fill the room, accompanied by the slurping sounds and soft moans of Diavolo himself. He holds her close by the hips, fingers digging into the supple flesh of her ass in a subconscious effort to leave his marks on her.

“Your cunt is so wet for me, Aisey,” he murmurs in between licks, enveloping her clit with his lips to suckle on it. The moans that fall from her lips, breathy whispers of his names, rival a celestial symphony in his ears, spurning him on to bring her greater pleasure still.

“Dee… Please, give me -- give me more.” As ecstasy clouds her mind, she finds it difficult to form words other than pleas for more, aided by the way she frantically bucks her hips against his face. 

“You want more? You want to feel my cock inside of your tight little cunt?” His voice resonates throughout her body, sending a jolt of pleasure through her body that makes her whine, grasping onto the bedsheets.

“Fuck, yes, please! Dee, I need you inside of me,” Blaise whines, and he’s mesmerised by the sight in front of him. The way she writhes beneath him, aches for more of his touch, is pure magic. Pressing one quick kiss to her clit, he moves to hover over her, lips glistening with her slickness. His hot erection rubs against her cunt, eliciting a gasp from the girl. 

“You don’t know how often I’ve thought about sinking my cock into you…” Diavolo says, reaching between them to align his length at her entrance, prodding and teasing the tip along her sex. “But out of all the times I’ve imagined fucking you until you scream my name, nothing could ever compare to this.” With each word, he pushes his cock into her a little more until his entire length is stretching her out, hissing at the sensation of her tight cunt.

“Fuck, you’re so big, Dee,” Blaise moans, squeezing her eyes shut as she adjusts to his size. Heat pools within her core as he slowly begins to thrust into her, placing kiss after kiss on her neck. “It feels so good.”

“Tonight will be all about you, Aisey. I will show you pleasure you have never known before -- the kind you can only find here with me.” And he stays true to his words, hooking her legs around his waist as he picks up the speed, teeth grazing the soft skin of her shoulder while her eyes roll back in pure bliss.

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A/N : this fic could also be known as ‘how to persuade your girlfriend to stay in the devildom: have a bomb dick’ bc.... diavolo seems very convincing to me 🤭🤭 

[isis-astarte-diana]

But None, I Think, Do There Embrace (Part 2)

Part 1 ‖ Part 2

Summary:  “The sight of Missy, conscious and walking, shakes loose a deep breath you didn’t realise you were holding.” The conflict isn’t over when the gun goes off.

Warnings: None? Unresolved tension, mostly!

Word Count: 1815

NB: The promised continuation of “The Grave’s A Fine And Private Place”!

“Please, please work!”

The TARDIS hums softly in an inarticulate but clear expression of disagreement. The screen you clutch at with shaking hands remains a blurry mess of jumping pixels, the sound a warbled static hiss. You have no insight into what’s happening on the bridge.

Before you’d even glimpsed the creatures in the lifts, the ship had slammed her doors so hard that you were knocked backwards and off your feet, landing painfully on the metal floor. When you’d scrambled back up and tried to open them again, they wouldn’t budge. You still know precious little about how she functions, but it’s apparent that she’s determined to keep her human cargo safe from whatever wants to take them away.

“Siege mode,” Nardole points out unhelpfully, still fiddling with the console. “Hostile life forms detected on the bridge. No communications in or out. Your life signs are shielded, at least.”

White-knuckled on the handrail, you glance around desperately for inspiration. “We can’t just wait here!”

“I know,” Bill groans, head bowed and cradled in her hands. She sits on the stairs, catching her breath, steadying her racing heart. “I know, but what can we do? The TARDIS won’t let us outside and even if she would I don’t think we could help, I mean - we’re human! Whatever these things are, we can’t fight them.”

“I don’t think we need to.”

You scowl at Nardole. “What do you mean?”

“If they really are only interested in you two, then presumably, once they realise you’re no longer on the ship, they’ll just... wander off, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” Bill sounds quite convinced. “I mean, that blue guy was there for, what? Days?”

At the mention of the armed alien, you wince. You’ve been trying to distract yourself from the image of Missy’s limp body, slumped in the navigator’s chair. “Days,” you agree flatly.

“Exactly. Just try and keep calm, and I’m sure they’ll be back very-”

The doors tear open, flooding the room with the colony ship’s bright fluorescent lights.

“-soon.”

“Chair! Now!”

Any relief you might have felt is drained immediately by the sound of the Doctor’s voice, sharp and furious and full of pain. He has one arm around Missy, supporting her weight, half-dragging her alongside him as he staggers through the doors. Even from across the console you can see the smouldering burn mark on her coat. It’s bigger than your hand and still smoking.

The sight of her, astonishingly still conscious and walking, shakes loose a deep breath you didn’t realise you were holding. You’ve grown to quite like Missy; her quick mind and deadpan black humour had endeared you to her when you visited the vault, and she’s proven herself a useful ally more than once with her effortless navigation of the TARDIS. In truth, despite Bill’s understandable trepidation, you’d been excited to see her at the helm of a new adventure.

Be careful what you wish for.

He drops her unceremoniously in the nearest seat and she lets out a heavy, pained noise at the impact. It makes you wince in sympathy. “Watch it! I’ve just been shot, or hadn’t you noticed?” She falls just short of her usual sardonic wit, too much strain seeping into the words.

“Shut up.” There’s no kindness in it. He works urgently at the buttons of her coat, pulling it open to expose her blouse and the wound left by the laser-barrelled weapon. He’s muttering angrily under his breath. “Missed all the vital organs.”

“Yes, well, if you want something done properly,” she mutters. Then, so sharply that you jump, “oi! What the hell are you doing, man?”

The Doctor has both hands poised over the injury on her side. At first you think it’s a trick of the light, an optical illusion triggered by stress and exhaustion, but as you watch they begin to glow in a vibrant, sickly shade of orange. Light pours from his palms and drenches her abdomen until the scene burns your eyes. It feels like staring into the sun.

“Be quiet,” he says calmly, ignoring her protests. “You’ll take weeks to heal on your own. You’re no use to anyone in this state. I’m just speeding things up a bit.”

You’ve heard of regeneration, of course, but this is the first time you’ve witnessed it. Despite the blinding intensity of it you can’t seem to look away. You move around the console as if in a trance, seeking out a better view. It is, at once, the most beautiful and most frightening thing you’ve ever seen, and you know with every fibre of your being that it is wrong, a violation of physical laws that you take for granted. What unfolds between the Time Lords in front of you spits in the face of everything you know about the universe.

Your normal Saturday has been resumed.

“Oh, for- get your hands off me!” She reaches down to knock him away but he’s already moving, stumbling slightly and bracing his hands on the back of the chair to steady himself. It’s clear that he’s expended some energy.

“Not quite good as new,” he observes. “You may actually have a scar.”

“I always fancied one of those.” She twists experimentally in her seat, testing the extent of her recovery. The only evidence of what should, by all rights, have been a mortal wound is a single low hiss through her teeth. “Consider it a touching memento of my full rehabilitation.”

“Rehabilitation?” He scoffs, cold and bitter. “Do you think this was a success?”

“I saved the humans, didn’t I? At tremendous personal cost, might I add.” She gestures to her side. “This is my favourite blouse, as well you know, and now it’s ruined.”

Provoked by her arch lack of repentance, he raises his voice. “You tried to kill a man! A frightened man, who asked us for help!”

“A stupid man, with a gun,” she bites back. Her hands are tight on the arms of the chair.

“I had the situation under control until you-”

“No you didn’t!”

You almost leap out of your skin when Bill interjects, her voice whip-thin and deafening even from across the room. All eyes turn to her. She’s a beacon of rage, practically vibrating, still fuelled by mortal peril and righteous fury.

“You had no idea what you were doing,” she seethes, pointing an accusatory finger at the Doctor. “You were just chatting away like an idiot, like you always do, thinking you’re so clever, and it nearly got us killed!”

He doesn’t take it well. “I was defusing the situation! It was a negotiation. I knew that-”

“Just shut up! You were negotiating for our lives!” At her side, one hand clenches into a tight fist. You can hear the angry tears making her voice waver as the adrenaline rush begins to fail. “D’you know what, Doctor? You made the wrong call. I never thought I’d say it but Missy was better than you today.”

She turns on her heels and heads deeper into the TARDIS, leaving her scathing words to hang heavily in the air. Shrinking in the face of conflict, you stand stock still, mouth agape, staring at the space she’s just vacated; Nardole makes an apologetic face and hurries after her. For a moment, you consider following, but think better of it. If it were you, you would want to be alone.

Face thunderous, the Doctor moves over to the console, manipulating switches and levers too forcefully until the ship dematerialises with a familiar mechanical screech.

“I think there was a compliment in there, somewhere.” 

Missy stretches out in the chair, apparently unfazed, folding her arms behind her head. You don’t miss the slight flinch as the change in position tugs at her newly-healed wound. He ignores her, working his jaw in silent fury. “Oh, do try and cheer up, Doctor. I’m sorry that your softly-softly approach wasn’t up to scratch today but if you’re waiting for me to apologise for saving-”

“Don’t.” His voice is low and dangerous. “Don’t pretend to care about my friends.” His eyes dart over to you for a moment and you look away, removing your earpiece and inspecting it as if it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. “You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself. You haven’t changed at all.”

Not waiting for a response, he stalks out of the console room, brushing past you on the way. One hand skims lightly over your shoulder as if to make sure that you’re really there. You allow it. After the day’s events you’re drained, eager for peace and reconciliation that seems far out of reach. Even this gentle touch is almost enough to bring tears to your eyes.

“Well?” Missy fixes you with her gaze and you blush, setting down the earpiece you’ve been fidgeting with. “Aren’t you going to run off, too?”

“I can if you want.” You’re aiming for jovial, but the words come out small and you wince. She raises an expectant eyebrow and doesn’t speak. “Actually, I wanted to say thank you. For saving us.”

“No need. It was all part of my devious plan.” She adjusts a stray lock of hair. Despite the flippancy in her voice it’s clear that his words have wounded her. You frown.

“He’s an idiot. Time Lord or not, I know a man with a bruised ego when I see one.” She chuckles wryly, looking down at the ruins of her blouse. Her hand uselessly attempts to smooth the fabric out. You move closer. Your pulse races when you reach out to touch her; she doesn’t pull away, watching from the corner of her eye as you rest your palm gently on her forearm.

Something changes in her posture. You think of the Doctor, of Bill’s hand crushing yours as you both waited to die, of how every living thing needs to be touched sometimes and your fingers wrap around her slender arm, the slightest pressure, your thumb sweeping back and forth over the thin cotton of her sleeve. She draws a sharp breath and turns to look at you again and you see a thin mist of tears glistening in her bright eyes. For the first time it occurs to you that she must feel as weary as you do.

“Thank you,” you say again, heavy with sincerity. “I’m pretty sure we would have died if you weren’t there. He’ll come around.”

Her face hardens almost imperceptibly and she clears her throat, blinking away the vulnerability with surprising ease. “The Doctor can do what he likes. I didn’t do it for him.”

“You didn’t?” Surprised, your fingers fall still. Her free hand leaves the armrest, coming to cover your own, and she looks up at you with something so akin to hope that your throat tightens.

“No,” she says softly. “I didn’t.”