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“You exist because we allow it. And you will end because we demand it.”
“Move!” Shepard yelled. It felt like everything was moving too slowly, herself and her teammates included. Her head felt dizzy. But she had no time to sit and contemplate what had just happened. They had to unload the nuke and wipe this place off the map. One way or another. After that…spirits, help them.
“The time of our return is coming. Our numbers will darken the sky of every world.”
They shredded through geth, and Shepard hardly even noticed until she stepped over them. The Normandy swooped in low. Kaidan helped unload the bomb. But all Shepard could think about was Sovereign and the things it had said. Shepard had arrived on this planet a commander and a Spectre. She felt that now, in a matter of hours, she had become part of an endangered species.
Word came in from Ashley. They were pinned. They needed rescue. Shepard pointed to Nihlus and Wrex, and then the three of them were off.
“Your words are as empty as your future. I am the vanguard of your destruction.”
“Reinforcements!”
Shepard looked up. A geth ship swooped low. It was heading directly for the bomb site.
“Lieutenant! There’s a geth ship inbound to your location!” Ashley came on over the intercom.
“It’s already here and bleeding geth all over the place! We can’t hold them!” Kaidan said.
Shepard froze, dread beginning to creep over her. Then, just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, it did.
“I’m arming the nuke!” Kaidan said.
“Damn it Alenko!” Shepard hissed. She pressed a finger to her earpiece. “What in the hell are you thinking, LT?!”
“I’m making sure this bomb goes off no matter what,” Kaidan said. “It’s done. Keep going to the AA tower and get Williams. We’ll hold them off for as long as we can.”
“Negative! Go back for Alenko!” Ashley argued.
Shepard leaned forward against the railing. She felt like she was going to puke. Her hands were shaking. They couldn’t get both teams. There just wasn’t enough time, especially not now that the nuke was armed and ready to go. She was going to have to choose between her teammates. Ashley or Kaidan. Courage or compassion. Soldier or biotic. Trusted friend or trusted friend. The decision seemed impossible.
“Jane,” Nihlus said. He spoke gently, quietly. He didn’t have to say anything else.
She needed to make a call. And now. Or both of them were going to die.
“…radio Joker and tell him to meet us at the bomb site,” she said. The weight of her decision came down like a blow to the back. The wind left her. She’d lost people before. Jenkins wasn’t the first casualty she’d ever had. Scores of her friends had died in the Skyllian Blitz. But none of those deaths had been a direct result of her actions. It had always been someone else bearing that weight. But now, she supposed, it was her turn to carry that burden.
Kaidan’s voice was hesitant, wavering. “Yes, Commander, I…”
“You know it’s the right choice, LT,” Ashley said.
Hearing her voice was like a stab to the chest. She was still out there. She was still alive. Some of Kirrahe’s squad must be, too. If she could just be stronger, faster… “I’m sorry, Ash. I had to make a choice.”
“I understand,” Ashley said. There was a smile in her voice. “I don’t regret a thing. Williams out.”
“Let’s go,” Shepard said finally. She turned and began sprinting back towards the bomb site. Shepard wasn’t about to let Ashley’s sacrifice be all for nothing. They were going to destroy this place and get out with the tatters of her remaining crew. Even if it killed her, Shepard was going to make sure that the Normandy left this forsaken planet behind it.
When they reached the bomb site, Kaidan and the remaining crew were pinned down behind cover. Shepard wasted no time. She threw up a biotic shield and charged in. She fired, she warped the space around them, she threw geth into the walls. Even when husks came slogging through the water, Shepard was unfazed. She fired – her crew now at her back – downing each one before they could reach her. Or, more importantly, any of her crew. Shepard wasn’t going to lose another man. Not today.
Suddenly something slammed into her back, sending her sprawling through the water. She sat up, coughing and sore. When she looked up at her attacker, her heart stopped.
Saren.
He stood there plainly, without any fear of her. Her courage failed. All Shepard could do was stare.
“Commander!” Kaidan yelled. He started to rush to her aid, but Nihlus grabbed his arm to stop him.
“Stay back! That’s an order, Alenko!” Saren wouldn’t kill her. She knew that now. But no one on her crew, not even Nihlus, was safe. Slowly, Shepard got to her feet. She reached for her pistol, then decided against it. If he wasn’t willing to kill her, maybe he’d be willing to listen to her. Maybe she could talk some sense into him.
“I’m impressed, Jane,” he said. “My geth were convinced the salarians were the real threat. I couldn’t have devised a better diversion myself.”
Shepard couldn’t help but laugh. It made her chest hurt. Whatever Saren had hit her with was most likely meant to incapacitate her, so he could send her to that bunker beyond the Perseus Veil. But he’d underestimated her- and her biotic shields. “After all these years, that’s the only praise I can get out of you?”
Saren did not find the irony quite as amusing. What a shock. “It was all for nothing, Jane. I can’t let anyone disrupt what’s happening here. Not even you. You don’t understand what’s at stake.”
“Spirits,” she said. “Here I am, a Spectre and a Commander, and you still talk down to me like I’m a little girl.” Shepard frowned and gripped her side. It was stinging. A geth must have gotten a shot in. “I know about the Reapers, Saren. I know they’re coming back to wipe us out, too. What else is there to understand?”
He stepped closer to her, obviously frustrated. “You’ve seen the visions, Jane! There’s nothing we can do to stop them. Nothing. The Protheans tried to fight, and they were destroyed. Nothing is left of them save for a few decrepit ruins. Trillions dead, an entire civilization lost. But what if they’d bowed before their invaders? Isn’t submission preferable to complete annihilation? The Protheans might still be here, if they’d only just let reason guide their actions. We don’t have to make the same mistakes, Jane.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Shepard said. “You just want to…give up? Let them take over?! I’d rather die than be a slave, Saren!”
“This is why I never came forward with this,” Saren growled. He was pacing now. It reminded her of a predator, slowly becoming more and more agitated within its cage. “I’ve known the Reapers were coming. For years, I tried to find a way to stop it. I had to. I had a galaxy to protect- and I had you.” He looked towards her, his eyes piercing. “But we organics are not rational creatures. A caged animal will fight to the end. Even now, your Gunnery Chief pushes back against the inevitable.”
His words were a knife in her chest. “She’s going to die because of you.”
“Think of how many more will die if we try to fight the Reapers!” Saren snapped. “Our only hope is to submit and to make ourselves useful. That is the only way we can be saved. It’s the only way I can protect you!”
“How am I supposed to stop something like this? …how am I supposed to protect you…?”
Suddenly it all came flooding back to her. That night Saren came into her room, with fear in his voice, must have been the night he realized the truth. The night he finally understood – after studying Reaper tech for years – what was going to happen.
“I’ll find a way. Nothing is going to take you away from me.”
“I sought Sovereign out and joined its cause of my own volition,” Saren said. He frowned. “Though there are…risks.”
“Sovereign is influencing you!” It all made sense now. This was the reason he was doing this. He wasn’t evil, or a traitor. He was being used. His deepest desires were being turned into weapons. All Saren ever wanted was to maintain order and to protect the many. To protect her. The Reaper was using that against him.
“No!” Saren growled. “My mind is still my own. Sovereign cannot find the Conduit without my help. It needs me.”
“Saren, please.” Shepard walked towards him. She was begging him. But she had to make him see reason. “Sovereign is already influencing you. Come with me. Help me find the Conduit. We can stop this together.” Shepard reached out and set a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to do this. We can stop them!”
For a moment, it seemed as though Saren might be swayed. Then his eyes narrowed. “You stupid girl. I’m doing this for us! All of us! You want to doom our entire civilization!” He grabbed hold of her neck and squeezed. “I will save more lives than have ever existed! YOU WILL NOT STOP ME!” He lifted her then, as easily as she were a child, his hand crushing her throat.
Shepard struggled against him. She clawed at his fingers. Her legs kicked helplessly at the air. Ten seconds was beginning to feel like ten hours. Her head felt like it was about to explode. Her eyes watered, and darkness was creeping on the edge of her vision. She tried to speak, but her words only came out in choked whispers. “Saren…please…please…” The world around her was beginning to fade. She looked into his eyes, hateful and cruel, and could not recognize the person she saw. Where was her hero…? Where was… “Father…”
Saren let go.
Shepard crashed into the water. She sat up and gasped. Her chest heaved. Air. Sweet, precious air. It filled her lungs and eased the pain she felt. But her heart was still beating fast. Saren had almost…he had almost killed her. Slowly, Shepard looked up at him.
And for the first time in years, she saw her father.
He looked completely stricken. Saren looked down at his hands, as if he did not believe what he had almost done. Then he fell to his knees beside her. He pressed his forehead against hers. He traced his fingers over the bruises that were already blossoming on her neck. “Jane… what have I done…”
“Saren…” But before she could say anything, Saren pulled her into a hug.
It was not possessive, or violent. It was gentle. It was protective. It reminded her of when she was a little girl. Back then it seemed as though Saren could keep her safe from anyone or anything. He was her hero, her savior.
But how could he protect her from himself?
“What has Sovereign done to me…?” he whispered, his words barely audible.
Suddenly, the alarm went off. The Normandy swooped overhead, preparing for a landing. Shepard looked from Saren to the bomb. He helped her to her feet. For a moment they just stood there, hands clasped together, unsure of what to do. Shepard began to tug him towards the Normandy, but he was frozen.
“Go,” he said. His eyes were pained as he let go of her hand.
Shepard looked at him, then turned and sprinted back towards the Normandy. When she glanced back, Saren was already gone.
*
“Ilos,” Liara said. Her eyes refocused, and Shepard sat down. Her head was killing her. The injuries she’d sustained combined with the fatigue of joining with Liara had drained her. She barely listened. “The beacon was a warning- the Conduit is on Ilos.”
“Ilos can only be accessed through the Mu Relay,” Tali said.
“…which is why Saren needed the location,” Garrus finished.
Shepard rubbed her temples. All she wanted to do was sleep. Sleep and forget. “The files I got off of Saren’s drive seem to indicate he thinks it’s the key to bringing the Reapers back.”
“Our numbers will darken the sky of every world.”
A shiver went down Shepard’s spine. “Joker, did you send my report back to the Citadel?”
“Yes Commander,” he said. “A message just came through- they’re organizing a multi-species effort against Saren. They want us back at the Citadel pronto.”
The relief in the room was palpable. They weren’t alone in this anymore. The Council was finally going to do something. Shepard was already making battle plans in her mind. The Normandy would lead a fleet to Ilos. Then, while the geth were occupied with fending off the attackers, she would find Saren. And she would…she would…
She would do something. Shepard refused to believe he was lost. Saren had already broken through Sovereign’s influence once. Who’s to say he couldn’t do it again? Then, once he way away from the Reaper, his mind would become his own again. He could help her beat this. The Reapers wouldn’t stand a chance. A slow smile slid on to her face. It was a small kernel of hope, but after the day she had, Shepard was going to hold on to it and not let go.
After giving Joker the ok to head for the Citadel, she went back to her quarters and collapsed on the bed. Her limbs felt like lead. She was almost asleep when the door opened, and she didn’t have to lift her face from the pillow to know who it was.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Nihlus,” she said, her voice muffled through the pillow.
Nihlus sat down on the edge of her bed. “I saw what happened.”
Shepard rolled on to her side and let out a sigh. “Sovereign is influencing him. It’s not his fault. We can fix him.” She reached out and grabbed Nihlus’s hand. “I know we can.”
Nihlus didn’t look as certain, but he said nothing. He simply laid down beside her. His arms wrapped around her, and he pulled her close. “I’m sorry about Williams.”
She rolled over and tucked her head against his chest. There, in his arms, Shepard felt she could finally relax. She didn’t need to be the Commander. She didn’t need to be the Spectre. She didn’t need to be a fearless leader. She didn’t have to pretend she had all the answers or knew what the future held. She didn’t have to be Shepard. With Nihlus, she could just be Jane.
And all Jane wanted to do was cry. So she did. She laid there and cried, clutching on to Nihlus as though he were the only thing keeping her grounded. She cried, and cried, until finally she just couldn’t anymore. Only then, still wrapped in Nihlus’s arms, did Jane finally fall asleep.
|
Harry shot upright in bed, startled by screaming.
He was halfway into the small living room with his wand drawn and glasses in hand before he had properly registered the sound as coming from Sirius and it dawned to him what was going on as there were no other sounds of distress.
And sure enough he walked into the other bedroom to find Remus holding his godfather tightly, softly rubbing his back, the screams having given way to incoherent murmuring.
"Is it all right to come closer?"
Remus gave him a sad smile, having looked up as he entered and nodding; at the silent answer Harry made his way to the bathroom to grab a washing cloth and wet it.
The soft murmuring reached his ears again and as he could make out some of the words Sirius was repeating in a mantra, he knew he was still lost in the nightmarish memory that had first made him scream.
It was horrible to see the look in his godfather's eyes on these occasions so he was thankful his face was hidden against Remus' shoulder right now as he ensured the cloth was cold but as squeezed out as it could be so there would be no chance of water dripping.
Not ready to see the dead look in the normally soft and warm grey eyes, he looked away as Remus pulled his godfather back a little so that he could run the cloth over the feverish and tear-covered face, even as Sirius was still mumbling.
Turning back at the sound of sheets rustling he watched as the man cocooned Sirius in the comforter before pulling the unresponsive and shivering body close again, knowing the cloth hadn't worked to snap him out of it.
The soft warmth and steady heartbeat did its purpose as Sirius blinked after a few minutes, light returning into the dull eyes as he quieted down, and Harry breathed out relieved as they slowly focused on Remus' face.
"Moony?" his voice was so small and insecure that it broke Harry's heart to hear it.
"I'm here, Pads," Remus confirmed, never stopping his slight shuffling to engulf the younger Marauder in his scent, something Harry knew provided a layer of subconscious security for the disorientated man and helped ground his mind.
"Harry?"
"He's here, too," taking the hint Harry moved to sit on the edge beside Remus, making sure he was near his line of vision, not daring to touch him yet.
"Hey."
Slowly tired grey orbs shifted his way and Harry's heart fell as there was no recognition in them, even if he'd half expected it.
"Who?..."
"It's me, Siri," he softly answered, automatically reaching out a hand to touch his godfather's arm but not surprised when the man jerked away from his touch.
"Harry's not..."
"He grew up. It is nineteen ninety six, love," Remus closed his eyes as the expected next question was asked without fail.
"Where's James?"
Harry had known it would come the moment his godfather hadn't recognised him, but that didn't mean it was less painful to get confirmation of exactly how disorientated the man still was right now, how deeply he was still in the after-effects of the nightmare.
"He's not here," Remus offered quietly, pulling the comforter around him tighter and leaning his head back against the headboard as he knew what would come next.
As always when this happened, Harry hoped the searching eyes would somehow settle on him, allowing him to delay the realisation from settling in, letting him fall back asleep on his own again. But his godfather never mistook him for his father, not once, no matter how far gone he was and today was no exception.
It was heartbreaking to watch the warm grey eyes cloud in pain as the man withdrew into himself, hiding, as the memories returned to him, unable to do anything to protect him from the knowledge setting in.
As a shiver racked through the thin body and tears slipped down, Remus summoned a potion and uncorking it he tightened his hold on Sirius as he began to struggle, clearly recognising the smell even in his disorientated state and not wanting to be put back to sleep.
Tears filled his eyes as he watched Remus coerce Sirius into swallowing it, ignoring the whispers to stop him and half-hearted struggles to get away from him as he fed him the potion.
It made Harry want to pull his godfather away from Remus, to let him know he'd not force him into a fake sleep, not force him into oblivion; only to wake up with a sense of loss later.
But he knew it was the only thing that would allow him some much needed rest, as did Sirius, so he simply bit his lip to keep silent as the tension slowly drained from his godfather's body, quiet sobs taking their place as the potion quickly began to take effect and his struggles became more sluggish.
Remus loosened the comforter to pull Sirius onto his lap and into an embrace as the hands stopped their weak attempts to push him away and he began to caress his back as the fingers curled into his nightshirt.
Sirius shuddered as he relaxed into his embrace, the distress softening as drowsy eyes cleared and became more coherent again, even as the potion was pulling him under.
"He hasn't had nightmares in quite some time," Harry cleared his throat as eventually Remus carefully slid the now sleeping Sirius down into a more comfortable position, his eyes narrowing when the man remained silent. "Remus?"
"You normally cast silencing charms out of habit when you go to bed so you aren't woken by them."
"How often does he still have nightmares?" Harry asked.
"I wake up seven, maybe eight times a month from them."
"Wake up?" hearing the hesitation in the man's voice Harry stared him down. "How often do you think he still has nightmares?"
Remus sighed, carefully brushing Sirius' fringe out of his eyes. "Harry..."
"How often?"
"I think he still has nightmares most nights as he's usually curled up against me when I wake up. I don't always wake up if he's not screaming and no, your presence won't change that."
"So he had nightmares even when he slept at my side?" crestfallen Harry slumped where he sat. He had honestly thought his presence had helped with the many nightmares as his godfather usually slept soundly.
"I'm sorry. But it does help when he wakes up from one and there's someone at his side. It usually settles him and lets him know it's all right so he can get back to sleep easier," Remus tried to comfort him.
"I don't like that he still has nightmares at all," Harry grumbled.
"I don't think that will truly change any time soon, kiddo. Too much has happened for that."
"Do you know what the nightmare was about?"
"I'm not sure."
"But it involved my Dad?"
"Many of his nightmares do," Remus sighed, looking down at the sleeping form in his arms with a small smile.
"You know, it baffled many how close they were. I remember one time when we were fighting Death Eaters, I can't remember exactly where it was, but it was at the edge of a large cliff. The fight was brutal but we had gained the upper hand when the ground James was standing on collapsed under the assault of spells, sending him plummeting to the sea below."
Harry looked up to him.
"What happened?"
"Sirius jumped after him. There were these stalagmite-like rocks poking out of the sea below, but Sirius dived after him without hesitation," a warm smile crossed Remus' lips at the memory.
"I don't think it even occurred to him that he could have tried to Summon him back, he just dove after him without a second thought. Saved his life, too, as James had been knocked unconscious by falling debris and would have drowned."
"You guys Summoned them both back?"
"No, we were still fighting the Death Eaters, some of whom managed to break through our defence and get to the edge to send curses at them. When we finally managed to take them down they were both gone. To this day I still don't really know how Sirius managed to miss the rocks, save James and avoid the curses thrown at them while also avoiding serious injury."
He leaned back against the headboard again. "Lily was beside herself by the time Sirius' Patronus showed up, informing us they were fine but he was too exhausted to Apparate and if we could please come get them. Turned out he had found an hidden cave and he had dragged James into it to escape."
He laughed breathlessly. "We had looked everywhere, refusing to give up. But it had never occurred to us to think of hidden caves. Having that knowledge, it was fairly easy to pinpoint their exact location and Apparate to them to get them out."
"And they were both indeed fine?" Harry couldn't stop his own smile from spreading.
"Sirius had broken his collarbone, James had a concussion and both were covered in bruises and scrapes, but yeah, they were fine."
"I'm glad."
"So were we," Remus covered a yawn.
"Will he be all right when he wakes up?" shifting on the bed, Harry sighed.
"I'm hoping he won't remember this, but if he does then he will probably be disorientated and uneasy when he wakes up. Do you want to sleep here for the rest of the night?"
Harry looked down at Sirius, "No...I... he didn't recognise me. If he is disorientated when he wakes up I don't want to agitate him without a reason."
"He didn't mean to hurt you."
"I know. I just don't want to cause any additional distress," Harry explained, giving his sleeping godfather a smile as he brushed the man's fringe aside as it had shifted back into his eyes with Remus' movements.
"If you are sure?"
"I am, I'll just return to bed too and see you both in the morning. Do you think he will be up for teaching?"
"I think it depends on his mood, if he is as distracted and on edge as last time then I am not going to let him leave our chambers."
"But I don't like leaving him alone either. Last time this happened he was a mess," sighing Harry brushed his thumb over his godfather's hand before rising to his feet.
"If he is as much of a mess as last time then I'm not leaving him alone. McGonagall knows this so she or Andromeda will take over Defence should it be needed," Remus assured him as he manoeuvred himself expertly into a lying position without jolting Sirius too much, shifting him so that his head was resting against his shoulder again.
"All right. Let's just hope he's feeling better tomorrow," with a last glance at his godfather Harry wished Remus good night before returning to his bedroom.
Pulling his glasses off, he let himself fall onto his back with a sigh.
He had meant what he said about not wanting to cause additional distress. But that did not mean it didn't make him feel useless.
The first time his godfather hadn't been able to recognise him after a heavy nightmare he had been upset, not quite understanding that the nightmare had resulted in a flashback from before he had been born.
Sirius had screamed, fighting Remus to try and get away from Harry, not able to place him at all and eventually Harry had withdrawn to stop him from hurting himself or Remus in his attempts to get away.
Other times his godfather had asked for him like now, but couldn't quite grasp the sight of a teenager while his mind was providing him with knowledge of a toddler, not quite remembering the hell after those few happy years.
While it was touching when his godfather asked for him, wanting to know he was safe, even if he had no recollection of the teenager he was now, it was also more difficult. For it were usually the times that ended like today, with Remus drugging Sirius as the memories came crashing down upon learning Harry's dad wasn't there.
Though Remus had never before shared a memory from the war with him.
It wasn't often either of them spoke about that time and the things they'd seen nor had Harry ever truly asked, not wanting to tear open that particularly can of bad memories.
Sometimes he wondered if he should press more when his godfather did share some things, but he always ended up changing the subject as those warm grey eyes clouded.
Sirius was the strongest and kindest person he knew, to see him sad or in distress always made Harry feel horrible.
Sighing again he turned onto his side; and knowing he needed some sleep he began the process of clearing his mind as Sirius had taught him.
The rustling of fabric was what woke him several hours later and groggily he reached for his glasses while sitting up, immediately spotting his godfather sitting in the windowsill with a book as he slipped them on.
"Hey."
Harry was relieved to see tired but completely coherent grey eyes lit up in a paler than usual face as Sirius looked up.
"Hey, did you sleep well?"
"Yeah, what time is it?" Sirius glanced at his pocket watch as he closed his book.
"Almost eleven, Remus vouched for your absence," clearly seeing his alarm Sirius was quick to reassure him. "Neville promised him he'd take notes so you won't get behind on your homework."
"Right, how are you?"
"I'm sorry."
"I knew you weren't completely there. Remus told you what happened?" he sat up completely as Sirius slid down from the windowsill and sat down on the foot of the bed.
"No, I saw the empty bottle of Dreamless Sleep and the washing cloth on the night-stand."
Frowning Harry shifted so that he sat sidewards in the bed, facing his godfather. "How does that tell you what happened?"
"You weren't there when I woke up," Sirius sighed, looking down at his hands. "I'm sorry that I made you feel like you should keep your distance."
Reaching forward Harry took his hand. "Stop saying sorry for something you have no control over."
Giving him a small apologetic smile Sirius entwined their hands together, using it to pull him forward for a hug.
"You still haven't told me how you're feeling though," Harry smiled as he eventually pulled back again, happy he'd put him at ease enough again to initiate a hug.
"A bit uneasy," Sirius told him honestly.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Just being near helps. It's why I'm stalking you right now," suddenly he chuckled. "That sounded creepy, didn't it?"
"Just a bit. But that's okay, I know what you mean. It would have been creepy if you'd been staring at me when I woke up."
"How do you know I wasn't secretly doing that?" laughing at the teasing, Harry moved from the bed and stretched.
"Where's Remus?"
"Teaching," smiling Sirius looked up to him. "It was rather funny to see him stand there speechless when I suggested staying here with you today."
"He probably expected to have to bribe you into staying inside," Harry chuckled.
"Like I wouldn't take every excuse to spend the day with you," snorting Sirius rose to his feet, too.
"How about I go make some breakfast while you get washed up?"
"Sounds like a plan," Harry rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing as he felt the light stubble there that had begun to appear over the last few weeks.
"Have you decided what you want to do, yet?"
"About?"
"Your beard growth. Do you want to grow some real stubble or do you want to start shaving?" Sirius reached out to brush his thumb over the stubbles.
"You'll have to teach me how to shave then, I don't fancy having a beard," Harry admitted.
"You'd have to ask Remus, I haven't had a proper manual shave since your Grandfather first taught me."
"Then how…." Harry trailed off as he glanced at his godfather's clean-shaven face and tried to remember a time he'd seen his godfather shave but couldn't come up with any.
"First time I cut myself I decided I couldn't be bothered to repeat that every morning so I developed a cream that would remove the stubble for me. Just has to be applied like soap over the stubble and then washed off with warm water," Sirius smiled.
"That's…think you can teach me how to make it?" Harry asked eagerly, not looking forward to the idea of having to shave every morning either.
"I'll teach you sometime, but maybe you'd like a tube right now? You're lucky though," Sirius spoke as he walked to the cupboard to pick something up. "When I first developed this I had to arrange it for every different skin type and it took days to brew it for your father, Remus and your grandfather."
"It doesn't take that long any more?" Harry accepted the small white tube.
"No, between researching how to destroy Horcruxes while laying low at Rem's, I started brewing it again because I kept cutting myself while shaving manually. While I was at it, I improved it and fixed the errors in the original recipe so it's usable for every skin type now."
"You should sell it, bet it would be a marvellous success," Harry didn't need to ask why his godfather kept cutting himself as although the man was a brilliant duellist, the slight tremor in his hands hadn't lessened in the time he'd known him. It would have made it easy to cut himself while shaving with a razor.
"It's going into production next year through the Marauder Foundation, a secondary branch that focuses on other things that'll raise money to keep the Foundation going without using our own money in the long run."
"Smart," Harry agreed as he looked down at the small tube again. "Do you have a name for it?"
"Your dad always called it my Magic Beard Vanish, but why don't you think of a name and get back to me about it?" Sirius suggested. "You can use it under the shower, just apply a thin layer over the area your stubble is and then wash it off."
"No waiting time for it to work properly?"
"Made sure of that as your dad wasn't the most patient guy in the world," Sirius teased. "Just wash it off while showering and don't worry about it accidentally removing your hair anywhere else, it's designed to only work on beard hair."
"That's good to know, fixed that problem because of Dad's tendency to run his hand through his hair, too?" Harry asked curiously.
"Was never an issue, I took that into account when developing it," Sirius laughed. "It would have been funny to see, though."
"It would have been," Harry grinned, twirling the salve between his fingers. "Thanks. Will you be all right while I go take a shower? Or are you going to be a creep and follow me into the bathroom, too?" sidestepping the swat Sirius directed at him he laughed.
"Behave or I'll replace the water with pink paint," Sirius threatened.
"You wouldn't!" horrified Harry stopped in the door opening, glancing at the shower suspiciously before turning just in time to see Sirius leave the bedroom. "Siri?"
Sinister laughter was his only answer.
"Sirius!"
Turning back to the shower he narrowed his eyes; not sure if his godfather would pull a prank on him.
He occasionally pulled pranks on the students if they asked for it; the memorable moment of the Gryffindors Quidditch team emerging from the showers, covered in sparkles, immediately coming to mind. It had been his godfather's revenge on the team for cornering him in a group hug after a very muddy practice.
And a few weeks ago, Trelawney had crossed Neville and predicted to him that he would lose someone dear to him soon; leaving the boy in distress as he immediately thought of his parents.
The woman nearly had a heart attack when the dark shadow of Padfoot appeared in her sight mere hours later. Sirius had randomly showed up to her repeatedly over the course of several days, just long enough that she spotted him from the corner of her eyes before vanishing again.
Eventually he had left the shadows to walk up to her once she was twitching madly and had changed back before her eyes.
Harry hadn't been present when that had happened; but according to several students she hadn't made a single doom-laden prophecy since.
When asking his godfather about it, the man had simply said he'd spoken to her and refused to say more.
He had become known as a prankster, but he had never played a prank on Harry, so after debating with himself for a long moment he stepped into the shower.
He knew that he wouldn't notice anything strange about the water anyway, even if the man had decided to play a prank on him. So, deciding not to worry for now he took his shower and successfully applied the stubble remover before dressing and making his way to the living room where Sirius was making breakfast while chatting with Remus, who was seated at the table.
"What colour are my hair and skin?" Harry asked in greeting.
"Normal, what did you do to be threatened with a shower prank?" Remus asked.
"He called me a creep," Sirius complained, turning around with a spatula in his hands.
"Only after you yourself said you were stalking me and that it was creepy," Harry shot back as he took his usual seat.
"Being creepy and acting creepy are two entirely different things," Sirius pouted as Remus laughed.
"Sounds like you've had an eventful morning."
"I've only been awake for half an hour," Harry revealed as Sirius turned back to the stove, only to turn around moments later with a large plate filled with pancakes.
"You know, you are the only British person I know who feeds his family pancakes for breakfast," Harry said.
"Technically it is lunch time, pup, so it is perfectly socially acceptable."
"And even if it's not, who cares? I like pancakes and he makes them brilliantly," Remus happily grabbed a pancake from the pile and dumped it onto Sirius' plate.
"Sure beats the Great Hall's lunch, doesn't it?" Chuckling Harry held up his plate as Remus picked up a pancake for him, too.
"No doubt about that, ohhhh..." a happy grin slid over Remus' lips as Sirius turned from the stove to slide a thick pancake onto his plate before he could pick one up for himself.
"Looks like you've been a good boy," Harry commented as he looked at the pancake filled with jam now resting on Remus' plate.
"I'd make one for you, too, but you don't like your jam warm," Sirius returned the pan to the stove before he sat down, too.
"I like ice cream," Harry batted his eyes at his godfather hopefully.
"For breakfast?"
"Technically its lunch time," using his own words against him Harry grinned as Sirius rolled his eyes but nodded his consent.
The ice cream was quickly retrieved and Harry cheerfully dumped some onto his pancake, laughing when both men slid their plates closer to receive some, too.
"Only because we're having a stay at home day though," Sirius warned him, smiling as he reached out to brush a hand over Harry's now smooth skin. "Worked well?"
"Perfectly, thanks."
"You gave him the Magic Beard Vanish?" Remus grinned. "Good stuff, huh?"
"I'd still like you to help me teach him the motions of shaving manually though, just in case of emergency," Sirius asked.
"Always handy to know," Remus agreed, lifting his fork to his mouth. "So what are you two going to do this afternoon?"
"We'll have to stay inside since we're playing hooky so I guess we'll just play games, do his homework and test him a little for the upcoming exams," Sirius mused as he looked at Harry.
"Sounds like a plan to me," nodding in agreement Harry didn't mind having to do some homework on his unexpected day off. Knowing his godfather the way he did he'd both help him and be able to tell him all kinds of small trivia about the History of Magic homework.
He chatted animated with both men while they ate before helping Sirius with the dishes as Remus returned to classes, only having come over for lunch.
After they'd held an impromptu fight with the bubbles they finished cleaning up, glancing over at his godfather's increasingly relaxing posture, Harry felt content as he watched him set up a game of chess once he'd finished what little homework he had left.
And although he didn't like the reason why they had it, he still loved every minute of their unexpected day together, laughing and joking with his godfather as they played several games.
And near dinner time he joined Sirius in the kitchen to help prepare dinner for when Remus returned before they'd continue playing games with the three of them.
|
Derek Morgan didn't know how easy it was to fuck up mac and cheese until Reid walked into the kitchen in that dress.
Wait, wait, wait. Back up. Y'all need context. Let us rewind a little bit.
Dr. Spencer Reid and SSA Derek Morgan have been dating for six weeks. He had asked him out when Penelope dared him to over the phone in front of everyone during a case, and not being a little bitch when it comes to dares, Reid glanced up from the phone across the Orlando precinct and yelled, "Hey, Morgan, will you have a romantic candle lit dinner with me Saturday at 8?"
He didn't expect Morgan to say yes, and better yet, he didn't expect to actually have a good time on the date. Reid made a reservation at the local expensive-as-fuck Indian restaurant and when Morgan showed met him at the table, he was wearing an elegant three piece suit and carrying one flawless red rose. Morgan could tell that Reid felt embarrassed sitting there in the same dark slacks and Oxford from work, and decided not to comment on it, proceeding to wine and dine Reid like this wasn't a joke. The two had light conversation, shared decadent dishes, drank rich wine, and then -- after getting comfortable -- began talking about the real stuff.
Morgan had glanced over the wine glass and asked Reid how he felt about marriage. Reid answered, "It's a gift for the lucky and devoted." After that, they spoke of love and pain and hopes for the future. They spoke of what they've lost and what they hoped to gain, and in those two hours, Morgan watched Reid lose his layers and trust someone wholly and completely. Of course, once the bill came, Reid's walls slammed right back up, seemingly never to be seen again. Reid was actually emotionally tired after all of this, eyes drooping like a puppy fighting sleep. Morgan snatched the check during one of Reid's long blinks and passed it to the waiter, guiding the young doctor to his car to make sure the kid got home safely instead of trusting a cab company to do it for him.
The car ride was quiet. Reid took a small nap against the edge of the window and Morgan stole glances, watching how his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks in the soft moonlight and for the first time he noticed: if Reid went on a date with someone else and spoke to them like he just did with me, I would be pissed. Oh, God. Oh, no. He wants another date with Reid. And a third and a fourth and an endless string of romantic dinners, free-spirited trips, and kisses under the stars. He wants to date Reid. Hardcore. He wants to hold him when he's scared and soothe him when he's restless and maybe even have sex with strings attached and everything. What started as a silly dare ended up being one of the best nights Morgan's ever had. And, when the two let their walls down and allowed themselves to see the other as more, Morgan actually liked what he saw. He just hopes that Reid felt the same way.
He got Reid into the house, steering the young doctor by the shoulders into his living room and towards his bed before Reid opened his eyes fully, blinking hard and sitting on the edge of the bed. Morgan asked if Reid was cool if he left. Reid apparently was not. They reached forward and grabbed the edge of Morgan's neatly pressed jacket with soft, long fingers, asking gently, "Was this real?"
"Yes," Morgan replied, "I think so."
Reid then asked if Morgan would like to do this again sometime.
"Yes," Morgan replied, "I think so."
Afterward, Reid tugged him closer, taking a deep breath before continuing, "Then, there's something I have to tell you."
Morgan nodded, "Anything."
Reid looked up at Morgan with tired brown eyes, "...I'm, uh... I don't really know how to say this because I'm not Out to the team --or anyone, but--"
"Reid." Morgan started to laugh, "We just went on a date, it's cool if you're not straight. Actually, I hope you're not. Because then, the second date would be a little less awkward if I tried to hold your hand or something."
Reid sighed, lifting the free hand that wasn't clenched in Morgan's jacket before rubbing it down their face, "It's not that. I'm not ashamed to be queer, and I don't have a problem telling people it just--"
Morgan added, "Doesn't seem like something to bring up at work?"
Reid nodded, "Yes, exactly. There's not a really slick way to blend it into conversation."
Morgan leaned back in the dark room with a chuckle, "How about: hey, guys. Good job on that case back there. I like dicks."
A laugh surprised Reid as he responded, "Oh, that's... sexuality was not what I was talking about, but, yeah. That's hard to lace in as well, I suppose. I, uh, didn't know that you liked... dicks."
Morgan nodded shallowly, "Yeah, there's no cute way to say it, is there? I'm not Out as well, really. I mean, I'm not ashamed either, I just don't want the people I've grown to trust looking at me any differently."
"I get that. Trust me. More than you know." Reid nodded nervously, letting Morgan's jacket go.
Morgan watched as Reid sucked in a shaky breath and gulped, "I'm guessing there's more to your story. So, if you want, I'm open to hear it."
Reid looked up at Morgan, nibbling on their lip harshly, "Yeah, I know, but this is hard. I'm not really... I don't tell anyone about this. Ever. But, I promised myself that if I was ever dating someone... and it had the potential to become serious... I would tell them as soon as I can so that I don't get my heart broken later... but, I never thought I would seriously date someone... until I had dinner with you..."
Morgan bent to push Reid's hand aside and sat close on the bed beside them in the dark, warm bedroom. He took Reid's hand in his and rubbed it gently, "Whatever you have to say, I promise, you will always be the same guy to me that you were before. This won't change anything."
Reid breathed, "But, it does. And, I want it to."
Morgan asked, "Why?"
Reid answered, "Because I can't be the same guy that I was before if I'm... not always a guy."
Morgan grew quiet as he tried to process the information, "What?"
"You see, when I was a kid, my mom would get confused and buy me dresses instead of pants. She didn't do it a lot, but sometimes, she would come home and look in the bags and look at me and take the bags to her room to hide them in her closet. I didn't know she was losing it. I was too young. Thought they were Christmas presents. So, one day when she was at work late and Dad was asleep on the couch, I snuck in and found them." Reid smiled wistfully, eyes cast down to the floor, "They were so beautiful. And when I put them on, I felt like... a princess. The skirts were poofy and pink and I pictured myself in nice glittery shoes and my hair up in bows. I couldn't wait to be pretty. I climbed onto my mom's dresser and played in her make up, tied my curls in pigtails like I saw the girls in school do them. And, when I looked in the mirror, I felt so beautiful that I could hardly look away from it. I was gorgeous. I was a princess. But, then my dad walked in and found me, and... that night didn't end well for me at all. The next day, he dragged me out to a baseball field in front of the whole Little League team, trying to turn me into the butchy jock son he always wanted, but that just wasn't me. He knew it too. And, that only made him more angry. He didn't want a daughter.
"Little did he know, I took another dress out of the closet while they were at work and hid it under my bed. I tried it on that night, and when I looked in the mirror, it was awful on me. I couldn't stand it. It didn't feel right. I felt like a boy in a dress. And the worst thing about it was, I didn't want to look good in it. Not because my dad told me that it wasn't for me, but because I knew I wasn't meant for it. That dress wasn't made for me. Because I was a boy. I put pants back on and felt like myself again.
"But, sometimes on random days, I would find the urge to put it on again. On those days, I looked stunning, pretty, beautiful. But, when I didn't want to put on the dress, I didn't go near it. It would fluxuate. And as I got older, I realized that I didn't like it when people referred to me as 'he' on my dress days. It didn't sound right. It didn't fit. I really wanted people to look at me and go 'there she is', but when it wasn't my dress day, 'he' felt great. I was so confused. But, I got bigger and bigger and I acquired a few skirts and tops, stashing them away for when I was alone. They felt nice when it was time, and when my dad left, I started wearing it around the house." Reid began to laugh nervously, "Gosh, the first time I wore a dress around my mother, I was eleven. It was a yellow sundress with tiny pink flowers around the sweetheart cut of the bust, tiny straps, went to my knees. And, I gathered up all the pride I could, getting my mother her morning coffee and handing it to her in my dress." Reid sniffed, lowering his head further as a sob pushed its way into his voice, "She placed her hand on my face and said, 'Thank you, darling. I'm so lucky to have such a beautiful daughter'."
Reid wiped his face and let out a soft laugh, "The next day, she had all but forgotten about it when I got her coffee in my school slacks, she told me to be a good boy for my teachers. Even when I wasn't wearing the dresses. Even when her meds were all over the place, she always knew when I was her daughter and when I was her son. 'A mother always knows' she said. During one of our trips to the library about a year or so later, she pulled down a book about gender identity and sat me down as we leafed through it. She told me that she was a cisgender woman and together, we went searching for me. It was fun. Reading about third genders and hijiras and agenders. So much information. There was this thing called genderfluid, which sounded right at first until I realized that I didn't slide along the gender spectrum. I was either a girl or a boy depending on the day. Then, I found bigender and that's where I've been for the rest of my life. So... yeah."
Morgan nodded slowly, taking in the information and speaking softly, "You're going to tell me every day, right? Because I'd hate to misgender you, I hear that sucks."
Reid answered shyly, "Yeah, I mean, of course. And it does suck. It sucks a lot. But, I can't expect you to know if I don't tell you. So, yes. I will let you know."
Morgan asked, "So, what are you today, if you don't mind me asking."
Reid smiled simply, "Boy."
Morgan nodded again, "Cool. Me too."
"Shut up." Reid began to laugh, nudging Morgan with his shoulder and sighed, looking him in the eye for the first time since they arrived home, "So, how do you feel about what I just told you?"
Morgan replied, "I don't think my opinion matters, does it?"
Reid prodded, "But, I want to know."
Morgan answered easily, "I've never heard of it before. But, it's unique and special and surprising and... it wouldn't be you if it wasn't. I still want to date you, I still want to be your friend, and I can't wait to see you on a girl day. I'm sure you look stunning in a dress. You look stunning in everything, so of course you'd be beautiful. Now, I'm just rambling, but... uh... yeah. You're still really awesome and I like you the way you are."
Reid smiled around a sniff as his shoulders lowered, exhaling a breath he'd been holding in for a while, "Whew. Thank God. I was worried you'd hate me forever and run to tell the team or something."
"No! Are you kidding me?" Morgan gasped, "As long as you're comfortable, I'm comfortable. If you don't want to be Out, that's cool with me. I don't care. I like you for who you are. Gender stuff and all."
Reid then wrapped Morgan in a hug and they stayed there for a while. They fell asleep like that, holding each other.
When they awoke, Morgan felt a soft kiss on his fore head and opened his eyes to see Reid there above him, smiling softly, "Get out of my house. We have work in two hours. Morgan begrudgingly pushed himself out of bed, making his way over to the door and promising himself to never sleep in a three piece suit again because of how stiff his joints felt. As he was walked to the threshold, Reid wrapped him in another hug, clearly feeling touchy and lighter on his feet after last night. Not that Morgan is complaining. He loves it. He wishes Reid would hug him more often. Then, Reid whispered into his ear before he turned to the door, "Girl."
Morgan turned and bowed theatrically, "Well, then good morn', m'lady."
Reid blushed a lot quicker than she usually does, leaning back on her feet and biting her lips before saying back bashfully, "Good morn', sir."
Morgan glanced down at Reid's slacks in appraisal, "Darlin', you filling out those pants real nice. I mean you're looking like a real ten this morning, you know that, sweetheart'?"
Reid reached over and pushed him towards the door with a laugh, "Alright, you flirty bastard, you don't have to talk to me like that, okay? I get it. You accept me. Go get dressed. I'll see you soon."
Morgan stepped back out of the apartment with a suave wink, "Later, beautiful."
Reid's face was growing redder by the moment as she pushed the door closed, "Yeah, later, bye."
Morgan asked through the door, "Can I bring you flowers at work today, or would that be weird?"
Reid answered through the door, "Weird."
Morgan nodded at the simple wood frame, "Got it."
Ever since then, Morgan wormed his way into Reid's life like it was his second job. And, it kind of was. On top of being coworkers that lived out of each other's pockets most of the time, they were now dating. Which meant even more time in each other's space. Which meant adjustments.
When they told the team that they were together, it wasn't even that big of a deal. Literally no one was surprised. And I mean no one. Even Rossi shrugged and said, "Finally." The one with the biggest reaction was Hotch, and he just asked them to go down to Human Resources and fill out thirty eight different forms promising that this wouldn't affect their work relationship and the well being of the team and America and all that jazz.
Every morning, Morgan would send Reid a text message asking with a cute smiley face emoji "Pronouns?" Reid would answer accordingly and that would be him/her for the rest of the day. Sometimes, Reid wouldn't be "she" for days and sometimes Reid would be "she" for a couple of days on end. Once, they were a girl for a whole week. That was a nice week.
When Morgan had answered the door on the Friday night of Reid's blessed Girl week, home nice and comfy for their at-home dinner and movie night, he watched as her cab pulled up into his driveway. He didn't expect the vision that stepped out to be his girlfriend. Reid's hair was parted, her bangs held back by a light breaded leather headband. Her skirt was long and white, embroidered with soft silver designs. It was belted at the center with a leather braid similar to her headband and her top was grey and scoop necked, a halter to show off her smooth arms and flawless skin. But, it was interrupted by the straps of a white lace... was that a bra? Yes. That was a bra. Morgan's jaw dropped. Any date where he sees a bra strap is a good date, and this one was no exception.
Reid looked fucking gorgeous and Morgan couldn't handle it. He forgot what he was doing with his body and his hand slipped on the door, closing it behind them by accident. Turning to open the door again, Morgan realized he couldn't. He had locked them out of the house. Fuck.
Morgan glanced back at Reid to apologize to her and she lifted the bottom of her skirt gracefully, to walk up the steps and holy heels. Morgan then proceeded to slip against the welcome mat and catch himself on the railing beside him, praying that she didn't see that. Reid lowered her head and tried to conceal the subtle giggle. Yeah, she totally saw that. As she approached him, she leaned in forward to give her boyfriend a hug that smelled like soft flowery perfume and a simple peck on the lips that tasted like strawberries. When he got a closer look at her, he realized that her large brown eyes were framed with a soft, earth toned shadow along the outer edges of her lids and her lashes were dark and long. She wore blush and pink lip gloss and her brows were arched and well-defined. Hanging from her ears were what looked like diamonds and along her throat was what looked like pearls. Whoa. He didn't know Reid was capable of this much glamour, and as a boy, Reid's not. But, Girl Reid? Girl Reid could slay an entire army with nothing but her eyeliner. Morgan was not worthy of a girl this beautiful. He wasn't.
As he struggled with what to say, Reid asked, "Are you going to say something or... should I go home and change?"
"No! No way! T-this... I mean... we... I mean. I'll..." Morgan looked her up and down before letting out a defeated breath and saying flatly, "You didn't tell me you were going to look this hot when you're all dolled up, and personally, I don't know why I'm shocked."
Reid smiled simply with her perfectly stained lips, "And, now you know how I felt on our first date, Mr. Armani."
Morgan arched an eyebrow, "Touche, kid."
She laughed with a gentle blush as she pushed a loose lock of hair behind her delicate ear, "Yeah. I know. So... can I come in, or is our date on the stoop?"
Morgan glanced toward the front door in embarrassment, scratching idly behind his neck before admitting to his girlfriend, "I, uh, sort of locked us out."
Reid laughed again and Morgan fell in love over and over, his heart pounding in his chest the same way it did when he watched Reid come out of his apartment in a proper fitting suit for the first time last week, "How did you manage to do that?"
"You were, uh..." Morgan looked away from her, "you looked so pretty that I, well, I slipped on the steps and closed the door behind me by mistake. So, I'm gonna have to go into the backyard and climb through the kitchen window real quick. I'll be right back."
Reid nodded with a soft smile, the wind pushing her hair around her pretty face as she pushed it back with her soft pink painted nails, "Oh, okay."
Earlier that week, when Reid admitted to having been a woman for longer than she's used to, Morgan treated her to a manicure at the local mall. She declined at first. Reid refused to wear anything matching her gender out of the house on her girl days for several reasons: she was uncomfortable with others seeing her as she was, she was worried she wouldn't pass, she didn't feel like she had anything to wear, the list went on. But, Morgan understood and said that if Reid got her nails done, he would get his done too. She was a woman who felt girly on and off for years and she deserved to be pampered a bit. Even if they both walk into the nail salon in jeans and tees like any other cisgender male, Morgan didn't care. He was going to help make Reid feel pretty if it killed him. Reid agreed hesitantly, shaking the whole car ride up and fiddling with her short haircut that she regretted getting seven months ago when she realized it didn't help with dysphoria on her girl days.
When they arrived at the mall salon, she chose a delicate pink that nearly matched the original color of her nails with just a bit of shine. Morgan, on the other hand, went for a firetruck red matte French manicure and felt surprisingly awesome in it. As the woman was painting her nails, she asked Reid if this was her first manicure and when Reid replied, "Yes." the woman answered, "You should come in more often, you have quite beautiful hands for a man." Reid smiled politely back, but Morgan caught the pain it caused him to be misgendered, but knowing that Reid was also not comfortable being outed he shifted her attention to himself by leaning over to the woman to add, "Yeah, but mine are prettier, so..."
That comment put a real smile on Reid's face, in turn putting one on Morgan's. The women at the salon all swooned and gawked at the two men being bold enough to go into a nail salon and get manicures which put Reid off, but when she sat in the car afterward she couldn't stop staring at them and grinning. Morgan nudged Reid with a matching grin the whole ride back. The next few days at the office, he caught Reid staring at her nails and smiling. This was as close as she ever came to wearing a dress outside on her girl days. And, even though you wouldn't even know she got her nails done unless you were looking real hard, it ended up giving Reid a whole lot of confidence.
Hence, her walking out of her house looking like a Greek goddess and stunning the pants off of both Morgan and her cab driver that totally almost backed the taxi into Morgan's mailbox watching her ascend the stairs from behind.
So, yeah, Reid's cute-ass nails got his attention. Both because they were a physical manifestation of Reid's femininity and because Morgan paid thirty fucking dollars for them, so they better be slammin'. As Morgan walked around the house in the winter cold, he didn't suppress his big smile. He couldn't. He wouldn't. Reid was his girlfriend. Reid. If you'd have told him this two months ago, he would have laughed in your face and called you a liar. But, look at him now. In love. In a brand new relationship. With his awesome coworker and friend who just happens to be either his girlfriend or his boyfriend depending on the day. Hell yeah.
And, they're about to embark on their first indoor date. You know, in a couple of minutes when Morgan breaks into his own house because he locked himself outside like a dumbass. As Morgan climbed up on top of his garage and squeezed himself through his kitchen window, he couldn't help but feel lucky. Lucky he was here and happy and healthy with the woman of his dreams on the other side of the--shit! He fell off of the counter! Morgan pushed himself up and straightened his deep blue tee shirt. Whew. Okay. He's vertical. Good. --door. And when he finally opened it, there she was, a stunning vision in white.
Reid walked over the threshold, clicking in her stilletos, seven inches taller than Morgan and not giving one single solitary fuck because she knew she looked hot in 'em. They sat down and ate like royals. Then, they watched the Sixth Sense with the lights out. Then, they got to third base on the couch and Morgan pumped his fist in victory when he got her out of that halter and saw that bra in its all its glory. Reid looked up at him with an unimpressed look on her face, "So what, man, you got my top off. Do you want a freaking medal?" Yes. Morgan did want a freaking medal. Because this was the best night he'd had in a very long time and nothing could go wrong because Reid let him see the outline of her tits and it was magical.
When Morgan woke up the next day after a long night of cuddling, making out, and PG-13 rated grinding, he saw Reid in his kitchen fiddling with the coffee machine. He or she was not wearing the skirt and halter combo from last night. Actually, he or she was clad in Morgan's old sweats and, from what Morgan could see, nothing else. What a sight that was. Morgan stared unashamed for a few minutes before pulling himself up off of the couch and padding over to his partner in his socks. He wrapped his arms around him or her from the back and placed his hands on his or her flat, pale belly, kissing his or her neck before whispering into his or her ear gently, "Pronouns?"
Reid stretched his neck aside to allow Morgan more space before replying, "He."
Morgan chuckled, "Alright, good. Unless we're in here for Round Two, I don't think a woman standing topless in my kitchen is the classiest thing I've ever seen the morning after a house date."
"First of all, it's not called a 'house date' anymore. Kids these days call it 'Netflix and Chill." Reid laughed, turning his make up-free face to him.
Morgan raised his eyebrows, "Really?"
"Really. Garcia told me, so it's legit." Reid solidified, "And topless women are just as classy as topless men. I am actually a big fan of the Free the Nipple campaign, and as a member of the non-binary community, I strongly support it."
Morgan kissed his boyfriend's neck once more before grinning into the expanse of his unshaven neck, "Bullshit. We both know your pansexual ass likes staring at titties."
Reid blushed with a content smile, "Guilty as charged. But, who can blame me? Titties are a beautiful thing."
"Damn right. And speaking of beautiful..." Morgan let out one more snicker before smacking his boyfriend's ass playfully, "Come on, kid. Get up on that counter. I wanna get a good look atcha."
Pushing Morgan away with curiosity in his eyes, he set the mug of coffee down before hopping up onto the counter, running his hands through his sleep tousled hair, and picking the mug right back up to sip from it lazily. Morgan let his eyes travel over the expanse of his handsome boyfriend's skin. He was hot as hell with barely anything on. And cute and shy and sexy and confident all at the same time. Morgan placed his finger against Reid's clavicle, tracing a line down his bare chest, venturing across his flat belly, skimming past his hipbone and flirting with the edge of the loose grey sweat pants, "You know, I could have sworn these were mine..."
"They are." Reid said with a mischievous wink, "What are you going to do about it?"
Morgan leaned back a bit. He wasn't expecting such forwardness from his reserved, top button coworker. He replied, "I'm not sure yet... I mean, I kind of want them back, to be honest."
Reid smirked over his mug of coffee, "Then, take 'em. But, I think there's a little something you should know first."
Morgan asked flirtatiously, leaning forward to get into Reid's space, "What?"
He took a sip and whispered lowly, "I'm not wearing anything underneath them."
"Bedroom?" Morgan cocked his finger to the hallway behind him hopefully.
Reid nodded, "Bedroom."
"Bedroom!" Morgan celebrated with a kiss on Reid's lips.
Reid laughed, setting down the nearly empty cup of coffee, "Bedroom!"
Morgan stepped in between Reid's open legs and grabbed his thighs in close to pull him off of the counter before carrying them both out of the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom, wherein Morgan taught Reid a thing or two about orgasms. Reid was surprisingly passionate in bed. Responsive, pro-active, not the most knowledgeable but a quick learner. This was, by no means, his first roll in the hay. But, one thing is certain. He'd never slept with anyone like Morgan, that's for sure.
The next few weeks passed in a rush of cases, late nights at the office, close calls with unsubs, and unfinished case reports up to their ears. Needless to say, there wasn't a lot of time in the hustle and bustle for Morgan and Reid to spend time together outside of a quick hook up in a hotel room or an attempt at watching Netflix over Reid's before they both passed out on the couch before they could get to the Chill part.
But, we are here today. Saturday. Six weeks after their first date. And, Morgan decided that he was going to cook them a nice dinner because they had off for two whole days. Halleluguia.
Reid was having another boy day, so when he walked into his kitchen and tapped Morgan on the shoulder while he was boiling up the mac part of the mac and cheese he was making, Morgan definitely didn't expect to see Reid clad in a moss green floor length evening gown. Morgan's jaw dropped. As well as the spoon he was cooking with. And, when it fell, Morgan eyed his boyfriend's form in the elegant dress. It was neat and pressed and off the shoulder. He was taller than usual, so Morgan suspected heels. And there was a black velvet choker mid-way along his neck. Reid spoke firmly, "JJ's cousin is having a blood cancer awareness gala raising money for the cause and she invited us. I just got the email this morning. And I... I thought that... if I was having a girl day on the night of the dance... I would like to come out to the team."
Morgan watched as Reid grew nervous under the attention and Reid spoke, "I look terrible, don't I?"
"No! God! You're a knock out, babe! I just... I was expecting PJs or something." Morgan said quickly, gesturing to Reid's neck, "The choker is a good idea, by the way, conceals your Adam's apple."
Reid nodded, "Yeah, I know. That's why I chose it. And, I expanded my make-up collection, so I should be able to handle the darkness around my stubble area that night. I have an appointment at my nail salon so that I can get my brows done professionally, but I don't know what to do with my hair, maybe straighten it or gel it down or cry on a hot curling iron while I pray to the Patron Saint of Please God Fix it Jesus, I don't know. I mean, I know that I want to come out. I need to come out. I'm ready and being with you helped me realize that, and I just... don't want to blow it by not passing well. Does this strapless bra look like a joke, just tell me please? If it does, I'll get rid of it. I mean, I put padding in it so that I can fill out the dress, because without it there's just this empty space where my breasts are supposed to go and I know that I'l never have them, but--"
Morgan surged forward and grabbed Reid's face, pulling him into a soft, calming kiss. Their lips pressed gently once Reid got over the initial shock and let the tension in his shoulders drop. Morgan felt his boyfriend's lashes against his cheek as he relaxed and allowed himself to melt into the kiss. Morgan placed his hands on Reid's cold shoulders, "Man, who cares if you pass? No matter what you do, you've got the love of your family, you know that? No one's going to treat you any kind of way. If you're ready, then go. I'll be right there holding your hand. But, I'm going to let you know right now, anyone who laughs at you in this dress is a damn fool because you look amazing."
Reid's eyes welled up with tears as he listened to Morgan speak, "Really? You're not just saying that because I hold the keys to your sex life?"
Morgan laughed, reaching a hand up to thumb the tears away from Reid's under eye, "Dude, no. You're killin' it. I want to take the creator of this dress and just give 'em a good kiss on the everything for doing such a good job."
Reid's face fell as he placed his hand on his chest, "My mother made me this when I got my first doctorate."
Morgan grew quiet, "I... take back what I said. I do not want to kiss your mother. I'm sorry."
Reid started to laugh, pushing Morgan's shoulder playfully, "I'm just kidding, I picked this up at a thrift shop a year ago."
Morgan gasped and reached over to smack Reid on the waist, "You asshole! I thought--"
"I know!" Reid answered, pushing his boyfriend back until they started wrestling good-naturedly against the kitchen counter, careful not to harm the dress. After getting sick of it being in the way, Morgan felt around for the zipper on Reid's back and pulled it down to the base of his hips. When it fell to the floor, Reid stepped out of it, leaning into Morgan's embrace to chase his movement with a firm kiss. He pulled Morgan's tee shirt up over his head and tossed it on the floor, kissing him hard as Morgan lifted Reid in his arms and sat him down on the table before parking himself between Reid's bare legs and kissing him even rougher. He liked Boy Reid just as much as Girl Reid. He was a little different, more abrasive and pushy about things he's interested in while the girl side of him likes to pout and nudge and cute her way into getting what she wants. Boy Reid just up and takes it.
And, that's hella hot.
When they finally finished with each other, breathing hard as they lay sprawled across Reid's kitchen table, Reid asked, "So, what were you making for dinner?"
"Mac and--" Morgan tapped his forehead against Reid's bare shoulder, "Fuck. I haven't stirred it for..." he glanced at his wrist, "Nineteen minutes."
"Oh, God. I'm so sorry." Reid started to laugh, raising his hands to cover his face in embarrassment, "You might have to start over. I'll help."
Morgan shook his head, "No, fuck it. I'm ordering pizza. I can't do things around you when you look like that," Morgan nudged his forehead into Reid's warm skin, "you little vixen, you."
Reid asked, raising his eyebrow, "Want me to put some pants on and come back here?"
Morgan grinned, reaching for his beautiful nude non-binary partner, "Nah. You always looked best in this anyway."
|
He’s blessedly alone in the changing room so is able to vent by cursing loudly and frequently. It’s only when he feels calmer that he turns around to find Shears frozen in the doorway, watching Justin like he’s a bomb which could be about to go off. He’s obviously come in mid session and Justin feels his face start to heat up at being caught doing that.
“Fuck Schultzy, I’ve never seen you so mad. What’s up?”
Shears is still keeping his distance and seems to be trying to talk in a soothing way, like that might help.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Justin says, face flaming. “Sorry, I thought I was alone. If I’d known you were there, I wouldn’t have done that.”
“Don’t mind me, seems like you needed to!” The alarm is fading out of Shears’ face. “If you want to talk about what’s bugging you, I'm here to listen. Particularly if your cursing stays that creative. That was pretty epic. Even Flower would have been proud of that!”
Justin lets out a reluctant laugh at that. “No, I’m fine now thanks. Anyway I’m meeting Olli and Harry for something to eat.”
“Aaaah,” says Shears wisely, his eyes crinkling. “Harry is an asshole isn’t he?”
“What?” Justin splutters. “How the fuck….?”
Shears laughs. “I was out with him last night remember? He was ok in Wilkes-Barre but he had his moments even then. Liked to joke about how he’d been drafted and I hadn’t - said it was to keep me grounded, with all the points I was putting up, but he did it a bit too enthusiastically?” Shears does a shoulder shudder like he’s shaking off old memories before continuing.
“But going to Jackets has really made him a patronising asshole. He kept trying to lord it over me and Rusty last night - like he was the one in the play-offs and we were the call-ups on a team which was already out.” He shakes his head scornfully. “Was kind of glad when we were able to head home. Poor Olli must have the patience of a saint, Harry stuck pretty close to him all evening.”
Justin starts at the mention of Olli. Much as he’s enjoying finding his opinion shared of Harry - and also finding out that it’s not just Justin getting the Harry treatment - he really needs to head out.
“Yeah, you’re right, it was Harry. He just got under my skin with something he said,” Justin says. “He does seem like a patronising asshole. But I said I’d meet Olli and him for lunch so I’d better go rescue Olli.”
Shears laughs and makes his way to his stall, starting to strip off his work out gear.
“Go, go! Rescue our poor defenceman from the nasty Blue Jacket!” He’s grinning as he says it, waving Justin, now quickly changed, towards the door.
0–0–0
It doesn’t take long for Justin to get to the coffee shop and Olli is at their regular table. He stops at the counter to order his coffee and the chicken and avocado sandwich he prefers, before joining Harry and Olli.
He gets a smile of welcome from Olli and a nod from Harry as he slides into the seat with a greeting.
There’s a bit of an awkward silence.
Justin clears his throat. “So did you guys play together in Baby Pens?”
“Well we played there but we met in juniors,” Harry says. “We played in the London Knights together, the year before Olli was drafted.”
“Harry was great there. I was new into North America, never really been out of Europe, and suddenly I’m living, thousands of miles away from home, away from all my friends and family. Harry really looked out for me, helped me find my way,” Olli says, smiling towards Harry, face soft. “I’m not sure if I’d have made it without him. That year was hard.”
“You should have seen him, Schultzer; he was so skinny and pale and hardly said two words to anyone - he was like this weird ghost haunting the team.” Harry is laughing at the memory. “He knew nothing about how things worked here - he needed someone to take care of him.”
Olli is looking at Harry, eyes fond; Justin wants to punch Harry. It’s not a kind way to describe Olli, kind of mocking the young player he was then when he was in such a tough situation, trying to find his feet on a new continent. But Olli doesn’t seem to see anything wrong with it, so he has to let it ride. Justin tries to remind himself that Harry and Olli have been friends for several years, and this is probably just Harry chirping Olli.
He still doesn’t like it though.
“I was lucky, I had a BC junior team relocate close to where I grew up at the time I needed to start in juniors and they signed me,” Justin replies. “I couldn’t imagine moving halfway around the world at that age.”
“You seem to have had quite a few lucky breaks,” Harry says. “But yeah, having a junior team appear out of mid-air so you could stay at home - that’s some luck.”
Fortunately, Justin’s sandwich arrives so he’s able to take a deep breath, and re-set, trying to remain calm and friendly.
“Where are you from, Harry? Was it close to London?” It seems a safe thing to ask about.
“No, Kingston’s about a 9 hour round trip from London so I was billeted while I played with the Knights. It was good, helped me understand a little of what Olli went through, taught me to be self-sufficient. And my billet family were nice, really looked out for me.” He looks to Olli. “Although Emily - Olli’s billet mom - was the better cook. I used to go round there as often as I could, her cookies were amazing!”
“Oh they were,” Olli replies. “They still are, she sends me some for Christmas still.”
“You never told me that - did you eat them all yourself when I was here?” Harry sounds annoyed.
“You weren’t here - you were in Wilkes-Barre last year!”
“I was called up for the Christmas before the trade. I can’t believe you hid the cookies from me,” Harry complains. “I was here!”
“And do you remember what happened that Christmas?” Olli is looking at Harry like he can’t believe he said that. “I don’t think we were in a place to be sharing cookies. I don’t remember you speaking to me at all.”
“It was fine, it was a misunderstanding, we sorted it,” Harry says, waving his hand disarmingly. “Although maybe if you’d shared them, it wouldn’t have happened!” His tone is teasing but Olli doesn’t seem to take it that way, his face tight with disbelief .
“Really?” Olli replies. “It was my failure to share Emily’s cookies which caused it? It wasn’t anything to do with you?”
Justin’s squirming inside, really not wanting to be here anymore while they go through whatever this is - but it’s clear the two have history, it’s like being in on a couple’s quarrel. He slouches down in his seat, trying to make himself invisible. His gut is churning listening to this. He wants to know more and he really doesn’t, worried for what he will find out.
“Hey kid, I was just teasing! Of course it wasn’t. I thought we got past this at the time. I apologised didn’t I?” Harry says placatingly, hand reaching out to stroke at Olli’s hand.
Olli moves his hand away, clearly still unhappy and just like that, Justin’s not sure he can take any more of watching this, oh so painful and personal as it is, Olli drawn tight and anxious and Justin not able to do anything to help.
He straightens up, pushing back his chair.
“Hey guys, thanks for lunch, but I’ve got to go and prep some sticks,” he says as he rises. “Sooner I get it done then the sooner I’m done for the day. I’ll see you later?”
He hates himself for adding that question on, knowing how close it is to a plead, but it slipped through.
Olli sits up abruptly from where he was slumping in his chair, re-focussing on Justin like he’s just remembered he’s there.
“Justin, I’m sorry that wasn’t really.. We shouldn’t have... Don’t feel like you have to go. Stay and finish your sandwich at least!”
“It’s fine, I’ll get it to go - I really need to go do those sticks. And I want to check in with the conditioning guys.” Justin is starting to feel bad now for saying he’ll go, but he also can’t stay and watch this.
“You could stay, it’s not like you’ll be needing the sticks for a game anytime soon!” says Harry casually.
For a moment, the world sways as Justin hears what is said but it takes a moment for his brain to comprehend that that was really said.
“Harry!” hisses Olli, low and outraged. “What the fuck?”
Justin wants to say something bitter and cutting in return, but his brain is just not co-operating and he knows he’s just standing there, staring stupidly at Harry, like a fucking idiot. He takes a breath instead, picking up his plate to take to the counter to get it to go. There’s nothing he can think to say - it’s kind of true after all. That’s what makes it worse.
Then he remembers what Sully said about his battle mentality and being ready to go anytime he’s needed and he takes that thought and uses it to force the hurt away. He might not need a stick for a game soon; but he might also need it for the next game and he’s going to be ready. It doesn’t matter what Harry says. Justin’s actually on the Pens, is doing what Sully has asked and Harry, well he’s a Penguins reject after all.
Behind him, he can hear Olli and Harry in frantic, urgent, muttered conversation as the staff wrap the remains of his sandwich for him.
As he turns to leave, Olli and Harry are there.
“Hey Schultzer, I’m sorry, that was out of line.” Harry sounds penitent, but as Justin looks at him, he can’t see it. He’s doing it because he made Olli mad, not because he hurt Justin. Olli on the other hand is still looking stricken, hand reaching out to flutter along Justin’s shoulder in apology.
He lets a rueful grin show. “It’s fine, there could be truth to it after all,” Justin says. “But we don’t know. Sully wants me to be ready to go at anytime so I need to go make sure I’m ready to do that.”
He eyes Harry, waiting to see if there’s any response, but there isn’t.
Olli lets his arm drop. “No problem Justin, you go do what you need to do. I’ll see you later ok?”
Justin nods to that and heads out.
0–0–0
Time spent prepping sticks is therapeutic. It’s something he’s done since he was a kid - although then it was his one precious stick, not the unlimited supply he has now, which he still marvels at. Bones and Cully are also there, doing the same thing and by the time he’s done he’s relaxed and laughing at tales of Cully’s sons and the scouting reports they’ve been giving Cully on the Rangers.
He hesitates when he gets home. Before he’d have gone round to Olli’s but now he hesitates before deciding that he can’t bring himself to intrude. So he heads to his own apartment, digs out the stash of takeout menus he’s still managed to collect and orders for one.
It doesn’t seem much time at all when the doorbell rings; he snags his wallet on the way to answer it.
To his surprise it’s Olli standing there, not the delivery boy. He’s dressed in jeans and his hair is tousled and he looks gorgeous. But Justin hesitates to reach out and touch, despite the fact he’d have been comfortable doing that just two days before. Instead he waves Olli into the apartment with a smile he hopes isn’t too uncertain.
“Justin, I’m sorry,” Olli begins remorsefully. “For last night, for today, for not realising you’d been told you’re being scratched. I’ve been ignoring you and… Well it’s shitty and I’ve been shitty.”
And yeah, Justin would agree with all of that, it has been, but Olli looking miserable is irresistible; he should never look miserable. It’s not been an easy time for Olli if he’s been having to put up with asshole Harry.
“Hey Olli, don’t worry about it. Horny gave me a ride home so it wasn’t a big deal last night. There’s nothing to apologise for today. And I can’t say it’s a good thing I’m scratched, but I could see it was likely to happen after last night and Sully spoke to me this morning so I know what’s going on and why it’s happened and what he wants me to work on,” Justin finds himself automatically making coffee for Olli just how he likes it as he talks.
“What did Sully say?”
Justin starts to tell Olli in more detail, making himself a coffee from his machine and almost without thinking, they find themselves side-by-side on Justin’s sofa, chatting and laughing and talking comfortably again and it’s like Harry hasn’t happened. There’s still sensitivity on both sides but it’s healing again.
But it seems no time at all until there’s a second knock on Justin’s door and this time it is his food delivery. It breaks the moment they’ve been in. Justin wants Olli to stay so much, but he’s looking uncomfortable and making his apologies for disturbing Justin when he’s about to eat. Justin invites him to stay and share the food, even invites Harry over, but it’s clear there’s not enough food for three.
“Besides,” says Olli regretfully, “Harry wanted to go out tonight to some Japanese place he really liked when he was still here.”
So despite Justin’s best persuasion, Olli slips away again and Justin’s left eating his meal for one alone, feeling still just as uncertain and with things still unresolved.
|
After a short debate, Lucifer and Maze decided to fly to the hospital. Lucifer carried the demon on his back, while holding his daughter in his arms.
He'd also hastily thrown on some slacks and a dress shirt without the meticulous care he usually would (of course, the first shirt he found had to be that damned mustard one that his tailor had talked him into). Maze hadn't cared, and went as is. Only sparing a moment to collect her weapons.
Whatever had stopped time, seemed to have spread throughout Los Angeles, creating an eery silence that set the immortals on edge.
Lucifer soon landed outside the hospital doors, and folded his wings back out of existence as soon as Maze hopped off.
Multiple humans stood around them, frozen like a statue garden whilst in the middle of various tasks.
Maze looked around at the humans, and shook her head as her shoulders lightly shook for a moment from a chill. "Fucking creepy."
With that, the demon whipped out a blade, and pushed through the entrance doors.
Lucifer followed, lightly shaking his own head at the spectacle. "Creepy, indeed. Like a Stephen King version of freeze tag."
Maze snorted, flipping a blade as she walked. "I swear, that guy's gotta be a cousin or something. He reminds me of one of my brothers, who was a real twisted son of a bitch. Some of the hell-loops he came up with even gave me chills."
"Hmm." Lucifer hummed as he glanced around the mortals around them.
They managed to find Amenadiel in the hall near the maternity ward, pacing a hole into the floor, obviously distressed.
"Brother," Lucifer called out, catching the angel's attention. "I was in the middle of something! Could you have picked a worse moment to stop time?"
Amenadiel simply shook his head, running a hand over it. He then opened a door in the hall, and pointed beyond the doorway. "Look."
Lucifer and Maze listened, and looked into the room to find the Doctor lying on a bed wearing a hospital gown, a wince frozen on her face.
"LINDA!" Maze shouted and rushed into the room, looking the Doctor over while simultaneously glancing around for possible enemies.
Lucifer faced his brother, distress now making sense. "What happened?"
Amenadiel closed his eyes for a moment, collecting himself. "I-I... One minute, she was fine. Then the next she's in pain, and bleeding. We came here, and the doctors say that she had a... That her placenta abrupted? Something about abruption."
Amenadiel swallowed, eyes glossy as he opened them, and settled his gaze on the Doctor. "I started reading about it online while the doctors discussed what to do next. Did you know that death occurs 15 percent of the time with this thing? 15 percent!"
Amenadiel took a deep breath, and the devil and demon shared a glance before the angel continued. "I... When Linda started feeling more pain, I just... Everything suddenly froze, and I don't know what happened!"
Maze threw her blade at a wall in her frustration, causing it to become embedded, and buried her hands in her hair as she paced. "FUCK! Mother-fucking-fucker!"
Amenadiel leaned against a wall next to the door, closing his eyes as he hit the back of his head against the wall in helplessness. "We thought they were just Braxton Hicks at first! I should've taken her to the hospital immediately. I should've known that something was off. Fuck!"
Aurora whined at the yelling, so Lucifer rocked on his heels back and forth in an attempt to lull her. He took a breath, and tried to be consoling without losing his own shit. "Well, I hate to break this to you, but I doubt that the doctors can heal the Doctor whilst they're all frozen. Now, can they? So for everyone's sakes, why don't you snap your fingers and unfreeze time?"
"I can't, Luci."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't just unfreeze time! I don't even know how I froze it to begin with." Amenadiel covered his jaw with his hand. "I didn't even think I was capable of stopping time. Especially now that my ability to slow it is gone."
Maze stepped into the hall, crossed her arms, and leveled the angel with a glare. "So you're telling me, that you've jammed the pause button on all of Los Angeles, and don't know how to fix it?"
Amenadiel slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, and nodded, burying his face in his hands. "Exactly..."
After a minute, Amenadiel suddenly whipped his head up, eyes going wide. "Wait, all of Los Angeles? Not just the hospital?"
"Duh, dumbass." Maze commented, the compassionate friend she usually was.
Amenadiel looked to Lucifer for confirmation, and when he received a nod, exhaled a shocked breath. "... Shit."
————————
After a few minutes, Amenadiel was back to pacing as the three of them attempted to brain storm.
Maze leaned against a wall, one bunny slipper clad foot against it, arms crossed. She turned her face towards Lucifer when an idea occurred to her. "Why don't you just use one of your feathers on Linda? Like that blonde chick's hair in Tangled?"
Lucifer raised a single eyebrow at being compared to a Disney character. "My feathers are not like Tangled. I don't have to sing a bloody lullaby for them to work."
Maze simply rolled her eyes. "Either way, wouldn't it still work?"
Amenadiel continued to pace without reacting, already knowing what his brother's answer would be.
Lucifer sighed, shaking his head. "It's not an exact science. External wounds? No problem. I can have those rectified in a pop. But internal? That's when things become complicated. And I've certainly never tried to use my feathers on a pregnant woman before. If we're not careful, it could just potentially make things worse."
Maze glared in disappointment with a curse. "Dammit, Rapunzel."
"Not Rapunzel."
"... Yeah, you're right." Maze agreed with a shrug. "You can't draw worth a shit. Much less paint murals."
Lucifer glared in indignation.
"I already called Mom." Amenadiel informed them as he paced, changing the subject. "Apparently, the time freeze didn't effect her. And... I might have panicked and impulsively prayed to Michael, so they're both on the way."
Lucifer groaned unhappily when he heard that his twin was on the way, considering that he's been avoiding him since the whole retreat debacle. "Lovely."
"So," Maze commented thoughtfully. "This whole self actualization bullshit? You think that can be responsible? That you froze time because you freaked out?"
"I don't know." Amenadiel replied, continuing to pace. "Maybe? I'm still workshopping the theory, so I really don't know."
Lucifer scoffed, but otherwise remained silent, focusing on the fussy infant in his arms. "Whatever is keeping Amenadiel from getting his power boner up-" Amenadiel shot his brother an annoyed look. "-we better figure it out soon."
———————
A little while later, the trio had moved on to the first floor when Michael and Charlotte arrived through the front entrance.
Michael's eyebrows shot up when he noticed Maze's attire. "Why do you look like an alcoholic housewife from the 50s?"
Mazikeen narrowed her eyes with crossed arms. "Because I was about to have sex. Why do you look like an old fart who yells at pigeons in his front lawn?"
Michael tilted his head, then scoffed. "Oddly specific, but okay."
"What happened?" Charlotte asked, glancing around the frozen humans. "Why does the city look like a freeze frame?"
Lucifer gestured towards Amenadiel. "You can ask your first born that question, Mum."
Amenadiel gave his mother and brother the rundown of recent events, and they all settled in the waiting room while he explained.
Lucifer was the only one who remained standing, pacing as he tried to calm Aurora down, who had decided to have a good cry. Most likely hungry or wanting her mother.
"Damn," Michael said after Amenadiel had finished explaining, along with the newest theory. "So, wait a minute. You've got a theory that we control our powers? Our bodies? All of it?"
"Exactly." Amenadiel nodded.
Michael furrowed his brows, and snorted. "That's about as likely as Mazikeen pulling off those bunny slippers."
"Fuck you, asshole." Maze shot back irritably, flipping a knife in hand.
Lucifer shook his head. "For once, I agree with Harp Boy over here."
Michael glared in annoyance. "Still not gonna be bigger man and let that go, are you?"
"I'm always bigger where the manhood is concerned, just ask Maze."
"It's true." Maze added helpfully.
The archangel rolled his eyes with a grimace. "Man-slut."
"Virgin prude."
"Boys," Charlotte warned as she glanced between the twins. When they piped down, the Goddess turned to her eldest. "Son, I... I have to agree with your brothers. This theory, it just seems unlikely to me that your father would allow anyone besides himself to have that kind of control. He alway loved having his nose in everyone's business, why stop now?"
The Goddess leaned back in her chair, then gestured towards Lucifer. "Take your brother, for example. How would it be possible for him to have his Devil face if not for your father? The only way for this theory to be possible is if he saw himself as-"
Charlotte suddenly cut herself off, face falling when she seemed to realize something. She met Lucifer's eyes, and no doubt remembered what Lucifer had told her during his Devil sitch.
You think I want to be a monster?
Well, that sentence was coming back to bite him in the arse.
Charlotte covered her mouth behind a hand, eyes widening slightly in distress as she seemed to come to a realization.
Lucifer averted his gaze from hers, and cleared his throat as he continued to pace. "Well, regardless if this little hypothesis is correct or not, most likely not, we still need to find a solution to..." Lucifer then vaguely gestured towards everything with one hand. "this."
Lucifer cringed when Aurora continued to cry, and tried to talk over her. "And afterwards, I've got a ham-handed immortal to punish, so I really don't have much patience."
For some reason, that seemed to catch Michael's attention, and he frowned. "What? What immortal?"
Everyone's attention was now on the Devil, and Maze tilted her head. "Is that what you and Chloe were whispering about in the kitchen?"
"Yes, it is." Lucifer confirmed. He felt hesitant to reveal his findings around his twin, but decided fuck it, things couldn't possibly get any worse. "The Detective and I came to a realization after we got a midnight visitor. Trevor Lincoln showed up on our doorstep, asking for a deal."
Michael's eyes bulged as his jaw dropped, the epitome of shock. "WHAT?!"
When everyone glanced at him oddly upon the archangel's overreaction, he coughed. "That's... certainly surprising. What exactly did he tell you?"
"Bottom line, he told us that there was someone else working behind the curtain besides the Sinnerman we caught." Lucifer informed them. "Long story short, the Detective managed to figure out who was really behind it all: Pierce. Or Cain, whichever name you refer to him as."
Everyone went through various stages of surprise, anger, and the urge to stab someone (Maze especially, in the last case. Though Charlotte wasn't far behind).
Michael tensed, at the edge of his seat. "Holy shit... Was he working with anyone else?"
Lucifer frowned at the question. "I assume so, since he's the leader of a criminal organization. But I don't know about anyone specifically, yet."
Lucifer was too busy with the fussy infant to notice how his twin relaxed and sat back in his chair.
Maze stabbed the magazine sitting on the nearby side table, impaling Jennifer Aniston in the eye. "THAT SON OF A BITCH!" She groaned and ran a hand over her face. "Fuck me, what am I gonna tell Eve?"
"Well, it can't be that surprising for her." Michael commented. "Considering the fact that he's the first murderer and all."
Maze glared at the archangel, then bounced her eyes between his groin and her blade, wondering if anyone would stop her if she were to connect the two. Charlotte probably would. Lucifer wouldn't. Amenadiel's 50/50. "Thanks, feather ass."
"No problem, Hell scum."
Michael looked at the crying baby, holding back a grimace. He then turned towards Amenadiel. "You know, if angel powers don't effect Ariel, then who knows if they effect your kid?"
Lucifer's eyes narrowed while Amenadiel's widened.
"What?!"
"Ariel?!"
Michael glanced at his twin. "You named her after a Disney character, didn't you?" He then turned back to Amenadiel while the Devil's nostrils flared in insult. "I'm just thinking aloud. For all we know, the baby could be very much animate inside that Doctor of yours."
Amenadiel's body began to tremble at the thought, while both Lucifer and their mother glared at the archangel.
"Not helping, Michael." Lucifer pointed out through gritted teeth.
Michael shrugged with feigned innocence. "What? It's just a thought. I'm probably wrong anyway... Maybe."
"Oh God," Amenadiel breathed. "I think I'm going to be sick."
Amenadiel stood, walking away from the group. "I need a minute."
After a moment, Michael stood, leaving the room as well. "I'll make sure he doesn't end up fast forwarding time until we hit the apocalypse."
Michael followed where he'd seen his older brother wander off to until he found him leaning against a wall, head in his hands.
"Hey," Michael said casually as he leaned against the wall on his good shoulder. "Don't worry about what I said, I'm probably wrong. From what I've heard, you were mortal when you conceived your baby, right?"
Amenadiel frowned, but nodded. "Yes..."
"Right. Which means that your child might be more human than Lucifer's. So he's probably fine, just as frozen as the rest."
Amenadiel tensed, giving his brother a confused expression. "I'm not sure if you're trying to make me feel better or worse."
Michael shrugged his good shoulder. "Eh, worth a shot. Speaking of mortality... what was it like?"
"What do you mean? What was it like being mortal?"
"Yeah, I'm curious. How did it happen? Was it gradual, or all at once? How did you make it go away?" Michael kept his voice carefully conversational, while holding the feather he had lost on the roof in his pocket. Since then, he's lost more feathers, and hasn't been able to get his damn wings to work.
Please say all at once. If Amenadiel had a different experience than him, than it probably wasn't the same thing. Michael was probably just overreacting. Jumping to untrue conclusions.
Amenadiel hesitated for a moment before answering. "It was gradual. I didn't even realize it was happening at first. And I... I couldn't ever make it go away. At least not consciously."
Well... fuck.
"Oh." Michael said, then tried to figure out a way to gain more answers. "But how did you regain your wings? And when did you lose your powers and immortality? How-"
"Michael," Amenadiel said sternly. "I really don't have the headspace to have a conversation about my fall from grace, of all things. Forgive me for being rude, but the woman I love and my child might be dying. This is not the time."
And before Michael could try to reason with him, Amenadiel pushed off the wall, and returned to their little group.
Once alone, Michael stomped his foot and held back a scream of frustration.
Fuck.
They had figured Cain out. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Michael took his phone from his pocket, and sent a text, explaining their current situation, to the first murderer. He honestly didn't know whether or not time freezes effected cursed humans, but he might as well give it a shot.
After waiting a moment, he received a simple 'Ok'. Well, that answered that question.
He then pocketed the phone, and returned to the group before they questioned his absence.
————————
After a few minutes of listening to a crying two month old, everyone felt ready to pull their hair out (except Maze and Amenadiel. Maze, because the screams reminded her of home. And Amenadiel, well... the hair analogy not working on him was obvious).
Michael groaned from his chair. "Do babies by any chance have an off switch? Or did Dad forget to include it?"
"She just wants her mother." Lucifer defended, then narrowed his eyes at Amenadiel. "And she'd have her mother, if someone hadn't turned her into a detect-cicle! Detective-icicle... detectiving-cicle... You get my point!"
Amenadiel sighed, narrowing his eyes. "I'm so sorry I lost my cool while my GIRLFRIEND AND CHILD ARE IN THE EMERGENCY ROOM!"
"Alright, boys!" Charlotte intervened, taking a deep breath. "Lucifer, how about I take Aurora for a bit? I can walk her around the hospital, and give you a break."
Lucifer hesitated a moment before handing his daughter off, and dropping down into the chair on the opposite side of the room from Michael as his mother stood, and began making her way down a random hallway.
Maze stood, following the Goddess. "I'll come with you. In case any of your dick babies come by."
Charlotte narrowed her eyes at the demon. "My children are not dicks! They're just... misinformed, and can make poor decisions."
Maze snorted. "So, they're ignorant and stupid? Much better."
The angels could no longer hear their bickering since they had turned down a hall, leaving them.
Amenadiel fidgeted for a minute before standing up. "I'm going to go check on Linda, see if she's alright." The angel left before Lucifer had the chance to comment on how he very much doubted that she was going anywhere.
Lucifer glanced at his twin, and scoffed. "And then, there were two."
Michael gave his own scoff, crossing his arms. "Wonderful. I'm stuck with Dwight Schrute."
"... I don't know who that is."
Michael got quiet for a moment before he smirked. "HAH! A reference that I understand, and you don't! Finally! I guess being stuck with Comedy Central three in the morning pays off."
Lucifer gave him a deadpan expression, then rolled his eyes. "Is that before or after your daily wanking? Or before you cry yourself to sleep?"
Michael rolled his own eyes, then picked up a random magazine (which turned out to be an impaled Jennifer Aniston) as to avoid further conversation. "Prick."
"Ass." Lucifer shot back, imitating his brother's New Yorker accent.
"Bloody pillock." Michael shot back without looking up from his magazine, using Lucifer's English accent.
"Incompetent dickhead."
"Stupid tossor."
"Flat-assed idiot."
Michael went quiet for a minute, then looked up, dropping the British accent. "You do realize that we have the same ass, right? And it's definitely not flat."
"Yes, but I highly doubt you know how to use yours like I do. Just how many limitless possibilities there are when you've got olive oil and-"
Michael held up a hand, not even bothering to hide his grimace. "Don't finish that sentence unless you want me to vomit all over those ridiculous..."
Michael looked down at his brother's bare feet, expecting to find expensive louboutin. "Where the hell are your shoes?"
Lucifer shifted in his seat, growing annoyed. "I was in a rush. Just be grateful I'm wearing trousers right now. Because I came this close," Lucifer held his thumb and forefinger less than half an inch apart. "To coming commando... For once, the reality isn't nearly as dirty as that sentence sounds."
Michael grimaced again, and turned his attention back to the magazine. "I still remember your streaking phase back in the Silver City. And believe me, that's not something I want to repeat."
Lucifer snorted, rolling his eyes. "The animals were allowed to roam naked. I still don't see why everyone made such a fuss when I did the same thing."
Michael grunted noncommittally, not drawing his attention from some article depicting a celebrity scandal.
After awhile, Lucifer took out his phone, and realized that he had a missed call and voicemail from Miss Lopez.
She must have sent it right before time stopped, and Lucifer hadn't noticed since his ringer had been switched off as to not wake Aurora.
"Hmm, that's odd." Lucifer mused.
"What's odd?"
"Miss Lopez called at... Nearly three in the morning? What could she have to tell me at a time like that?"
Instead of waiting for an answer to his rhetorical question, Lucifer turned up the volume, and held the phone out as he listened to the voicemail.
"Hey, Luce! Uh, I went back to the cabin just now, just to check up a couple things. And... I sorta found something."
Michael glanced up from his magazine, looking at the phone.
"It's probably nothing and I'm just getting worked up, but... In case it's not, I need to tell you.. I found a feather. A big, black feather."
Lucifer froze, easy going expression melting away as his face became utterly blank, staring at the phone as his mind struggled to catch up with what he was hearing.
"And it... it looks exactly like yours, and does a weird shadowy thing like in Lord of the Rings."
A chill traveled down Lucifer's spine as memories from before the Rebellion flitted through his mind. Memories of Michael playing with shadows, while Lucifer did the same, but with light.
‘Weird shadowy thing.’
‘Looks exactly like yours.’
‘Black feather.’
No. No, no, no, no, no.
This can't be... this can't be right.
His relationship with Michael was more than rocky, but he couldn't have-
Lucifer looked up, meeting his twin's gaze. The Devil looked up just in time to see the sheer panic in the Archangel's eyes before Michael could try to cover it up with a cough. The archangel accidentally dropped the magazine to the floor, and didn't care enough to pick it up.
"I think one of your siblings is working with the Sinner-"
And with that, the voicemail ended, and the brothers were left staring at one another in deafening silence.
Lucifer remained utterly blank as Michael scoffed, forcing a smile. "Lucifer, that's... You don't honestly think that-"
"Stop talking." Lucifer breathed, and that's when it came.
The rage.
Lucifer let out a shaky breath, lightly shaking his head. His voice started out soft, but steadily grew with each word. "All this time, you've been working alongside the enemy. All this time, everything you told me about forgiveness and mending bridges was all a ploy. All this time, you've..." Lucifer trailed off, breaths becoming heavy as his anger steadily grew.
While Lucifer had actually been feeling guilty and sorry for him, Michael has been plotting his demise behind Lucifer's back.
All this bloody time!
Everything Michael's claimed since coming to Earth. All this talk of seeing Lucifer in a new light. All this talk of feeling inferior and lonely... It's all been a lie. A manipulation.
Another feeling mingled among the rage, a feeling that Lucifer knew all too well: Betrayal.
Again.
Suppose it's true what they say. Fool me once, shame on you. But fool me twice...
Lucifer's teeth chattered and his eyes ignited with hellfire. "How many angels do I know with black, shadowy feathers, eh? How many?"
Michael swallowed, then stood from his chair, slowly backing up. "Lucifer..."
"HOW MANY, MICHAEL?!" Lucifer boomed as he stood, demon voice bleeding through.
Michael was frozen for a good second before he turned on his heel, and ran down a random hallway.
Lucifer would've laughed if he wasn't so infuriated. The Devil followed his brother at a leisure pace, taking his time, like a cat playing with a mouse.
Lucifer found Michael cornered in a room with elevators and a stairwell. There were a few humans frozen, unknowing and non-remembering witnesses to what would soon occur.
"Lucifer," Michael had the gall to try and talk himself out of the situation, giving a nervous chuckle. "Your friend had said, like, ten times that she could be wrong. That it was probably just a bird."
"A bird?" Lucifer hissed incredulously. "Don't insult my intelligence, Michael."
"I'm not! Okay? I'm... Alright, here's the truth. After you recovered Aurora, I went there to see if the Sinnerman left anything behind. To see if he had anything of celestial nature. The human must've come by after I left."
Lucifer gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head and not believing a single word. "Right, because you're so concerned about my family's safety. How would you have been known where this cabin is? Who would've told you? I know that the Detective didn't. I didn't. Mum and Maze most likely didn't. I fail to see why Daniel would. Remiel's in Heaven. Amenadiel doesn't even know where it is."
Lucifer gritted his teeth as he continued. "Miss Lopez isn't a dullard. If she had told you where the cabin was, the thought that it could be your feather while you went for a look-see would've crossed her mind, and she would've mentioned it in the voicemail. And no other officer with inside information would've told something like that to a civilian. So, who told you, Michael?"
Michael fell silent, not having a legitimate answer to that question.
Lucifer swallowed past the growing lump in his throat. "Tell me, has a word that came out of your mouth since coming here true? Or was it all just an elaborate scheme since the beginning?" He stalked closer to the archangel, like a predator cornering their prey.
Michael opened and closed his mouth as he backed up, trying to find a way out of this hole. "I... Of course it was true! I...I didn't..."
Michael's back hit the wall, and Lucifer stopped a mere foot away from him, alabaster skin melting away to reveal his Devil face. By his own control, this time.
The twins grew quiet for a moment, brown eyes meeting red.
Then, in his panic, Michael did something incredibly stupid.
He swung his good arm back, and punched his brother in the face. A cracking noise echoed throughout the hall, but it wasn't from Lucifer.
Lucifer blinked when his head barely moved from what should've been a hard impact, and Michael cussed at his pained hand.
Well, Lucifer wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he didn't question it. Lucifer allowed his Devil face to melt away, and grinned. "So, that's how you wanna play it, eh? Game bloody on."
And with that, Lucifer pushed his brother to the floor, where the archangel scrambled away. When Lucifer stalked towards him, Michael suddenly kicked at his legs, causing Lucifer to trip and fall backwards, making a small wheeled table with surgical tools to tumble to floor alongside him.
Michael took the opportunity when Lucifer had fallen onto his back, jumped on top of him, and sent a heavy punch to the face.
This hit was fairly harder than the first one. Not nearly as hard as you'd expect from an archangel, but enough to leave a noticeable bruise in the near future.
Lucifer panicked as he grabbed a random scalpel from the pile, and sliced it across his twin's face.
Lucifer had been expecting the blade to be no more than a distraction, but was surprised when Michael cried out in pain, clamping a hand over his face, and scrambling away as blood dripped through his fingers.
When they sat several feet from each other, Michael slowly removed his hand from his face, gaping at the blood staining his hand, and more blood continued to flow from the wound that ran across the archangel's face.
Lucifer looked between his brother and the bloodied surgical knife in his hand, dumbfounded. "Is this a magic scalpel?"
Michael's eyes widened in horror as he stared at his hand, and his voice trembled with fear. "What the fuck is happening to me?"
"What you deserve, I'm sure." Lucifer spat, then stood, scalpel in hand.
Michael hastily got to his feet, frantically glancing around as he looked for an escape. The archangel held up a hand in a placating manner. "Sa-Lucifer... you're not actually going to kill me."
Lucifer tilted his head, voice and expression eerily calm. "You sure about that? I did say that there'd be Hell to pay if you threatened my family, didn't I?"
Michael took a step back, hand covering the new cut on his face. "Not in so many words..."
"But that was the gist of it." Lucifer commented sharply through his clenched teeth. The Devil chuckled, and lightly shrugged his shoulders. "But luckily for you, brother oh mine, I've got something else in mind... At least, for the time being."
Michael frowned, unsure of what to make of that. "What?"
Lucifer suddenly rushed forward, grabbed Michael by the throat, and pushed him against the wall.
Michael gasped, and grabbed at Lucifer's arm, but his twin wouldn't budge.
Lucifer got nose to nose with Michael, and smiled. "Like it or not, you're going to tell me every little detail you know about the Sinnerman. The real one, this time. Then we'll go on a little field trip to find him."
|
“Didn’t expect to see you in today,” Callen said, coming to stand at his desk. Tony glanced up before ducking his head and returning to his work. The bruise where Sidorov had hit him was dark against his tanned skin, but Callen viewed it as a mark of what he'd been through in an attempt to save Deeks.
“I wanted to finish my report.”
“Could have waited a day or two,” Callen persisted, trying to read into the hunch of Tony’s shoulders and the clench of his jaw. Tony shrugged, not looking up and Callen thought again about the empty hotel room Tony was likely facing. “Sam told me what you did.”
“Just doing my job,” Tony said dismissively, continuing to look like he was working on his report though it was obvious he wasn't really. The response didn’t surprise him, even if it once might have. Before Callen had worked with him, had gotten to know Tony, as much as Tony would let any of them, he would have believed Tony would revel in gloating. He knew better now.
“Yeah, but... thanks,” Called said, hoping that when Tony looked up at him, he could read his sincerity. They hadn’t started off on the right foot, most of which was Callen’s fault, but he knew Tony was a good guy. Whatever had brought him to LA, Callen couldn’t imagine Tony had intentionally screwed things up, no matter Gibbs’ reaction.
After a moment, Tony simply nodded and deliberately relaxed the tension in his shoulders. He was the only other man Callen had ever met that could shift everything about himself just as easily and quickly as Callen could. It didn’t speak to a stable or healthy childhood, especially when Tony didn’t seem to ever turn it off.
“I’d have you at my back, any time,” Callen told him, hoping Tony would read into that what Callen couldn’t bring himself to say. It felt too much like choosing sides.
“You don’t want me on your ass,” Tony said, unable to hold back a grin. “Between us, we might have the worst luck in the entire agency.”
Callen laughed but couldn’t disagree.
...
Tony stared at his screen for a long moment, fingers hovering over his contacts list before he finally gave in and texted his location. Deeks didn’t want anything to do with them for a while and Tony couldn’t really blame him, not with everything he’d been through. But Tony didn’t want to go back to his empty hotel room and deal with his thoughts alone.
He briefly glanced around the bar but, beyond a casual perusal, no one was paying too much attention to him. He drank deeply from the beer in front of him and waited for a response. Not even ten minutes later, someone settled into the seat next to him. Tony tilted his head in Don’s direction and Don’s eyes widened, scanning the side of his face and Tony knew he could see the bruises even in the dim lighting of the bar. They were rather spectacular.
“What happened?” Don asked with a jerk of his chin. Tony smiled, but he didn’t need the narrowing of Don’s eyes to tell that it was a little off.
“Pissed off the wrong person.”
“That a concern in your line of business?” Don asked, fishing. Tony’s smile widened.
“More often than I’d like.”
“Maybe you should try a different business,” Don suggested.
“Maybe,” Tony conceded. “But I don’t know who I am without what I do.”
“I know what that’s like,” Don said, clearly not entirely sure he was comfortable having that in common with Tony. Tony smirked, a faint curl of his mouth, amused at Don’s expense. They were likely far more alike than the other man could guess at. If things had been different, if it hadn’t all been such a mess, they might have actually had a shot.
“You ever regret the decisions that led you here?” Tony asked. Don breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. He toyed with one of the bowls of peanuts on the bar for a long moment, turning it one way then another.
“Sure,” he said eventually. “I mean, doesn’t everyone?”
Tony conceded that with a nod, still looking pensive.
“You regret being here?” Don asked, eyes shifting away before settling back on Tony’s face.
“In this bar? With you?” Tony asked, leaning forward and smiling, because this moment might the only sane thing in his life. “Not even a little bit.”
Don smirked back at him then and leaned in close, the glint in his eyes sparking warmth in the pit of Tony’s stomach.
“Want to get out of here?” Don asked and Tony realised that was the question he'd been waiting for all night.
“Absolutely.”
He tossed back the last of his drink and left a bill on the bar before standing up. Don’s smirk hadn’t faded at his eagerness and he stepped forward, crowding into Don’s space.
“How far to your place?” he asked.
“Not yours?” Don asked, eyebrows raised in a skeptical arch.
“If you’re really interested in a dingy hotel room of dubious cleanliness,” Tony offered. The hotel room wasn’t as bad as he made it sound, but there were things there that, with a bit of snooping, might reveal him. Don wrinkled his nose. “And you’re closer.”
“Planned this out, did you?”
“Hoped,” Tony said with a shrug, “not planned.”
He slid a hand around Don’s waist and pulled him against himself.
“You really do think too much,” Tony told him.
“I do, huh?”
“We both want this,” Tony said softly, speaking directly into his ear. He could feel the exact moment Don shivered and submitted to this draw between them. Don pushed him up against the bar, the counter digging into his back, and stayed like that for a long moment, breathing deeply like he was fighting for control. Tony's interest spiked at the thought of making him lose that control.
“Fine,” Don growled and then stepped away, pulling away from him and striding out of the bar with determination. Tony grinned and followed him out. He’d barely stepped through the door when his shirt was fisted and he was shoved against the wall. Don pressed a thigh between his and looked at him a moment before closing the distance between them. He tasted like coffee and hazelnut and Tony couldn’t help but smile against his lips.
“Come on,” Don said, stepping away from Tony but not releasing his grip on his shirt.
“I’m leaving in a few days,” Tony said, stalling their advance so that they were frozen, pressed together and still breathless.
“Back to the east coast?” Don asked conversationally and Tony couldn’t gauge his feeling about it one way or the other. Tony gave him a wry smile.
“To sea, actually.”
“Like a cruise? Sounds like fun.”
“It really won’t be,” Tony told him. “I hate being stuck at sea.”
“So why are you going?” Don asked, eyes dropping down to follow the movement of Tony’s lips as he spoke.
“I just wanted you to know where I stood,” Tony said.
“Noted,” Don said and pulled Tony with him to the car.
...
Don’s awakening was a sudden thing when he felt the bed shift beside him. The lingering warmth against his shoulder and waist indicated that Tony had only just moved away from him. His thoughts were more than a little conflicted about what had happened. He’d had sex with a man. A man who was at best an informant and at worst a criminal. A man who was leaving in a few days. Which was probably the best thing for him. Not least because he didn’t even have the emotional distance to call him anything but Tony in the privacy of his own thoughts.
He kept his eyes closed and his breathing even as he heard Tony move almost silently around the room, gathering his clothing and slipping it on. It should have been a relief that Don could escape his transgression without any awkward confrontations but that didn’t explain the way his heart was pounding in his chest or the sinking feeling in his stomach. All sound stopped for a moment and Don couldn’t shake the feeling that Tony was pausing to watch him. He held his breath, not daring to move. There was a soft exhalation and then the sound of Tony opening the bedroom door.
“Wait,” Don said, opening his eyes, not entirely sure why he was postponing the inevitable. Tony had stopped, hand still on the door handle, door half open. He looked caught between the moment of staying and leaving and Don still didn’t know which one he’d prefer.
“This doesn’t have to be complicated,” Tony said quietly and Don fully agreed, but that didn’t explain why Don had stopped Tony and Tony had let him.
“Little late for that.”
Tony chuckled, letting go of the door handle and half turning back. The bruise across his temple looked even worse in the light of day and Don knew it wasn’t the only one. There were several more and a lifetime of scars under those clothes. He hadn’t mentioned them, hadn’t even lingered on them, the night before. Not when he had his own scars and stories he didn’t want to tell.
“I suppose it is at that.”
“You did promise to make it worth my while,” Don said with a quick smile.
“You telling me I didn’t live up to that promise last night?” Tony asked, eyebrow raised in mock offense. Don laughed and Tony grinned at him. They both knew that Tony had more than lived up to it, more than once. Tony’s expression turned sly and he stepped forward. “I could always give it another go. Make absolutely sure I keep my promise.”
Don couldn’t help but respond to the low, rough voice and the half-lidded eyes. With great reluctance, he tamped down on the response.
“As much as I like that idea,” Don said, reaching for the jeans in a heap on the floor. “I have to show up at work today.”
“Pity,” Tony said, but he shifted his weight back, expression clearing, and Don was relieved. Tony was an addiction he couldn’t seem to let go, even at the expense of everything else. But then, when it came to his relationships, he hadn’t always made the best decisions.
“Who are you?” Don asked, turning to watch Tony who watched him back with equal intensity.
“If you really want to know, I’ll tell you,” Tony said and Don could tell he was serious. Don would be able to let go of all his doubts, but at the possible cost of whatever this was between them. Because once everything was solidified, once he knew the answers to all his half-thought out questions, Don wouldn’t be able to ignore the truth. His conscience and his training wouldn’t allow him to do anything else.
“But it would be dangerous,” Don stated, not bothering to phrase it as a question.
“Yes.”
“For me?” Don asked, wondering if there was a threat in that. If Tony would follow through on it.
“For me,” Tony corrected, still watching Don carefully, weighing and judging him. Don considered that, considered what the consequences might be. Finally, Tony looked away from him, arms folding across his chest defensively. It was the first time Don had seen him anything less than confident and self-assured. “I’m leaving soon, does it really matter?”
“Is your name really Tony Donati?” Don asked instead.
“My name is really Tony.”
Don didn’t need to be a genius to know what to read into that. Tony was using a fake name, he’d deduced as much already. There could be any number of reasons for that, not even all of them criminal. But he’d conceded that his first name was real. If Don could trust that, it was something true he could hold onto.
“Eggs or pancakes?” Don asked, reaching for his under shirt and pulling it on, then running a hand through his hair.
“Pancakes,” Tony answered with a smile, clearly relieved that the previous line of questioning had been dropped.
|
“Dance with me?” The song was slow and breathy with a grinding bass line, and other couples were already writhing around each other on the dance floor. Spike watched them like he was reading a menu until she spoke, and then he turned that gaze on her.
“To this?” The words were tinged in equal measure with amusement and disbelief.
She slid to the floor from her stool and stalked toward him. “To this.” She put her hand on his knee, let it rest there for a moment, and then slid it up his thigh until it touched the edge of his duster. “But this will have to come off.” She pushed the coat from his shoulders to the back of the stool.
He shrugged out of the sleeves and licked his lips. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, here, Slayer.”
“No games.” Dangerous, though. He was certainly that, right now. Not like.... No more mind games. No more mind. To cover her wince, she straightened the collar on the red button-down he wore over his usual black tee. “We’re in this for five years, Spike. We’ll be together a lot. I vote we enjoy it.” She took his hand and pulled him to the dance floor. He didn’t resist.
They settled quickly into a competition that was almost combat, each one trying to out-anticipate the other. Every time one gave ground, the other was instantly there to claim the space. When one surged forward, the other fell back, yielding as water. The end result was a fluid interplay that was as good as choreographed. By the time the first song was finished, they had an audience.
The next piece was faster, driving, and they spun into their dance without a pause. The bass player laid into each note so hard it made her ribcage vibrate. This was combat, without euphemism or disguise, for all that they were both pulling their punches. Although they barely touched, she was absurdly aware of every point of contact. She couldn’t get enough air and her heart pounded in her chest—more because she knew he could hear it. It was small consolation that he was breathing hard, too.
A space around them cleared, and a circle of onlookers guarded its edges. Buffy was aware of them peripherally, but couldn’t afford to take her attention off Spike. He aimed a flat-handed blow at the side of her head. She caught his wrist, used it to pull him in closer, and kicked out to sweep his legs. He used the momentum she’d given him to continue his forward motion, jumping lightly over the sweep and sliding neatly in behind her with his arm around her waist.
She arched hard, trying to smack him in the face with the back of her skull. He sidestepped and yanked his arm up sharply into the small of her back. She dropped into a bridge and executed a perfect walkover, coming to her feet behind his outstretched arm. She grabbed it and spun him around to face her. As the band brought the music to a close, he stepped forward, nearly touching her, and looked down into her eyes. The onlookers burst into applause.
“God, you’re good,” he said, lifting a hand to neaten a stray tendril of hair. He was still breathing hard. “Never seen anyone that good.”
“You’re not so bad, yourself.” She captured his hand before he could move it away and pressed it to her cheek. “Did you have fun? Should we do it again, sometime?”
“Yes....” He hissed the word out through clenched teeth. There were yellow sparks in his eyes. Distantly, she heard the band thank the dancers and announce a twenty minute break before they started their second set. The crowd around them began to break up and wander away.
She turned her face and nuzzled his palm, dropped one chaste kiss onto it. “I was hoping you’d say that. You wanna get out of here?”
“More than I can say,” he whispered, and his voice sounded odd. She looked closely at him. The architecture of his face was a little too abrupt, even compared to his ordinary angularity, and his eyes had gone completely gold. If he was struggling to stay in human face, she needed to get him out of this crowd, pronto.
“‘Kay. Will you go grab our things and meet me in the alley? I need to....” She trailed off and nodded at the line in front of the women’s bathroom. There were at least fifteen people waiting. “I may be a few minutes.”
“Surely will.” He flashed a smile too grateful to be a smirk. She saw fangs. Damn, but his self-control was impressive. She hadn’t appreciated that until she’d been on speaking terms with a variety of vampires. Once the demon was roused, it was near impossible to stuff it back down, and she’d had to knock more than one fangy ally unconscious to prevent a bloodbath. She couldn’t remember Spike changing faces involuntarily except when he was controlled by The First. Now, he was holding it together by force of will. They had an agreement, by god, and William was an honorable man. “Human drawbacks.”
“Yeah—got a couple of those.” She squeezed his hand. “Get some air. I’ll see you soon.” Then she went to stand in line.
Buffy was still standing in line twenty minutes later when the band began heading back toward the stage. On her way through the crowd, the lead singer stopped in front of her. She was slim and leggy with skin so dark it looked purple in the low light of the club. A mini-dress in green velveteen clung to her torso above a pair of burgundy thigh-high boots. Her cropped hair was felted into rounded dreadlocks that extended maybe half an inch from her skull and the narrow silver collar around her neck was studded with small but very sharp spikes. Behind her ear, she wore a cluster of red flowers with delicate white centers and edges. “You and your boyfriend were awesome, out there,” she said in a voice like spun sugar. “Do you two dance someplace professionally?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Buffy smiled. “We’ve never actually danced together before.”
The girl did a double take. “Wow. Seriously?”
“Seriously, but you’re not too far off, now that I think about it. Martial arts. He’s been my sparring partner for years.”
“But not your boyfriend?” Buffy made a face, and the girl laughed. “Thought I saw some sparks flying.”
“There may have been...sparks,” she admitted. “I’m up for sparks.” That was the understatement of the evening.
The girl clapped her hands. “So you need a little boost. I knew I brought these for a reason. Here.” She unpinned the flowers from behind her ear and fastened them carefully into Buffy’s hair. “Dianthus barbatus. Grows wild in the old world. Gallantry, finesse, and perfection. My prayer for the lovelorn: may he become what he could be.”
“Thank you,” Buffy said, touching the flowers gently. “They’re beautiful.”
“That’s us. Eden Insists.” The girl tapped the band poster on the wall next to the restroom door. “Look us up. I’ll get you in to all our shows without a cover—as long as you promise to dance.”
The rest of the band was already on stage. The singer skipped up to the microphone just as her intro ended, leaving Buffy to wait for her turn in the bathroom.
When she finally got outside, she found Spike slouched against the wall in the alley, shopping bags by his side, the agitation from earlier no longer in evidence. He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, I know,” she said, hurrying toward him. “Might’ve been faster just to go home, but I wasn’t sure how long we were gonna....” He had the strangest expression on his face. “What?”
He opened and closed his mouth twice before saying, “You have flowers.”
“Yeah.” She patted her hair. “Aren’t they pretty? Dian...something. The singer gave them to me. She said they were finesse, perfection, and...something else.”
“Gallantry,” he said, nodding slowly. “Dianthus.”
“You know...flowers?” She was delighted, but not surprised. This was a man rebounding hard from a hundred-year romance. Say it with flowers? He could probably write whole novels with flowers. “I don’t get it,” she said, shaking her head. “You are prime long term relationship material, and women like that, whether they have fangs or not. There should have been a pack of them hanging around just itching for you to get single.”
“Dru’s the jealous type,” he said softly, reaching out to trace the edges of each blossom with his fingertip. “Dusted a few. Chased the rest away. Din’t leave me many options.”
“I’m sorry.” She had no words for how sorry she was—or how ashamed, in hindsight. The first time through, she’d been cruel, mocked his despair over losing Dru, called him names. You’re not even a loser anymore. You’re a shell of a loser. It wasn’t until she was gutted by the end of a decade-long affair that she began to understand. She’d cried for months and she’d been the one to end it. If she got dumped after a century, she wasn’t sure there’d be enough left of her to mock. “God, Spike. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“Dianthus barbatus,” he whispered like he thought it was an answer. “Lots of kinds of Dianthus—pinks an’ carnations an’ whatnot. No reason for me to remember all of them, but ‘f I din’t know any others, I’d still know these. They’re called Sweet Williams.”
“Gallantry, huh? That fits.” Not only did it fit, it followed him through every incarnation, seasoned by circumstance but never fading, no matter how hard he wished it away. “That fits in all thirty-one flavors. Are you hungry, sweet William?” She touched the skin of his hand. “You’re still warm...ish.”
He looked away. “No.”
“Are you sure? You were having some trouble, in there.” She stepped directly in front of him, tried to get him to meet her eyes, but he lowered his lashes and turned his face away again.
“Not ‘cause I was hungry.” She was missing something. Was it their dance? Her nerves still thrummed with the intensity of it, too—why she’d never danced with him before was beyond her—but it couldn’t be simple arousal. That didn’t make his demon twitchy. Something was really getting to him.
She laid her palm on his chest. “I don’t mind. It won’t hurt me.”
He put his own hand on top of hers, pressed it flat where his heartbeat used to be. “I’m fine, Buffy. Don’t fret.” Then he scooped up the shopping bag. “Ready to go?”
|
Steve was talking about something, but Bucky wasn’t listening. He was far too busy staring at Darcy in disbelief. She said she had a thing tonight, but he didn’t think that thing would be a party at Stark Tower.
“You okay, Buck?” Steve placed a hand on his friends shoulder to bring him out of his daze.
“I’m fine. Give me a second.” Bucky murmured before striding across the room to stand behind Darcy, facing Barton.
“Barnes! Hey man, didn’t expect to see you here.” The archer said happily.
“I kinda had plans, but they fell through.” Bucky shrugged.
Darcy visibly tensed. She knew that voice, the same voice she’d heard every night at the diner ordering a coffee and fries.
“You never usually turn up to Stark’s shindigs.” Clint smiled “Have you met our newest lab lackey, Darcy?” He gestured to the girl in front of him.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Bucky smirked as she took a deep breath and turned to face him, putting on a smile for appearance sake
She really did look absolutely breathtaking in that dress, a wild contrast to her usual diner uniform.
“Well, Darcy this is James Barnes, but you probably figured that out.” Clint said casually.
As the penny dropped, so did her smile. Sergeant James Barnes, Howling Commando, American Hero, Martyr, superhuman, Bucky from the diner.
Her eyes dropped to his metal hand and she had to suppress a gasp. Not because she was scared, because she didn’t know how she could have not realised that it was James Buchanan Barnes hitting on her all this time. She had drawn hearts around his picture in the history textbooks in high school.
“Honour to meet you, Mr Barnes.” Darcy held out her hand for him to shake.
He took her hand in his metal one “Please, call me Bucky.” He said smugly before lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckle.
Clint looked between the two of them, noticing how flustered Darcy was getting “Hey Darce, how about you show soldier boy around. He lives here but I’m sure he doesn’t know how to get around parties too well.” He smirked.
Bucky would have taken it as an insult if it weren’t an excuse to get Darcy alone.
“That sounds like a great idea.” Bucky grinned.
“It does.” Darcy smiled back, much to his surprise “Let’s start with the balcony. I’ll see you later, Clint.”
Darcy took Bucky by the arm and pulled him out onto the empty balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind her.
“JARVIS, secure the balcony until further notice.” She called to seemingly nothing.
“As you wish, Miss Lewis.” A polite british voice replied.
She spun to face him with wide eyes “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Bucky shrugged, a cocky smile on his face “Steve told me to come.”
“Ah yes, Steve. Captain America, your best friend. Yet another crucial piece of information you neglected to tell me about!” Darcy yelled “Along with the fact that you are James Buchanan Barnes!”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I asked what you do.” She crossed her arms over her chest “You told me you do security for some big people.”
“Technically, I do. I’m like the security for the whole world.” He chuckled
“And a comedian too, apparently.” Darcy said with a roll of her eyes.
Bucky sighed a little and ran his hands through his hair “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But how was I supposed to know that you work for Stark?”
“I don’t work for Tony, I work for Doctor Banner. I tolerate Tony.” She explained.
They were quiet for a few moments before Darcy spoke up again.
“Was everything else you said true?” She asked quietly.
“Not quite.” He took a few steps towards her “Because now you in this dress is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Darcy blushed and looked up at him “So when I asked why you talked like you’re 80, it’s because you actually are.”
“Technically, I’m 97.” he laughed.
“Well, that makes sense considering all the times you’ve called me ‘Doll’” She laughed a little too.
Darcy leant against the small stone wall that surrounded the balcony and Bucky wishes he could have taken a picture of her there, looking like everything he ever needed.
“Tell me the truth, is me being me a complete deal breaker?” Bucky asked sheepishly.
“I don’t like that you lied to me...but you’re still a great guy. And you were always my favourite Howling Commando.” She confessed.
“Favourite, eh?” He grinned and stepped in front of her, placing a hand on the wall either side of her.
“Well, you were certainly the dreamiest.” Darcy wrapped her arms around his neck.
“I haven’t been called dreamy since the 40’s.” Bucky took the chance to put on hand on her hip and pressed himself lightly against her.
They were quiet for a while, just looking at eachother in the flickering lights of Manhattan.
“It’s not a deal breaker.” She said softly after a few minutes “You’ve put too much work into this for me to just turn you down.”
“I wouldn’t have called it work.” He shrugged
Darcy laughed “It can’t have been fun having to come to that dump of a diner every night just for me.”
Bucky smiled and leaned in to brush his lips against hers lightly “It was worth it.” He murmured before pressing a firm kiss to her lips.
He kissed with skilled precision, switching from slow and lazy to deep and firm and back again so fast that it knocked the air from Darcy’s lungs.
She held on to his shoulder as if she was afraid her knees would give way, letting out a small whine when he pulled away.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since I first laid eyes on you in the diner..” Bucky breathed, leaning his forehead against hers.
“Not too much of a let down?” Darcy asked, but she sounded just as out of breath as he was.
He laughed “It was the exact opposite, but I feel like we missed something..”
Darcy raised an eyebrow and pulled back a little to look up at him “Really? What’s that?”
Bucky straightened up to his full height “Darcy Lewis, I am completely crazy about you. Will you be my girl?”
“I dont know, if I say yes then you won’t come to the diner any more, and we’ll lose 70% of our business.” She joked.
He rolled his eyes and kissed her again, leaving her dizzy once more.
“Yes.” Darcy breathed when he pulled away “I’ll be your girl, even if this is really cliché.”
“Miss Lewis, Sergeant Barnes, I have been asked to request that you come back inside.” JARVIS announced.
“We’re busy.” Bucky said simply.
“I am aware, Sir. However, Mr Stark also wishes to inform you that the windows are indeed not tinted in any way and that you are in full view of the rest of tonight's guests.” The AI replied.
Darcy looked over Bucky’s shoulder to be faced with the sight of Steve, Tony, Clint and Natasha standing at behind the glass.
“Oh God.” She groaned and hid her face in Bucky’s chest.
He wrapped his arms around her and chuckled “C’mon, it’s not that bad.”
“Captain Rogers has explained the situation and the nature of your relationship, Miss Lewis.” JARVIS announced.
Darcy looked up at Bucky “You told Steve about me?”
“Well, kinda. I said I was far gone for a waitress called Darcy who was also a science assistant and looks like a pin-up model. Guess he must have connected the dots.” He shrugged before pausing for thought “Wait a second, Steve knew it was you and didn’t tell me? What a punk..”
Darcy laughed and took his hand “C’mon, let’s go enjoy the party.” She dragged him back inside.
Bucky gladly put up with the teasing from his friends and even the shocked, happy squealing from Jane Foster as he told the story of how he and Darcy met. And it was all worth it for the way she felt in his arms and they way her lips fit against his at the end out the night.
|
2250
Vulcan
Spock opened his eyes when he heard the familiar footsteps. Two-point-seven seconds later, the door to his bedroom opened and closed. Five-point-four seconds later, the mattress dipped as Jim slid under the covers.
"Amanda will be disappointed if she finds you here again," Spock said as Jim's body pressed against him.
Jim chuckled into Spock's clothed shoulder. "Like it'd be the first time. Don't wanna sleep in my room. It's too cold now, and too hot during the day."
"I find it unlikely, considering that you can change environmental settings," Spock said dryly, pressing his nose against Jim's silky hair and registering an increase of dopamine and serotonin levels in his brain.
"Don't you want me here?" Jim teased him in a mock-hurt tone, his voice somewhat rough.
Spock was still getting used to the changes that had occurred to Jim recently. In addition to the change of his voice, Jim's face had become more mature, his jawline firmer. He had grown three inches only in the last two months and finally gained some weight and muscle mass, much to Amanda's delight.
"The question is illogical," Spock responded, wrapping an arm around Jim's waist. He knew that he should not be doing this; such behavior was hardly appropriate now that they were not children. They should have ceased touching so freely the moment Spock's touch-telepathic abilities had fully manifested. In fact, Spock should have wished to cease touching Jim, because he was supposed to be uncomfortable with such a touch; but he was not. Sometimes Spock wondered if something was wrong with him. He was a Vulcan. Everyone knew that Vulcans experienced high discomfort from being subjected to another person's proximity, but Spock... enjoyed touching Jim. Instead of disappearing, his enjoyment only intensified with time.
Lately, Spock had been registering the release of an inordinate amount of dopamine and serotonin in his body every time he held Jim. The sensation was.... heady. He felt almost dizzy with pleasure, the reason for which he could not understand.
It was highly disconcerting, to say the least. Yet Spock could not cease.
"What are you thinking about?" Jim murmured, snuggling even closer. Spock could feel Jim's heart beating against his arm, which caused the usual surge of wonder and fear in him. He could not help but think how different Jim's body was from his own, despite looking somewhat similar; he could not help but think that if Jim became injured or ill, there would be no one to help him or cure him.
The thought made his throat constrict, and Spock tightened his arm around Jim, pulling him closer, until Jim was lying half on top of him.
Emotional attachment is illogical, he recalled his Father's words—the words that had been said when Spock's heruvat broke its wing and died when he was five-point-three years old.
"I am thinking of nothing in particular," Spock said, stroking Jim's back, mostly to calm his own illogical fears—'illogical' because feeling fear was illogical, not because those fears were invalid.
"Liar," Jim said, rolling fully on top of Spock. Despite the muscle he had put on recently, Jim still felt too light and fragile in his arms, which did nothing to soothe Spock's fears.
Breakable.
Jim chuckled. "Not that I object or anything, but you're gonna break my ribs if you squeeze any tighter."
Spock loosened his grasp, realizing that he had indeed been holding Jim too tightly. "I apologize," he said tersely, wondering what Sarek would think if he had witnessed such a lapse of self-control.
"Don't, silly," Jim said into his neck. "I kinda love that you stop being the perfect Vulcan when you're with me." He snickered. "Shit, if only Sarek knew that his incredibly Vulcan son loves to use me as a teddy bear when we're alone. I'm actually surprised Amanda hasn't told him yet, considering that they're—you know..."
Spock felt his eyebrows creep up to his hairline. "Are you saying that you are of the opinion that my father has, or has had, a romantic liaison with Amanda?"
"I'm not sure, but yeah. I saw them touching hands the other day," Jim said in such a tone that Spock knew he was wiggling his eyebrows playfully.
Spock considered Jim’s words, and found that he was not upset by the idea. He simply could not quite believe it. "But she is... alien, Jim."
"So?" Jim said, his body suddenly going stiff in Spock's arms.
"I did not mean it like that," Spock said quickly.
Jim scoffed. "Then what the fuck did you mean?"
It never ceased to amaze him that Jim still remembered profanities he had picked up on the streets; he had been merely five. Jim's memory was almost as excellent as his own.
"You know that I did not mean it like that."
"Nope, I don't."
Spock pressed his lips together. "Jim, cease being so difficult. You are well aware of your importance to me. The fact that you are an alien does not make me think of you less."
Jim's body relaxed ever so slightly. "Then what did you mean?"
"I merely find it unlikely that Father would find Nurse Amanda a suitable companion for him."
"Why? She's beautiful."
"Beautiful?" Spock repeated, attempting to classify the strange twisting sensation in his stomach.
"Well, yeah... ‘Aesthetically pleasing,’ you know?"
Spock frowned. "I do not know. I find it difficult to assess Nurse Amanda in such a manner."
"Well, she's like a mom to me, too, but I'm not blind. Objectively, she's very good-looking."
"Perhaps, but choosing a companion because of aesthetic reasons is hardly logical. Father would never do that."
Jim snorted. "Yeah, right. We're talking about the same guy who's hiding two aliens in his house, which breaks the fucking law. How is that logical?"
"We still do not know the reason why Father provided help for Amanda."
"Yeah, about that. I don't get why we're still playing this stupid game—pretending that we don't know while they pretend that they don't know that we know. Don't you get tired of this? I'm kinda sick of calling her T'Amanda." Jim snorted. "What kind of Vulcan name is that anyway?"
It was not the first time they had discussed the subject, and since they never seemed to come to an agreement on the matter, Spock doubted it would be the last. "Jim, if they decided not to tell me that she was an alien, they probably had a very good reason. Perhaps they considered it too dangerous, and I agree. The fewer individuals know and less it is discussed aloud, the better. I trust my father's judgment."
"Yeah, right. Of course, Sarek is always right," Jim muttered with barely-concealed sarcasm.
"Jim."
"Oh, come on, Spock! I know, deep inside, you agree with me. If we didn't know, it would've been one thing. But we know. What's the point in not talking about it when we already know that she's human?"
Spock took a deep breath, then exhaled, trying to stay patient. Jim was incredibly stubborn, but it was nothing new to him. "We have discussed it at length. It is too dangerous. We cannot let our guards down. We cannot address her as 'Amanda,' not even in private, because my mental shields might fail during my sessions with T'Pau and I might reveal Amanda's identity to her. You are well aware that I apply all my shields to protecting my thoughts of you and anything concerning you; I do not need the additional strain to them. We should always be careful. And what do you hope to achieve by discussing the matter? They know that we know, but Amanda told us that she did not wish to discuss it. We should respect her wishes, if nothing else. It is safer for us all to treat her like she is, indeed, Vulcan."
"So you think it's better not to wake a sleeping lion, then."
Spock was bewildered. "What does a lion has to do with this topic?"
Jim chuckled. "Never mind, Spock. Just an expression I remembered; my memory is weird like that. Figures I'd remember stuff like that and not remember a thing about my parents." Jim sighed. "All right; no calling her 'Amanda,' got it. But still, it's fucking insulting even to pretend that we don't know—that we're that stupid. I hugged her hundreds of times and her heart is in the same place as mine! And she smiles! Seriously, we would have been complete morons not to guess."
"Indeed," Spock agreed, not wishing to remind Jim that, before Jim joined their family, Spock had not suspected anything. Jim had always laughed at his expense because of that. "However, the fact that she smiles is not that unusual in itself. There are Vulcans who refuse to accept Surak's teachings, and she could have been one of them."
"But she isn't."
"No, she is not."
They were silent for a while before Jim murmured, "What about you? So what, if looks aren't important, are you gonna marry for logical reasons? I overheard T'Pau dropping hints about your marriage the last time she was here; she probably wants to marry you off to that awful T'Pring. Why else would she drag the girl with her every time she comes to visit?"
Spock frowned. "How often have I told you to keep away from T'Pau when she is visiting? One day she will notice you, Jim.” He sighed. “Regarding your question, yes, T'Pau wishes to find a political match for me. But I do not think you are correct about T'Pring. She is merely T'Pau's apprentice; of course she would accompany T'Pau on her trips."
Spock could practically hear Jim think and felt his lips twitch. Jim did everything loud, even thinking. It was... endearing.
"Don't you think you're too young?" Jim said finally.
"I am already 19.4 years old. Most Vulcans are bonded since childhood."
"By Earth standards, you're just eighteen!" Before Spock could say that they were not on Earth, he heard Jim take a deep breath. "And what about me?"
Spock's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"When you marry, some girl will live here, right?"
"Affirmative."
"She'll find out about me and—"
"No," Spock interrupted him. "I am certain Father will not let T'Pau choose an individual who will endanger you or Amanda. I believe he did not let T'Pau bond me to anyone when I was seven for that same reason."
Jim remained silent.
"Speak your mind, Jim," Spock prompted.
"I don't want you to marry anyone."
Spock blinked. "Pardon?"
"I don't want to share you," Jim said angrily. "You're mine... my Spock," he added, though sounding less certainty. "Right?"
Spock felt the familiar warmth spread through his body. "Of course," he said softly. "However, your concerns are hardly valid, since you are and always shall be the most important person to me, regardless of my marital status."
"Yeah?" Jim murmured into his neck.
Spock noticed that Jim's insecurities concerning his place in Spock's life lately had increased quite drastically. It was not like his Jim to be uncertain about anything.
"Indeed," he said, moving a hand up Jim's back to his nape. He stroked it in a manner that was hopefully soothing. Jim made a strange noise— a moan?
"Jim?" Spock said, his eyebrows furrowing. "What is the matter? Are you in pain?"
"No," Jim said, his voice sounding odd. "Just—don't touch me like that, all right? It's too weird."
Spock tensed. His heartbeat quickened by 32.6%. "’Weird’? Are you ill?"
Jim chuckled a little awkwardly. "No—well, I don't think so. It's just..."
"Yes?" Spock prompted.
Jim muttered something into his neck.
Spock frowned. "I did not catch that."
"I get hard, OK?"
Spock blinked in the darkness. "'Hard'? Clarify."
"Fuck, it's so— Look, let's just forget about it—"
"Jim, you will tell me what is wrong with you at once. In fact, I am severely disappointed that apparently you had a health problem for some time and chose not to tell me sooner."
"You won't understand, Spock. You're different— I'm different."
Spock pursed his lips briefly. "Answer the question, Jim. What do you mean by 'hard'?"
Jim groaned in frustration. "My cock gets hard, okay?"
"’Cock’?" Spock repeated the word, uncertain what the male domestic bird had to do with Jim's illness.
"My penis, Spock. It gets swollen and hard. Happy now?"
Spock's eyebrows furrowed. "It does not sound very healthy. Perhaps we should tell—"
"No way! I'm not telling Sarek and Amanda!"
"Jim, you are being illogical. It might be dangerous—"
"It's not dangerous— well, I'm pretty sure it isn't."
"How can you be so positive of that?"
Jim groaned in frustration. "I sort of remember... When I lived on the streets in San Francisco, I remember other, older boys talking about getting a hard-on from looking at pretty women. I think it's pretty normal for human males."
Spock frowned, not at all convinced. "And how long has it been going on?"
"It's kinda confusing... I used to wake up like that for years, but it became a regular thing only about two years ago—"
"Jim."
"I know, I know! Quit giving me that look. Yes, I don't need to see you to tell that you're giving me The Look—"
"Why have you not told me sooner?" Spock said, aware that his voice was hardly calm or even but unable to do anything about it. "You should have informed me about it when it first occurred."
Jim propped himself on his elbows above him, but in the darkness Spock could not see his expression. "Look, would you quit acting like I was hiding from you that I was dying or something? I'm allowed to keep my own secrets! I'm not a goddamn kid anymore and you aren't my older brother, Spock! I'm seventeen."
Spock took a breath through his teeth. "Yes. I am not your older brother and you are not a child, but—"
"But what?! Why is this such a big deal?"
"Lower your voice. You are an alien, Jim—"
"Wow, you just realized this?"
"—and it is the source of constant concern to me, because I feel — helpless." To his dismay, his voice had cracked. "I do not know how to help you if you become ill. I do not even know if I can recognize that you are ill. Therefore, I would appreciate if you will not keep anything like that from me in the future."
"… Oh."
Spock said nothing, trying to regain his control. Anger was illogical; fear, even more so. He was Vulcan.
"I'm sorry," Jim murmured after a while, and, leaning down, pressed his warm lips to Spock's cheek. "I won't do it again, promise. Don't be mad at me, okay?"
Spock took a deep breath. "I am not 'mad.'"
They fell silent for a long while.
"Are you still 'hard'?" Spock inquired finally.
Jim chuckled, somewhat awkwardly. "Yeah. Don't you feel? It’s pressed against your thigh."
"I do not understand what I am supposed to feel. I am unable to notice anything out of the ordinary."
Jim chuckled again. "Yeah, because I'm always at least half-hard when we sleep together. You have no idea how much it sucks."
Spock frowned, rather at a loss. "I must admit I indeed do not have an idea. I do not completely understand the concept of being 'hard.' Your penis is your reproductive organ, is it not?"
"Well, yeah... I think."
"Does it mean that you wish to father a child?"
Jim laughed a little. "Shit, stop asking these questions! How would I know?” He groaned. “Look, let's just forget about it, all right? I'm sure it's nothing life-threatening. Yeah, it's not exactly comfortable and can be pretty painful, but—"
"You are experiencing pain?" Spock interrupted, alarmed.
"Well, not pain exactly, but some discomfort."
"Let me see."
"What?!"
"Let me examine your penis."
"No!"
"Why not? If it is causing you discomfort, it should be examined."
"Just… no, Spock. Shit, it's—"
"Jim, if you do not let me, I will speak to Amanda about it. She must have some information—"
"Don't you fucking dare!"
"You know that I will."
"You won't."
"I will."
"You won't!"
"I will."
Jim heaved a sigh. "Dammit, you can be such an asshole when you want to. Fine, do your… examining thing."
"Computer, lights to forty percent," Spock ordered.
Jim rolled off him and sat up on the bed, cross-legged. Spock sat opposite him and stared at Jim's covered crotch. There was indeed a noticeable bulge underneath Jim's blue shorts.
"God, I can't believe this is really happening."
Spock looked up to meet his eyes and was surprised to find Jim blushing to the roots of his short blond hair.
"Being embarrassed is illogical. Take your shorts off."
Jim scowled, but pushed his shorts down, revealing his engorged penis. "Here. Happy now?"
Spock stared. The penis twitched before his eyes. "Fascinating."
Jim hit him with a pillow.
"I hate you," he groaned out dramatically, falling back on the bed.
Spock eyed Jim's penis, which was still uncovered. Hesitantly, he reached out and touched it. Jim's hips bucked up. "Goddammit, Spock!"
Spock jerked his hand away. "Did it hurt?"
Jim made a strange sound—something between a groan and a laugh. "Not… not exactly."
Furrowing his eyebrows, Spock stared at Jim's penis again. "Do you mind if I perform a manual examination?"
"M-manual examination?" Jim choked out, wide-eyed. "Are you shitting me?"
"Negative," Spock said, and, receiving no objection, tentatively took the penis in his hand; Jim gasped. Spock gave it an experimental stroke, lightly and hesitantly, and Jim moaned.
Interesting. Jim did not appear to be in pain. And yet he was moaning.
Bemused, Spock watched Jim's flushed face, half-tempted to drop his mental shields and let Jim's emotions slip into him. However, it would be highly unethical to do so, no matter how much he wished to know what Jim was feeling. Jim, being psi-null, was completely defenseless. Spock could not do that.
"How does it feel?" he asked instead, examining the penis and noted that his own breathing was slightly irregular for no apparent reason.
Jim was breathing even harder, his face flushed and eyes a little glazed over. Spock felt a strange sensation in his stomach.
Jim gave him a dazed smile. "Sort of awesome."
Spock's eyes widened. "Are you enjoying this?"
Jim covered his face with his hands. "Oh, shut up."
"Fascinating," Spock said again, eyeing the organ in his hand. He stroked its tip with his thumb and Jim made a strange sound.
"Spock," he said through his teeth. "Let go."
"Why?" Spock said, curiously stroking the thick vein on the underside.
"Cause you aren't fucking helping, and I'm not a lab rat."
"How do you usually deal with such a problem?" Spock said, touching the head again.
"Fuck... I dunno. Sometimes it goes away on its own. Sometimes I..."
"Yes?" Spock prompted.
"Sometimes I touch myself. There. It feels good, but I try not to do it often. What if it's something I'm not supposed to do? What if it stops working from overuse or something?"
Spock considered it. "I think we should speak to Nurse Amanda. She must have relevant information."
Jim took his hands away from his face to meet Spock's eyes. "If you do that, I'll never forgive you. Really."
Spock gave him a hard look. "We need her help. We do not know how dangerous it might be."
"It's not dangerous," Jim said stubbornly. "I've been touching myself there for years and I'm not dead, right? It feels good, really.” He ducked his head. “Not as good as when you touch me, but good."
Spock raised an eyebrow before looking back at the penis in his hand. He tightened his grip slightly. "Are you saying that my touch is more enjoyable than yours? That is illogical, since—"
"Spock. Get—your—hand—off—my cock. I'm not fucking kidding."
Spock raised an eyebrow at him. Contrary to his words, Jim did not appear to be particularly eager to move away from Spock's touch. Spock looked down at Jim's warm, swollen penis in his hand. There was something endlessly fascinating about it.
He tightened his grip again and moved the hand up and down. Jim let out a low moan. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"I wish to make sure that such a procedure is not harmful for you by performing and monitoring it myself," Spock replied, continuing to stroke Jim's penis. "Is this rhythm sufficient?"
"Yeah." Jim closed his eyes. "Fuck, it feels so much better than when I do this. A bit faster now—yeah—oh—ohh. But we probably shouldn't be—your hands are amazing—more—c'mon—fuuuck-"
Spock watched as Jim's semen covered his hand. "Interesting."
Jim snorted, then started laughing. "God, only you, Spock."
Spock got out of the bed and headed to the bathroom to wash his hands. He returned with a wet cloth and a tricorder. "Clean yourself," he said, tossing the cloth to Jim. He turned on the tricorder and started taking readings. "It appears your readings are within the norm for you," Spock admitted after three-point-two minutes of careful monitoring. In fact, some of them were better than usual, but Spock was not about to admit it aloud.
"I told you, worry-wart. Now, put that thing away and get into the bed. I wanna sleep."
Spock put the tricorder on the nightstand and climbed back under the sheets.
"Computer, lights off," Jim said before shifting closer to Spock until their sides were pressed together.
They stared at the dark ceiling.
"It weirded you out, didn't it?"
Spock considered the question. "Negative," he replied truthfully.
"Quit lying. I can only imagine how weird it must've been for you. You Vulcans don't have that kind of a problem."
"Indeed, we do not. Vulcans do not achieve sexual maturity until..." Spock trailed off, uncomfortable.
Jim chuckled. "Pon farr. You can say it, you know. I don't get why it's such a big deal for you all."
Spock felt his cheeks heat up and was glad Jim could not see him. "My pon farr is at least ten years away, so I will not achieve sexual maturity anytime soon."
Jim let out a laugh. "Yeah, and until then, you're basically a kid. I feel kinda sorry for you, you know. You're seriously missing out. Sure, it's not fun to have a constant hard-on, but when I finally… you know… damn, that's awesome!"
Spock closed his eyes. "It is hardly logical to discuss the merits of our physiologies, since we cannot change them."
"Yeah, but still...It's kinda weird that you're older than me, but I'm more physically mature. Your cock still doesn't work like mine."
Spock tightened his jaw. He knew it was illogical, but the topic made him feel somewhat... inadequate.
He said nothing, but Jim, being Jim, never got the hint. "C'mon, you really don't feel anything at all when you look, say, at T'Pring's boobs?"
"'T'Pring's boobs'?" Spock repeated flatly.
"Yeah, she's got great boobs—full and high, and... Damn, just thinking of them turns me on a bit and I just came! You can't possibly be so unaffected."
"I fail to see why T'Pring's milk-secreting glands are supposed to affect me in any way."
Jim snorted a laugh. "Well, when you put it this way... But seriously, nothing at all gets you hot? Nothing?"
"'Hot'?"
"Yeah. Like, you see something and badly wanna touch it; that kind of thing."
Spock considered the question. "I am of the opinion that you are mistaken: the urge to touch something is not necessarily sexual."
"Well, yeah, but I'm talking about the urge, you know?"
"No," Spock said slowly.
Jim sighed exasperatedly. "Look, it's hard to explain, but... It's like you see some part of someone's body and really, really want to touch it, you know?"
Spock frowned. "I am familiar with this, but, since I am sexually immature, your theory is obviously incorrect."
Jim tensed next to him, then propped himself on an elbow. "Wait, you want to touch someone's body part? Really? Whose?"
Spock stared at the dark ceiling.
"Yours," he said three-point-eight seconds later. He had to remind himself that Vulcans did not feel embarrassed even when admitting their oddest desires.
Jim made a sharp intake of breath. "Mine? Really?"
"Affirmative."
Jim chuckled. "Let me guess: it's my hair, right? Spock, I didn't mean those kind of touches—"
"Not your hair. Also, you are well aware that I preferred your old haircut to your current one."
"Yeah, I know how much you liked my floppy hair, but I'm not a kid anymore. And at least I don't have a bowl-cut, like some people in this room. And quit changing the subject."
"You are the one who changed the subject, Jim," Spock said, a corner of his lips twitching up.
Jim smacked him on his chest. "So what is that?"
For a moment, Spock contemplated not telling the truth, and immediately was ashamed. Vulcans were supposed to be unable to lie; at times like that the gnawing feeling that he was not a proper Vulcan only worsened.
"You will probably find it odd," Spock said. He knew he did. "You have two... dimples in your lower back. I find them…fascinating."
A moment of silence.
"You—You want to touch the dimples above my ass?" Jim said slowly, incredulity in his voice. "Why would you want that?"
Spock pressed his lips together. "I do not wish to discuss the subject further." The truth was, he could not explain his fascination. He only knew that every time Jim's shirt rode up to reveal those dimples above Jim's shorts, Spock would find himself staring, unable to tear his gaze away. It was... strange.
"You're so weird," Jim informed him, lying back with a chuckle. "I hate those stupid dimples. I wish they’d disappeared with the rest of my baby-fat. Men aren't supposed to have dimples above their asses."
Spock closed his eyes, relieved that Jim appeared to have lost interest in the topic.
"Good night, Jim."
Jim leaned in and pressed his lips to Spock's cheek. "Night," he murmured, his warm breath brushing Spock's skin before he snuggled to Spock again.
Spock's cheek was still tingling by the time Jim drifted to sleep.
He listened to Jim's even breathing for a long time, lying wide awake. He was not tired. The truth was, he did not require as much sleep as he let Jim think. Four hours of sleep was sufficient for a Vulcan, but when Jim shared his bed, Spock spent at least eight in there.
Such an unproductive waste of time was highly illogical, Spock knew it. He knew it and soon would cease indulging himself. But not tonight.
Spock buried his nose in Jim's hair, taking a careful breath in.
Perhaps tomorrow.
~*~
It is highly inappropriate, Spock told himself the next day, but he continued to watch Jim.
During the 7.8 hours of his observation, he observed that Jim became "hard" on five occasions and remained hard for the duration of two to ten minutes. To Spock's bewilderment and confusion, 89.2% of the time, he himself appeared to be the cause of Jim's condition.
It puzzled him. He was a male. Getting an erection because of close proximity to another male did not seem particularly logical to Spock. However, perhaps he was mistaken and he had nothing to do with Jim's condition; perhaps Jim was simply thinking of something else.
To Spock's further confusion, he found that he could not cease observing Jim's other body parts. Observing Jim's crotch was inappropriate, but could be explained by his scientific curiosity; observing Jim's backside could not.
Spock did not have any explanation for why he had been staring at Jim's backside for the last 16.4 minutes. It was fortunate that Jim could not see him, since Jim was lying on his stomach on the couch, reading a book, with his feet on Spock's lap. Jim's long toned legs were crossed in ankles, drawing Spock's attention even more to his full backside under those baggy white shorts.
Jim shifted and his shorts slid down a little. Spock stared at the familiar dimples and the creamy skin of Jim's upper buttocks. His mouth went dry and he felt odd warmth in his lower stomach he could not quite categorize. The symptoms were not new; they had been occurring at random for the last three months, but today, they appeared to be more intense than Spock was used to. Perhaps it was a cause for concern and he should go to a healer.
Jim nudged him with his bare foot. "What are you doing? You're awfully quiet."
Spock shifted his gaze to Jim's head and found him still reading. Forcing himself to keep his eyes on Jim's dark blond hair, Spock replied truthfully, "I am thinking."
"Hmm; sounds boring." Jim nudged Spock's thigh with his foot again. "Spock, my feet are hurting. Make them feel better."
"You can blame only yourself. You should not have climbed the hills."
"Spock, come on."
Suppressing the urge to sigh, Spock took the bare foot in his hands and started massaging it. Amanda had told him on more than one occasion that he "spoiled Jim rotten," and even though Spock was inclined to agree with her, he could not help himself. Jim was the most precious being to him in the world, and Spock could rarely deny him anything.
"Mmm," Jim moaned barely audibly and Spock's hands went still.
"Hey, why did you stop?"
Spock resumed the massage. He caressed and stroked Jim's every toe, attempting to ignore the noises Jim was making. As Spock put Jim's foot back on his lap and took the other, his accidentally glanced at Jim's hips, and stared. Jim was shifting his hips barely noticeably, grinding against the couch. Spock felt his blood rush to his cheeks. "Jim, we are in the living room. Cease your actions immediately."
Jim froze, then laughed. "Shit, you weren't supposed to notice. You never noticed before!"
Spock's felt his mouth fall open and quickly closed it. "You have done this before?"
"Sure, silly," Jim said with a chuckle. "We touch each other a lot, and I sort of want to… hump things. I can't help it."
Spock let go of Jim's feet. "I have told you that I do not appreciate being called 'silly' on nine hundred and twenty-three occasions. I am not feeble-minded."
"It means I love you, you ass."
"A most curious definition of the word," Spock said dryly, attempting to slow down his heartbeat. It was the one hundred and seventeenth time Jim had told him that he loved him and it still was as... fascinating for him to hear as it had been the very first time Jim said that. Illogical. A simple word should not elicit such a strong reaction in him. And Vulcans were not supposed to care about such things. Spock was mildly surprised that the word for "love" even existed in modern Vulcan; as far as he knew, the word was not used in speech anymore and could be encountered only in ancient pre-Surak legends and tales.
Spock was pulled away from his thoughts when Jim said, "Spock?"
"Yes? Is something the matter?"
"Nope," Jim said, sitting up next to him and eyeing him curiously. He put the book aside. "You just went very quiet. Actually, you've been awfully quiet all day. Something's bugging you."
Spock had to apply considerable effort in order not to allow his blood rush to his face. "I..." he said, attempting to come up with something to say. Vulcans do not lie. The statement always bewildered Spock, because he was perfectly capable of lying. "I was thinking about my further education."
His shoulders stiffening, Jim looked away. "Yeah?" he said casually. "Did you decide on anything? Vulcan Science Academy or T'Paal Academy?"
Spock did not know how to respond; he had no answer. Lately, the matter of his future had been a frequent topic of discussion in their house. It was the time for him to enter a university. His Father had encouraged him to enroll in the Vulcan Science Academy, not wishing for Spock to attend the less prestigious university, T’Paal Academy, that was located in their town. Amanda had simply smiled and told him to do what "feels right." Jim had been unusually silent when the topic was discussed, and Spock did not know what to think. It was very unlike Jim to be silent about anything. Even when they were children, Jim had never hesitated to tell his opinion.
"Perhaps T'Paal Academy," Spock said, watching Jim examine his nails.
"Really?" Jim said in the same casual tone.
"Yes."
"But you hate politics, Spock."
"It is not true. While it is indeed not my most preferred activity, I am not opposed to pursue politics, like T'Pau."
Jim bit his lip. "So it's not because..."
"Yes?"
"Nothing."
"Jim, speak your mind."
Jim looked up at him, and Spock was taken aback once again by how quickly Jim's face was losing its childishness, his features maturing with every day.
"You want to do science, I know that, Spock. I know you." Before Spock could deny it, Jim added, "No, don't lie to me. You wanna go to the VSA."
Spock stared at him. "I do not wish to attend the Vulcan Science Academy," he said and had not lied. He was not lying because entering the VSA meant living in Shi’Kahr, and living in Shi’Kahr meant being parted from Jim, which was unacceptable. His father refused to take Jim to Shi’Kahr even for short trips, and Spock calculated that there was less than 0.003% probability that Sarek would let Jim live there long-term.
"Quit lying. It's because of me, right?"
Spock met the blue eyes calmly. "And if it is?"
Jim scowled. "If you think I want you to give up your dreams because of me, think again. Apply for the VSA."
"No. This is my decision to make, and I will apply for T'Paal Academy."
Sighing heavily, Jim looked down for a few moments before meeting Spock's eyes again. "What if I ask you to?"
Spock's heart skipped a beat. "You wish for me to leave?" he said, controlling his voice carefully.
Jim leaned his forehead against Spock's shoulder. "Of course not, silly. I just don't want to hold you back anymore—"
"You do not hold me back," Spock contradicted.
Jim snorted, the sound muffled by Spock's shirt. "I do, Spock. When you were in secondary school, you taught me everything you were taught, and it was fun for me, but it wasn't exactly educational for you. If you go to T'Paal Academy, it'd be the same thing all over again." Jim smiled crookedly. "You're a genius, Spock. You deserve better, okay? I hate saying that, but you can be so much more without me holding you back—"
Spock took Jim by his chin and made him look up. "Listen to me," he said quietly, meeting Jim's eyes. "I do not wish to be 'so much more' if it means that I cannot see you. I cannot spend two hundred and thirty days a year without seeing you. It is unacceptable." To Spock's dismay, his voice wavered slightly.
Jim's expression became sharper. "And now you listen to me. I'll never forgive myself if you go into politics because of me." He took a deep breath and looked Spock into the eye. "Apply for the VSA. Please."
Spock stared at him, his resolve crumbling. Logically, he knew Jim was correct, but his entire essence protested against the very thought of being away from Jim. And yet Jim was asking him. Spock did not wish for Jim to end up resenting himself and feeling guilty because of Spock's choice.
"Very well."
"Great," Jim said cheerfully, pressing his lips to Spock's cheek. Spock wrapped his arm around him and tugged him closer until Jim was half-straddling his lap.
Jim smiled against his cheek. "Hey, you're engaged in cuddling in the middle of a public room, Mister Spock," he said, his voice full of laughter. "What would the Vulcan Mafia say?"
~*~
In the evening, Sarek unexpectedly returned from Shi’Kahr. It took Spock only a glimpse of his father's tense face to sense that something was amiss.
"What's wrong?" Amanda asked as Sarek joined them at the table, her brown eyes full of concern, although her face stayed admirably inscrutable.
Spock raised a questioning eyebrow at his father. Even Jim ceased eating his beloved blue fruit in favor of staring at Sarek with a question in his eyes.
Sarek looked at Amanda, then at Jim and Spock. "The information I am about to reveal is classified and must not leave this room."
Jim's lips twisted. "Who do you think I'm gonna tell?" he muttered, but his crooked smile faded when Sarek fixed him with a hard stare. He raised his hands up. "Okay, fine, I'm shutting up. What's up, Sarek?"
On the inside, Spock grimaced. He could not fathom what Jim hoped to achieve by irritating Sarek with his adamant use of colloquial Vulcan—the language of the lower classes. It never failed to ‘get a rise’ from Sarek, as Jim would say, and this time was no exception. The corners of Sarek's mouth tightened minutely.
"You would already know 'what's up' if you did not interrupt me, James," Sarek said in an icy tone.
"Sarek," Amanda chided. Sarek glanced at her, and his expression softened slightly.
Spock looked between them with curiosity. Was it possible that Jim was correct and there was, indeed, something of romantic nature between his father and Amanda? He could not quite wrap his mind around the concept.
"There was an emergency Council meeting today," Sarek said after a moment. "The meeting's subject was the transmission received from Earth this morning."
Spock heard a collective intake of breath.
"What?" Jim said, his eyes going huge.
"According to the transmission, Earth wishes to initiate a First Contact with Vulcan," Sarek continued, his face inscrutable. "It appears that the Klingons are on a warpath again, and Earth is in a state of tension bordering on war with Klingon Empire. Its people are seeking allies. Humans have suggested a meeting to discuss a possible alliance."
When Sarek said nothing else, Spock spoke, "And what was the Council's decision?"
Sarek met his eyes. "The Council was unable to make one. As you are well aware, for a decision to be accepted, it needs at least fifty percent of the Elders' votes in its favor, and the qualification was not met. Thirty-three percent of ministers withheld their votes. Of those who did vote, twenty-one percent were in favor of accepting Humans' suggestion, forty-seven were for declining, and thirty-two were for accepting Humans' offer with the intention of kidnapping them and—"
"What?!" Jim shouted, his face turning red with rage, while Amanda paled.
Spock put a hand on Jim's thigh, restraining him from jerking to his feet. Jim grabbed his hand and squeezed. Spock fidgeted, painfully aware how inappropriate it was. It seemed Jim would never fully understand how intimate handholding was for Vulcans. For Jim, it was merely a gesture of seeking comfort, especially when he felt awkward, uncertain or hurt. It was fortunate that Sarek could not see what was going on under the table.
Sarek's eyes fixed on Jim. "James, you should understand that many Vulcans are reasonably cautious—"
"Cautious?" Jim repeated, his eyes flashing with anger. "It's not caution—it's fucking paranoia! Why the hell you—"
"You will be silent and cease using vulgar words," Sarek snapped, leveling him with a cold glare. Only Jim could make Sarek lose his temper so easily. "You know nothing, James. Our caution is only logical, since the Klingons used the same trick 402 years ago. They told us that they sought alliance, but they deceived us."
Jim leaned forward, breathing hard. He was squeezing Spock's hand so tightly that it was bordering on painful. "I know Vulcan history better than you, Sarek, and you know why? Because I have nothing else to do but read and read when Spock's not home! And do you know why? Because of those stupid paranoid jerks in the Council! Because of them, I can't even leave the estate's borders—I'm a prisoner in a fancy cage—I have no fucking friends, no acquaintances, no life, no—" Jim cut himself off, catching the expression on Spock's face.
Spock looked down. "I did not know you were so miserable in my company," he said, carefully controlling his voice. He attempted to withdraw his hand, but Jim did not let him, clutching it hard.
"Spock," Jim said urgently, leaning closer to him. "Spock, you know I didn't mean it like that," he whispered.
Spock finally freed his hand from Jim's grasp and looked away. He clenched his jaw, acutely aware that his father and Amanda were watching their interaction.
To learn that he was not enough for Jim, while to him Jim was everything, was... He felt—Spock did not know what he felt, but he did not like the feeling. Vulcans do not feel.
Vulcans did not feel.
"Do you intend to return to Shi’Kahr, Father?" Spock said calmly, avoiding Jim's gaze.
"As a matter of fact, yes," Sarek said, his sharp dark eyes watching him and Jim. "I am here only because I am to meet T'Pau. She should arrive tonight."
Spock raised his eyebrows. "For what purpose? Was she not present at the Council meeting?"
"She was not. She was called away four days ago to Kavigaar Mountains," Sarek replied. "A matter of medical urgency."
Spock nodded, not surprised at all. Although T'Pau was the Head of High Council, she was also the best mind-healer of Vulcan and occasionally took difficult medical cases, despite her busy schedule. It was one of the reasons Spock admired her so much.
"I'm surprised the Council was even called in her absence," Amanda said, taking a sip from her herbal tea.
"She could not be reached at the time," Sarek said. "Her absence was the reason why so many Ministers withheld their votes. They do not wish to fall into T'Pau's disfavor if their votes differ from hers."
Jim snorted and muttered something unfavorable.
Ignoring him, Spock looked down at his plate and found that he did not have any appetite. "Am I correct in understanding that there is to be another Council meeting after you and T'Pau reach Shi’Kahr?"
"You are correct, my son. I expect T'Pau and I leave tomorrow."
Jim sat straighter. "May I ask why you're meeting T'Pau here?" he said, voice full of suspicion. "Actually, may I ask – how did you vote?"
"Jim," Amanda with steel in her voice. "Mind your tone when you're speaking to—"
"To whom?" Jim barked out a laugh. "Whom? My father? My guardian? My master? Who exactly is Sarek to me, huh?" Jim glared at Sarek. "The truth is, I have no place in this world—I'm fucking no one—and Earth's suggestion of alliance is the chance for me to finally be someone, and you're telling me that caution is fucking logical?"
"Jim," Amanda began softly.
"You know it's true!" Jim shouted. "I'm sick of this stupid game. You're human, too, damn it. Surely you understand me!"
Amanda and Sarek visibly stiffened.
"Jim," Spock said with resignation. "Lower your voice."
The room fell completely silent for a minute, before Sarek finally spoke, "If you must know, I voted in favor of accepting Earth's proposal. I asked T'Pau to meet me here with the intention of persuading her to do the same."
A beat passed.
"Oh," Jim said awkwardly. "Sorry I yelled at you," he muttered with a blush on his face but met Sarek's gaze firmly. Jim might be stubborn and impulsive, but he was rarely afraid to admit and apologize when he was wrong.
Sarek merely inclined his head and started eating. Everyone followed his cue.
"Do you really think you can influence T'Pau?" Amanda said after a minute of silence. "Doesn't she... feel strongly about aliens?"
Jim snorted. "Just say it—she's the biggest xenophobe on Vulcan."
Spock frowned at him. "That is not true."
Jim raised his eyebrows, his expression skeptical. "You know I'm right, Spock. I know she's like a grandma to you, but you can't be that blind."
"Jim is not completely incorrect," Sarek said. He sounded weary. "That is why I wish to speak to T'Pau before the second meeting of the Council. However, I am not certain she will listen to me."
Amanda sighed, frowning deeply. "I'm sure she won't even bother listening. If she feels strongly about something, she'll never change her mind."
Spock pressed his lips together, feeling defensive, as he always did when someone spoke ill of T'Pau. T'Pau always had been—unusually for her—kind to him, and had even taken part in his education. She was the only mother figure Spock had, besides Amanda, and as much as Spock was fond of Amanda, she was not related to him by blood, like T'Pau.
"I am positive she will at least listen," he said. "Perhaps T'Pau is not known for her tolerance of aliens, but she is not blindly xenophobic. She has her reasons to dislike outworlders."
"Indeed, she does," Sarek said quietly, his expression darkening.
Spock looked down.
Before the Klingon invasion, the House of Surak had been the largest house of Vulcan and had consisted of thirty-eight clans. Since it was the oldest and most respected house—the closest equivalent Vulcan had to royalty—the Klingons had decided to publicly execute all members of the House to demonstrate their strength to Vulcan people. They had almost succeeded.
Out of two hundred and seventeen members of the House of Surak, only two had escaped the massacre: a two-year-old T'Vela, a direct descendant from Surak, and a young Vulcan called Saaren, her distant cousin, who took the toddler and ran when the Klingons attempted to kill her.
One hundred and forty-one years later, Saaren and T'Vela had led Vulcan people to their freedom. Their names would be forever etched in Vulcan history as leaders of the Great Resurrection.
T'Vela had been T'Pau's grandmother. Saaren had been Sarek's grand-grandfather. Only two lines of the House of Surak survived the massacre, and with T'Pau being childless, only one line would remain after her death: Spock's. He was the only heir, unless Sarek chose to father more children.
T'Pau had her reasons, indeed.
"But it's not the same," Jim said, stabbing the revuna on his plate with his fork. "Back then, Vulcans were scientists and pacifists. They weren't prepared for the Klingons' attack—that's why the Klingons succeeded at all. Modern Vulcan is much more weapon-oriented than before, and the technology level is, like, thousand times better than it was four centuries ago! If the Klingons chose to attack Vulcan now, they wouldn't stand a chance—much less Humans, whose technological level is lower than that of Klingons and Vulcans. I don't get why Vulcan can't help Earth—it would be mutually beneficial. I doubt Klingons would dare to attack Earth or Vulcan if we formed an alliance. T'Pau is an arrogant hater if she can't see it! I don't—"
"Excuse me," Spock said, getting up. "I am adequately nourished."
Avoiding the others' gazes, he left the room.
~*~
"Spock!"
Spock quickened his stride through the garden. He did not particularly like Jim at the moment and did not wish to speak to him.
"Dammit, Spock, stop running from me!"
Spock came to an abrupt halt. "I am not running from you."
A moment later, strong arms wrapped around him from behind and a face pressed against Spock's neck.
"Sorry," Jim said softly. "I'm sorry, okay? I know how much T'Pau means to you—I just got carried away, I guess. You know how I am."
Spock closed his eyes, feeling his anger already starting to dissipate. He never could be angry with Jim for long.
"You are miserable here," he said, addressing another matter that was bothering him. I am not enough for you.
"No, I'm not," Jim said, his arms squeezing tighter.
"Cease lying, Jim. You said it yourself."
Jim sighed, resting his cheek on Spock's shoulder from behind. Spock wondered if they were visible from the house—if Sarek could see them from a window.
Spock knew he could easily pull away from Jim; he was much stronger. He didn't.
"It's just… You're leaving for the VSA soon, and I know I'm the one who convinced you to do it, but I won't see you for months, and then T'Pau will marry you off, and then you'll forget—Fuck, I'm babbling, I know, but—" Jim swore elaborately in Vulcan and let go of him. "Dammit."
Spock turned around, frowning.
Jim had his arms crossed over his chest, his face red.
Spock stepped closer. "Jim, what are you talking about?"
Jim met his eyes. "I'm fucking scared, okay?" He spoke almost defiantly, as though daring Spock to ridicule him.
Spock stared at him for a few moments. "You are scared I might leave you," he said slowly. "That I might forget you. I will not." The very idea was ludicrous.
Jim chuckled hollowly. "Yes, you will. It's just a matter of time, Spock. In a few weeks, you're leaving for Shi’Kahr to enroll in the VSA, and you'll study there for the next four years, at the very least—if you don't get involved in some cool research project, which you will, because you're brilliant and they’d be fools not to snatch you right away. And you're gonna come home during breaks, but we're only gonna see each other a few weeks every year, and less and less with every passing year until eventually you'll stop coming back at all, because you'll have your new shiny life, out there in the big city. And we both know that Sarek would rather die than let me leave the goddamn 'safety' of the country house. So yeah—"
"Are you quite finished?" Spock interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
Jim blinked, then blinked again. "Yeah," he said, looking confused, unsure – lonely.
Spock had not realized the extent of Jim's fear of being abandoned. Once, many years ago, Jim had told him that his parents had either left him or hadn’t cared. Apparently, when Jim found himself on the streets of San Francisco with no memories, he went straight to a police station so that they could search for his family. Jim spent there days, waiting for someone to come for him, but no one had—there were no inquiries about a missing boy matching his description. He was not missed by anyone. Finally, Jim was given over to a temporary foster family, but he escaped from them a few days later after the husband turned out to be abusive—the fact that enraged Spock every time he thought about it.
"I have no intention of abandoning you," Spock said, aware how inadequate it sounded. He was not good at talking about these things, but neither was Jim. You are a brother to me, he wished to say, but the word felt awkward and heavy on his tongue. It did not quite fit.
Jim shrugged with one shoulder, his lips twisting. "Yeah, whatever. Let's go back into the house. T'Pau may arrive any minute now, so I've gotta hide. As always."
"Jim," he said, and Jim turned back to him, his eyes guarded.
"Even if I am to live two hundred years," Spock said quietly. "I will never forget you or leave you. You will be the one who will leave me, because you will most likely die before me." The mere thought made his thought constrict painfully and he had to remind himself that Jim was only seventeen, and full of life.
Jim stared at him, searching his face intently for something. It appeared he had found it, because he grinned widely and threw an arm around Spock's shoulders. "Quit sulking. We're totally gonna die on the same day, old and grey but still devilishly handsome."
Spock's lips twitched. "Indeed?"
Jim smiled at him, his eyes glimmering. "Sure," he said with a wink. "And I even know how and when it'll happen. We'll die in one hundred years when I'm 117."
"Is that so? And how will we die?" Spock said dryly.
They started slowly walking towards the house, Jim's arm still around his shoulders.
"Oh, it'll be a pretty boring death. We'll die in our sleep, snuggling to each other under the Vulcan sky beside our pond in the other garden. Obviously, we'll go to a really cool afterlife, where we're young and awesome again. Sounds like a plan?"
"You are highly illogical," Spock said, meeting Jim's eyes. "The probability of us dying on the same day by natural means is less than 1 to 10,000,000."
Jim just smiled at him, and suddenly, Spock had a very strange, eerie feeling of being watched. He looked around, but there was no one in the garden except for them.
"What?" Jim said, looking around, as well.
"Nothing," Spock said, shaking off the feeling. Perhaps he had simply imagined it.
In silence, they entered the house through the back door and were about to cross the hall when Spock heard footsteps and voices. Recognizing T'Pring's voice, he froze. It appeared T'Pau had already arrived and might be heading their way.
Grabbing Jim's arm, Spock pulled him inside the closest room.
"Dammit, Spock! What are you—"
"Be silent, T'Pring is heading this way," Spock said. His pulse quickened when he realized that footsteps were heading towards this very room. Glancing around, Spock pushed Jim into the wardrobe, pushing the robes aside.
"Spock—" Jim started protesting when Spock attempted to close the wardrobe door. Glaring at Jim, Spock clasped his mouth, and having no other choice, got into the wardrobe, as well. He barely managed to close the door behind them when several people entered the room.
Spock held his breath, his heartbeat elevated by seventeen percent. Thankfully, Jim appeared to understand the seriousness of the situation and became quiet as well, his back pressed against Spock's chest. It was not completely dark in the wardrobe, thanks to the light coming from the gap Spock had accidentally left.
"You indicated the desire to speak. Speak," said a cold male voice. Recognizing it, Spock somewhat relaxed. The voice belonged to the estate manager, Stonn. Spock did not know him very well, since Stonn was ten years older, but Stonn and his family had known of Jim's existence from the very beginning and had proven themselves loyal and trustworthy; the family had worked for their clan for generations.
"I wish to know why you have been avoiding me," T'Pring said.
Spock's eyebrows furrowed. He had not known T'Pring had more than a passing acquaintance with Stonn. While T'Pring visited the manor with T'Pau quite often, the visits usually were not long enough to become closely acquainted with staff.
"Perhaps I do not desire your presence," Stonn said coolly.
"Cease uttering lies," T'Pring hissed out, and Spock's eyebrows crept up. He felt Jim tense in surprise against him.
"As you are well aware, lying is illogical."
"Indeed?" T'Pring said, her voice tinged with challenge and… something else. "Then tell me that you do not desire me, Stonn. If you can."
Spock felt Jim chuckle softly and clasped his hand against Jim's mouth harder. Fortunately, the pair seemed too engaged in their argument to pay attention.
"What do you want, T'Pring?" It had been said almost with resignation.
"As I thought: you cannot say it."
"I am asking you again: what do you want, T'Pring?"
"I want you," T'Pring said firmly, making Spock's eyes widen. Such... forwardness for a well-mannered girl of eighteen was unheard of.
Stonn made a strange strangled sound. "You want me, but you wish to marry Spock. I find your reasoning illogical."
Jim stiffened against him. Spock was surprised himself. It appeared Jim had been partially correct about the reason of T'Pring's visits.
"On the contrary, it is perfectly logical. I will marry Spock for social status and to guarantee that T'Pau will support my political career. You know her—she is illogically attached to him. You and I will live in the same house and will continue our liaison. It will be a perfect arrangement."
Jim made a choked sound against his palm, clearly angry on Spock's behalf. Spock was not angry; T'Pring's arrogance and self-confidence was almost amusing. What made her think that he would choose her as a bondmate?
"Admirable logic," Stonn said.
"Thank you."
"However, there are factors you neglected to consider."
"And what those would be?"
"You have forgotten to ask Spock's and my opinions on the matter. What gave you the impression that Spock wishes to marry you?"
"Why would he not? I am a perfectly suitable candidate for a wife: intelligent, aesthetically and sexually appealing, and of a very good family."
"You are also a spoiled little girl," Stonn said, sounding snappish. "Moreover, you lack several qualities that Spock finds appealing."
"I do not believe you," T'Pring said coldly, before asking, "What qualities?"
"It is not my place to discuss it."
Spock frowned. What did Stonn mean?
"I do not believe you. You are merely jealous that I wish to marry him and not you."
"Jealousy is illogical," Stonn said tersely.
"Indeed?" T'Pring's voice sounded closer to Stonn.
"Cease doing this." Stonn sounded breathless.
Before Spock could stop him, Jim shifted forward and looked through the gap. Jim's mouth fell open against his palm.
Curious, Spock leaned forward and looked, too. His skin heated.
Stonn and T'Pring were kissing passionately, their fingers moving together in a rhythm as old as time. Both of them were panting slightly, eyes glazed, T'Pring's face flushed green.
"Stonn," she breathed out, wrapping her free hand around his neck. "Please. I have missed you."
Stonn's eyes flashed. "You did not miss me," he grated out, but didn't stop kissing her. "You missed having something in you. You will have anything in you."
"Do not say that," she said, breathing hard.
"I can say whatever I like," he said, biting behind her ear. He squeezed her breast with his free hand and she moaned. "Do not expect sweet words and courtesy from me. I am not a gentleman, after all. I am just a lowly servant, not worthy of marrying. I'm only good for fucking, am I not?"
"Stonn," she gasped out as he squeezed her nipple through the fabric.
"I hope I did not offend your pureblood ears with such a low-class word," Stonn said mockingly, pushing T'Pring's dress down to reveal her full breasts with erect, light-green nipples. He started kneading them, making T'Pring produce moans and gasps.
Jim made a small sound and Spock felt him doing something. He froze when he realized what exactly Jim was doing: Jim had pulled out his penis from his shorts and was stroking it.
"Cease this immediately," he hissed into Jim's ear. Jim merely huffed a laugh into Spock's palm, leaning back against his chest. Spock had no choice but take Jim's weight, wrapping his other arm around Jim's waist to steady him.
"Stonn... mmm…"
Jim's hand was moving up and down; it kept brushing against Spock's arm on Jim's waist.
T'Pring moaned again. Jim gasped, pressing back, tighter against Spock.
"What do you want, my lady?"
Jim's warm breath was tickling the skin of his palm.
"I want—intercourse."
"Your answer is incorrect, my lady. Say, 'I want you to fuck me.'"
Jim's hand sped up.
"I despise you," T'Pring spat out.
"You don't," Stonn said hoarsely. "You want me. Me, not Spock. Spock can't give you what you want— he's not a man yet. I am. Now tell me: I want you to fuck me."
"I—I—I want you to fuck me."
"Good."
Jim let out a moan, but quickly silenced it by pressing his mouth against Spock's palm and biting it. Spock gasped, feeling hot all over.
He felt strange. There was a warmth gathering in his stomach, and his heartbeat was increasing for no apparent reason. Having Jim in his arms had provoked the usual release of dopamine and serotonin in his blood, only much more potent, but now Spock was also registering a rapid increase of testosterone levels in his blood stream.
He felt… odd.
Attempting to shake the strange sensations, Spock looked through the gap again.
T'Pring was sitting on the desk now, appallingly half-naked: her bodice was pushed all the way open and her skirts were up over her hips. Stonn was between her legs, fully dressed but for his unzipped fly, and was pushing the glistening head of his erect penis inside her. T'Pring moaned and wrapped her legs and arms around Stonn and started chanting something unintelligible, her lips parted, eyes closed. She began stroking her breasts with her hands while Stonn thrust into her with grunts.
The strange warmth in Spock's stomach was increasing, shifting lower and lower as Jim bit his palm to muffle any sounds. The heat shifted to Spock's groin when Jim started desperately kissing and rubbing his plush soft lips against Spock’s sensitive fingers. Spock was not certain how, but somehow, his fingers slipped into Jim's—warm, wet—mouth. Jim sucked, and Spock moaned. Distantly he was thankful T'Pring and Stonn were so loud, but his mind was not on them.
His mind wasn't on them because something strange was happening to his body—something that should have been impossible.
He was hard. For the first time in his life, he was painfully aware of the existence of his penis. It should have been impossible. Vulcans could not experience arousal until their first pon farr. And yet, the evidence was undeniable: his penis was hard against Jim's backside. In fact, his penis appeared to have a mind of its own and was urging Spock to rut against Jim's buttocks.
Despite Spock's utter bewilderment, mild panic and best intentions, Spock found himself unable to stop himself from doing it. With a helpless sigh, he closed his eyes and started mindlessly grinding against the curve of Jim's backside. He felt Jim stiffen slightly in obvious surprise, but, after a moment, he resumed sucking on his fingers, which sent jolts of sharp pleasure to Spock's groin.
Spock sank his teeth into Jim's neck and sucked hard to muffle any sounds as he thrust against Jim's backside harder and faster—wanting something—again, and again, until he saw stars explode behind his eyelids. He shook with his whole body, spurting his semen inside his trousers, his knees becoming weak and unsteady. A few moments later, Jim's hand stopped moving and Jim sagged against him with a muffled groan around Spock's fingers.
Spock was still attempting to gather his thoughts and steady his breathing when the room fell silent—Stonn and T'Pring appeared to be finished, as well.
"I have to go," T'Pring said, sounding amazingly collected. "T'Pau must be seeking me."
Stonn said nothing.
One minute and forty-seven seconds later, they both were gone.
Jim opened the door, and tugging Spock out of the wardrobe, turned to him. "Okay," Jim said, meeting his eyes. His face was flushed, "What the hell was that? I thought you weren't supposed to be able to get it up for, like, ten more years?"
Spock took a shaky breath in. "I do not know."
~*~
"All right," Jim said as they returned to Spock's bedroom. "So what do we think?"
Spock stared at the wet spot on his trousers. "It should have been impossible," he said flatly, his mind whirling in confusion.
"Well, maybe you're just an early bloomer, or something?"
Spock shook his head slowly. "Jim, you do not understand. For a Vulcan, it is literally impossible to achieve an erection before his first pon farr, and I am most definitely not at pon farr."
Jim frowned, a concern crossing his face. "You mean, something's wrong with you?"
"I do not know," Spock whispered.
"Hey... hey," Jim said, shifting closer and wrapping an arm around him. "Don't freak out on me, okay?" He kissed Spock on the cheek softly, and Spock's shoulders slowly relaxed.
"I do not understand, Jim," Spock said, pulling Jim closer.
"Me either. But maybe it's just a one-time thing; a fluke? How exactly did it happen – you felt normal, then got an erection all of a sudden?"
Spock looked down. "I became fully aroused when you put my fingers in your mouth and sucked on them."
"Oh."
Spock could not meet Jim's eyes. Seconds ticked by.
"Maybe we should…"
Spock looked back to Jim, who appeared unusually flustered.
Jim licked his lips. "Maybe we should do it again, and… and see what happens?"
Spock stared at him. "You wish to suck on my fingers?"
Blushing, Jim looked anywhere but him. "Um, yeah? For… purely scientific reasons?"
Spock looked at Jim's full lips. His fingers tingled.
"Very well."
Jim took his hand and tugged him to the bed. "Sit."
Spock did. Jim sat next to him, then stared down at Spock's hand in his. After four seconds, he brought the hand to his mouth and tentatively kissed the tips of the fingers. Spock inhaled sharply.
"Like this?"
"The sensation is… pleasant."
Jim gave a long lick to the fingers; Spock barely swallowed a moan. He felt his blood rush to his groin, and his penis started to ache pleasantly.
"You're getting a hard-on," Jim said, blue eyes fixed on the bulge in Spock's pants as he licked the fingers again. "Pull it out?"
His hand trembling, Spock obliged, freeing his penis from his pants. They both stared at it: Jim with fascination and Spock with quiet mortification. It was big, considerably bigger and thicker than Stonn's, and certainly bigger than Jim's.
It looked disgusting.
"Oh, wow," Jim said, eyes still glued to Spock's ugly penis. "It's, like, huge. I felt it was pretty big when you rubbed against my ass, you know, but... Shit, it's so-“ He exhaled. “I wanna touch it. Can I touch it?"
Spock looked at him incredulously. How could Jim find his monstrous organ aesthetically pleasing? Jim's smaller, pink penis had looked much more appealing to him. "If you wish."
Grinning maniacally, Jim grabbed the penis with his both hands, and Spock had to bit his lip to avoid producing any sound. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as Jim started stroking and groping the penis.
"Shit, that thing turns me on even more than T'Pring's boobs." Jim licked his lips, his face flushed and eyes glazed as he stared at the penis. Abruptly, he leaned down and licked the head wetly, making Spock moan.
"Jim, what are you—doing?"
Jim moaned, mouthing and licking the penis all over, like it was a giant candy. "Tastes good."
Breathing shallowly, Spock watched as Jim took the glistening head into his mouth and sucked. Spock's hips bucked up, and he let out a small groan as a wave of intense pleasure hit him and he spurt his semen into Jim's mouth.
Jim swallowed carefully, eyes closed, like he was savoring the taste. "Well," he said finally, opening his eyes. "We established that it wasn't a fluke. Your cock works just fine." Jim patted Spock's limp penis lovingly and grinned.
Spock sighed. Only Jim would bring humor into a decidedly not humorous situation.
"But it is not normal, Jim," he said, staring at the semen on Jim's lips in fascination. Illogical, but the sight was… pleasing to him. "I will have to speak to Father about this."
Jim frowned, wiping the semen with his thumb. Spock was not disappointed at all. "Yeah, I guess. But not now, okay? Tomorrow."
"Jim—"
"Nope. Now we will climb under the covers and sleep. Sarek's talking to T'Pau anyway." Jim blushed slightly. "And I sort of, um, have a little problem again. Wanna lend me a hand?" Grinning, Jim pointedly looked at his tenting shorts and wiggled his eyebrows. "Pun totally intended."
~*~
He could not sleep.
The room was quiet but for the sound of Jim's muffled murmurs in his sleep. Spock watched him for thirty-eight seconds, then got quietly out of the bed and left the room.
He knew it was unlikely that his father was awake at that time of the night, but Spock could not risk missing Sarek before he left the house with T'Pau in the early morning. He did not wish to wake his father, but there was a 6.8% possibility that Sarek was meditating or working.
The corridor leading to Sarek's room was quiet, so Spock did his best not to make any sound as he tip-toed to his father's bedroom. He raised his hand to knock when he heard muffled voices.
"…knew T'Pau wouldn't change her narrow-minded views!"
Spock frowned. What was Amanda doing in his father's quarters at night?
"Indeed, and yet I had to make an attempt." His father sounded resigned.
"Jim is right, you know," Amanda said with a heavy sigh. "It's not living, it's existing. I'm not saying that I'm unhappy, but I'm tired, Sarek. Tired of living in constant fear for Jim, for Spock and myself—even for you, because if they find out, you'll be arrested. I want my son to have a happy, free life, without any fear for the future."
Spock went cold.
"Spock does have a life free of fear," Sarek responded.
"Only because he doesn't know!" Amanda snapped. "And do you really think that he doesn't feel any fear? You know how close he and Jim are. Spock might not know that he is half-human, but he still fears for Jim…"
Amanda was still saying something, but Spock could not hear a word. He must have made some noise, because suddenly the door was pulled open and Spock was looking blankly at his father and—and the woman he knew all his life as his nurse.
Amanda's eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth as she gasped, paling. "Spock?"
Interlude II
At the sound of the knock, Amanda hastily wiped her eyes and turned away from the window. "Computer, open the door."
The slid open, and there was Jim standing at the doorway, looking pale but determined.
"I wish to talk," he said pointedly, walking in.
She nodded, bracing herself. Jim's reaction to the truth had been nearly as bad as Spock's, and, in some ways, even worse. Spock was too Vulcan to even raise his voice; he simply stared at her and Sarek with the immense hurt, anger and betrayal lurking in his dark eyes, refused to speak to them, completely ignored her, and was quiet and withdrawn all the time.
Jim's reaction, on the other hand, had been violent and loud, and resulted in shouting matches between him and Sarek, baleful glares at her, and overall blatant rudeness.
She didn't know what to do with either of them.
Sarek was no help: he'd had to leave for Shi’Kahr with T'Pau a few hours after the revelation, since they couldn't exactly explain to T'Pau why Sarek couldn't attend such an important Council meeting. He'd been in Shi’Kahr the entire week, coming back only for a day before leaving again. Amanda wanted to be angry with him for leaving her alone to deal with the fallout, but couldn't. It wasn't Sarek's fault. With all the excitement at home, she could care less about the possible negotiations with Earth, but rationally, she knew how important they were, and that Sarek couldn't just leave his position in the High Council without explanation even if he wanted to.
"Please, have a seat," Amanda said softly, gesturing to the armchair a few feet away.
Jim crossed his arms over his chest. "No, thanks, I'm good."
Eyeing his stubbornly set jaw and squared shoulders, she suddenly felt old. He was all grown up, not her little golden-haired angel anymore—not her anything anymore. "Jim, what can I do for you?"
His blue eyes flashed. "I want you to fix it. Fix it."
She blinked, slowly. "Fix what?"
He glared at her, and only then she noticed that his blue eyes were bloodshot. Her heart tightened. Jim clenched his hands into his fists. "Fix Spock!"
Amanda stared at him. "…I don't know how."
Jim opened his mouth, closed it, scowling. "You have to!"
She smiled slightly, reminded of the little Jimmy who didn't understand why he couldn't have more sweets. Jim was still that kid; yes, he'd been growing quickly, but he was still her little boy.
"Darling," she said softly, reaching tentatively for him.
Jim stared at her hand warily before suddenly throwing his arms around her neck and burying his head on her chest. "I hate it," Jim said hoarsely.
Amanda embraced him back tightly, closing her eyes. "Baby—"
"Don't call me that," he grumbled. "Don't think that you're forgiven or anything."
She smiled, kissing him on the forehead. She missed him, so much.
"You lied to him—to us—all the time."
"I didn't want to—"
"No! Sarek said it was your idea to not tell Spock."
She bit her lip. "Yes, it was, but do you think it was easy for me? Do you think I liked that my only son considered me just a nanny?"
"Why did you do that, then?" Jim demanded. "All this lying for years—'
Amanda sighed. "I just wanted my son to be alive. He was a child, Jim – his mental training was nonexistent, and he couldn't protect his thoughts from T'Pau and his other teachers. He couldn't know." Her voice cracked. "And I didn't want him to feel like an outsider among Vulcans. I wanted him to have a happy, free life. Not like ours. I didn't want my baby to be locked up somewhere or—or even worse.” Her tone became pleading. “I know he hates me for not telling him, but you understand me, right? You have to. You love Spock as much as I do."
Jim was silent for a while.
"I wish I didn't," he said finally, and her shoulders sagged in relief.
"Thank you," she murmured in English, kissing him on the head. "I love you, sweetheart, you know that, right? As much I as love Spock."
Jim lifted his head, meeting her eyes. He blinked, licked his lips, looking as uncomfortable as only teenage boys could while talking about feelings. It made her smile.
"Yeah," he said with an awkward smile, kissing her on the cheek. He was almost as tall as her, Amanda realized. "But—I don't know what to do with Spock."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
Jim brushed a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "He shuts me out, too. He's, like, distant and all Vulcan-y, like he's overcompensating or something. I hate it."
Amanda's worry deepened. Spock needed someone to comfort him, someone for him to confide in.
Jim was pouting, blue eyes sad and clouded. "I want my Spock back, but I don't know what to do."
Smiling slightly, she ran a hand through his golden hair. "Chin up, young man. If anybody can reach Spock, it's you. Just be persistent. You know Spock adores you like a brother. Hell, you are his brother."
"…Yeah. Right.” Jim averted his gaze and started eyeing his shoes. "I'll go, then. Thanks for the advice."
Amanda frowned as Jim practically flew from the room.
|
Leaning against the wall, a teenager with a bored look on his face listened to the cheerful chatter between the people coming and going from the stores, doing their last-minute preparations; all happy smiles and faces, jolly greetings and goodbyes to one another, arms full of things the big companies brainwashed people to buy. Things that no one needed. He hated this time of the year with passion. It was wasteful, money and feelings alike. Fake. For some, it was also that time of the year to pretend to be generous, a good person, so everyone could see. His father was one of them; the rich, powerful man everyone spoke highly of, at least among the high society.
Supposedly he was one of them, the rich and fortunate, and yet here he was once again, trying to escape the 'better life' others so envied. Green grass and all that. Maybe he would wish for this life too, if he had been born among the 'common people'—his father's words—and didn't know any better.
He lit a cigarette. Smoking was a nasty habit, which he mostly did because he knew how much it infuriated his father, the man who himself could do whatever he wanted; drink and party, waste money, fool around with women and whatever else his sick mind could think of. It was hard to keep up with it sometimes.
Seeing a fully tattooed man walking by, the teen chuckled. Maybe he should get a tattoo next. That would surely give the old man a heart attack. He could already hear the screaming: 'Junior! You are disgracing the family name! ' Yeah. That would make the day. Maybe then he could be finally free from the DiNozzo name.
His gaze wandered to the street musician playing a happy tune with his guitar and singing merrily. He couldn't help but wonder if he was the only one hearing the sadness and loneliness behind the smile. Maybe because he was used to doing just that, covering up his sadness and pain with big smiles, sometimes even arrogance, when he felt like getting beat up by some strangers. Pulling his jacket tighter around himself, he wondered if the man had a place to go to for the night. It was already freezing, and according to the weather forecast, would only get worse. For the sake of that man, he really hoped it wouldn't.
Digging around his pocket, he pulled out his old and worn wallet. Not the kind his father approved of, but he loved it, mostly because the old man hated it so much. Walking past the man, he dropped money in the hat on the ground. From the corner of his eye, he could see it holding some coins and... a hamburger wrapper.
Feeling moody and more than a little angered by what he'd seen, he now walked with a scowl that, had anyone cared enough to look, they would've stayed far off his radar.
By the time he finally stopped, he was numb from the cold. There were less people around, and he knew he should go back home if he didn't want to freeze to death. He'd much rather stay outside than face yet another party with his drunk father and friends. If it weren't so cold, he could easily spend the night wandering on the streets. Maybe he still would.
As he was lighting another cigarette, he saw a child, no older than ten, maybe. Her clothes could not be keeping her warm; the slightly torn summer dress barely covered her pale knees, the summer jacket was rather useless in the cold winter night, and a pair of sneakers on her bare feet. Her bottom lip looked like she'd been biting it constantly. As he watched, she did it again, shivering and clearly trying to hold back tears.
The cigarette now forgotten in his mouth, he frowned. Completely frozen to the spot, he watched as the people walked by, no one paying any attention to the young child who was practically begging for attention. Even though he was dressed appropriately, he was still feeling cold and shivering. Then he became angry; all those adults walking around with their family, or to their family waiting at home, and no one stopped to even ask if she was okay.
What about that nicely dressed preacher, with his nice little collar, preaching about love and charity—and would you mind donating money for those poor children in Africa?—all the while standing not too far from the child in obvious distress and need of help. In fact, when the girl went to him and said something, he told her not to bother him since he's got important work to do. The man was probably one of those who walked around bragging about all the good they've done, God knows where, while forgetting about the people in need in their own neighborhood.
If there was one thing the teen hated, it was hypocrites, and right now he was positively seething. Hopeful that at least one of these adults walking by would stop and do the right thing, but unable to leave it up to the fate, he observed some more.
There walked a young woman in her designer shoes, dressed in her designer clothes and carrying her designer purse, reeking to high heavens of some ridiculously expensive perfume. For all that she liked to act rich, she came off as a cheap knockoff. Dropping a few coins in the box of a guy wearing the red cross vest, she probably thought it made her a good person or something. Seeing the child, she wrinkled her nose and walked away faster.
A couple of teenagers walked by, laughing at some trash reality TV show they had seen the day before.
The observation ended when a businessman ran through the shrinking crowd of people, almost running over the girl. That's when the teen finally snapped. Walking to the man, he grabbed him by the arm. "What is wrong with you!" he yelled, getting not only the man's but everyone's attention.
"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you! Let go of me, you hooligan, or I'll call the cops! I'm busy!"
The teen saw red. Holding his cigarette in his other hand, he pointed it toward the wide-eyed girl, now staring at them. "Apologize to her!"
"What? Why?" The man was genuinely confused and the teen momentarily so taken aback by it that his hold on the man's arm loosened, enough for the man to get free and escape from the scene.
"Kids these days..." one of the people was heard muttering, but after that the city life was back to how it was before. As if nothing had happened. The world kept moving around the two kids now staring at each other.
Seeing how the child was shivering from cold, maybe even fear, the tall teenager crouched down, so he would seem less threatening. He was surprised how instead of being scared of him, she reached out her hand and removed the cigarette from between his lips, dropping it in the snow. "It's bad for your health," she stated solemnly. "And it makes you smell bad too."
All he could do was stare and then admire her guts, which she obviously had. "I guess you're right... You look cold," he said, and then took off his jacket and put it on the girl who seemed to disappear inside the thing.
"It's too big," she said with a small smile, and he chuckled.
"Are you lost? Where are your parents?"
Her smile vanished and her lower lip started wobbling as she moved her gaze down.
"Hey... It's okay. I'll help you find them. What do you say?" he said, and then the horrible thought came to him. What if she didn't have any parents?
"Thank you," she whispered, and took his hand in hers. He was alarmed by just how cold her hand felt.
"You know, you shouldn't trust strangers so easily, kid. No one ever gave you the 'stranger danger' talk?"
"It's okay. I know I can trust you."
"Why is that?"
"My gut tells me so."
He chuckled again. The kid was funny. "Your gut, huh? All right... Let's abandon the ice age for someplace warm and something to eat. We'll start looking for your family tomorrow morning. How does that sound?"
"Okay."
He hesitated until she wrapped her arms around his neck. Almost shaking his head at the trust, he raised the girl up into his arms and started walking away from the huge shopping center, which wasn't quite as busy as it had been a moment ago. The scenery was about to change even further, as that's when the promised snowfall started. "What's your name, kid?" he asked, realizing he couldn't just keep calling her 'kid'.
"Kelly."
"Kelly, huh? That's a nice name. I'm Tony."
Tony was careful not to be seen by anyone as he made his way toward his room. The isolated location worked in his favor, both for the privacy and the quiet from the racked coming from the other side of the big house. Father had taken an early start with his party. Entering his room, he closed the door and was glad that the noise didn't reach this part of the building.
Although he had tried to keep Kelly awake, the child had finally fallen asleep on the way, and he was once again alarmed by how cold she felt. Laying her on his huge canopy bed, Tony took out his phone and called their family doctor. He was worried and couldn't risk doing something wrong. "Come on, Kells. Wake up. I didn't save you just so you can die on me now," he said softly, while getting all the nearby blankets for her.
He had just finished preparing a hot bath in the adjoined bathroom, when a servant brought the doctor into the room. Despite his usual distaste at the mere sight of said man, he felt such relief, seeing someone who actually knew what to do.
Kelly sighed and moved as her nice, long dream started to fade away. She didn't want to wake up when it felt so nice and warm and soft, almost as if she was back home... The thought made her sob quietly. She missed mom and dad. She wondered if they missed her too. It felt like forever since the bad man had stolen her, and when she managed to escape, only to find herself completely lost and far away from anything familiar.
She cried for a while, but then decided that as the daughter of a badass marine, she shouldn't be a crybaby.
Finally, opening her eyes, Kelly sat up and gasped at what she saw. Was she still dreaming? It was like something out of a fairy tale, the huge room she was in; a room fit for a princess. Or a prince, she added when she noticed the person lightly snoring in the comfy looking chair next to the bed. He really did look like a prince from her fairy tale books. Her savior. She smiled when she remembered how he had come to her rescue. She was her daddy's little girl and was sure she could trust her gut feeling, knowing he was a good person.
Crawling closer to the sleeping teen, Kelly wondered why he was sleeping in the chair. The bed was big enough for them both. It was big enough for them and her mom and dad. She noticed that she was wearing a big T-shirt and shorts, which had to be some boy's clothes. Someone much bigger than she was.
"Kelly?" Tony was slowly blinking his sleepy eyes open. When he saw her awake, he smiled tiredly and looked relieved. "You're finally awake."
"Did I sleep a long time?"
"A very long time... I was worried, even though the doctor said you would be fine with some rest." Tony sighed as he leaned closer to check her temperature with his hand, but then a loud noise broke the serious moment, and he grinned. "Seems like you could use some food. The doctor did also mention something about nutrients."
Kelly blushed. "Yes please."
Tony held out his hand toward her, which she didn't take, but instead wrapped her arms around his neck. Holding her, he stood up. "You really do trust me too easily."
"You feel safe. You feel..."
"I feel?"
"You feel the same my daddy does."
"Oh... Uh. Well, I can be your temporary seventeen-year-old brother until we find your dad, okay?"
She'd always wanted a brother, or a sister, but a brother was fine too. "Okay."
As Tony walked through the silent house, Kelly held her head against his shoulder and stared at the rooms they went through, taking it all in. To her, it was like being inside a castle.
"Teresa," Tony said when he entered the warm kitchen, a complete contrast after the cold hallways and long corridors of the building.
The elderly woman working in the kitchen turned around and smiled when she saw him. "Antonio, you are up early," she said. "Who is this young lady?"
Tony put Kelly down on the chair behind the kitchen table, where she listened with wide eyes as Tony and Teresa talked in Spanish.
"I found her on the street. Couldn't leave her there, or she would've frozen to death."
"Of course you couldn't. Poor thing."
"I was wondering if we could have something to eat? For her, really. After that, I'm going to try to find her parents or anyone who knows her."
"But of course, dear child." Teresa nodded and started pulling things out of the fridge and cabinets.
"Don't forget, we're only two people... One of us being just a child, who might not be able to eat too much right now," Tony tried to say, but that didn't stop her. Shaking his head, he turned to Kelly and smiled. "This is Teresa; she's a nice lady and will take good care of you while I'm gone, which won't be long, I promise. She doesn't speak a word of English, but she'll understand what you say. Now, I need to make a few phone calls. Don't leave the kitchen while I'm gone. It's a big house, and we wouldn't want you to get lost."
Tony's last sight of the two was Kelly looking adorably confused, while Teresa talked in Spanish, ignoring the whole language barrier thing. Honestly, that's how Tony had learned his fluent Spanish. Not a word of English from her for as long as he could remember. Catching her twinkling eyes, he wondered once again if she could, in fact, speak English just fine...
While sneaking back toward his room, Tony froze. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Oh no... Not now.
"Junior. Where were you last night?" The man speaking was his old man, Anthony DiNozzo Senior. He was standing at the door of one of the guest rooms, looking as if he'd partied hard last night.
"Father." Tony turned around to face his father, who was obviously still a little under the influence of alcohol, which he so loved. More than his own son. The man loved everything more than his son.
"People kept asking about you, can't imagine why. Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was?" Senior was furious and with the volume of his voice raising, which was never a good sign for Tony. Stepping closer to his son, the man's face was starting to take a slightly red tone. "Answer me!"
"I went for a walk," Tony answered tonelessly.
"A walk!" Senior screamed, and Tony hoped it wouldn't be heard in the kitchen. They were far enough, right?
"Yes, a walk. I needed some fresh air. It happens when I'm around you and your friends during one of your drinking parties. The stench is horrible." Tony knew he was pretty much asking for it, and so the punch in the face didn't come as a surprise. He didn't fall down, but only because he had been prepared for it.
"I'll teach you some respect, you little—!"
"Anthony?" It was a woman's voice coming from the room. She sounded uncertain and slightly fearful. She should be. Once drunk enough, Senior could raise his hand against anyone, men or women. Children.
Senior pointed his finger at his son and hissed, "I will deal with you later!"
Tony took a deep breath. For a change, he was grateful for his father's random string of girlfriends. It had saved him from more yelling and from getting another black eye or worse. And kept him from saying something that would have made the man even angrier.
"I hope I won't scare Kelly with this," he muttered, carefully touching his face around the eye. He didn't need a mirror to know he'd be soon having a black eye. Wondering why he didn't take his phone with him in the first place, he hurried to his room.
"Oh, Antonio. Antonio, Antonio..." Teresa bemoaned when she saw the beginning of a black eye as he entered the kitchen. "What was it this time? And don't lie to me. The truth; was it your father again?"
Tony grinned sheepishly. "I slipped on the empty bottles on the floor. Maria is going to have a heart attack when she comes to clean up the mess."
With hands on her hips and eyes narrowed, Teresa didn't look amused. "Antonio," she stressed.
Ignoring her, Tony sat behind the table and smiled. "Was the food good?"
Kelly stared at Tony with wide eyes. "You're hurt."
"This?" Tony gingerly touched his eye and barely stopped himself from flinching. "It's nothing. I got into a fist fight with the door. You would not believe how often it happens. I'm pretty clumsy for a big boy like me."
Kelly narrowed her eyes, and Tony tilted his head at the way the kid stared at him. It made him uncomfortable. "Are you done eating?" he finally asked, and Kelly nodded. Without any further word exchange, she held out her arms, and Tony felt his heart swell at it. Swallowing down the lump forming in his throat, he stood up and lifted her into his arms. "Let's get going then. A friend of mine promised to help us find your family."
Teresa wasn't happy. "Antonio. Where do you think you're going? Your breakfast."
"Sorry, Terri, don't have time." Tony shrugged and took a couple of pastries with him.
Teresa shook his head as Tony left before she could force him to sit down. "Will take care of everyone else..."
After he had dressed Kelly warmly in his old clothes, Tony was about to take her out the same way they came in, but just as he moved toward his bedroom door, his hearing picked up the telltale sound of his father's footsteps; heavy with intent that never ended well.
Momentarily frozen, Tony shook off the ever-present fear, as it was now more important than ever to get Kelly out of the house safely. It was one thing for Senior to show his true nature to him, but there was no way he would subject her to it.
"Let's play a game," he whispered, trying to act nonchalant.
As if understanding that something wasn't right, Kelly stared at him with a tiny frown. "A game?"
"Yeah. A game where you stay very quiet and hug me as tightly as you can. Don't let go, no matter what. Can you do that? We're going out the fun way."
Glancing at the door, probably also hearing the footsteps now, Kelly nodded.
"Good girl." Tony rushed to open the window, glancing at the escape route. He was used to sneaking out that way, but this time he had someone else with him, so he had no room for error. Third floor wasn't really that high for him alone, but for the two of them... There was no time; he could hear the footsteps stopping behind the door. Helping Kelly on his back for a piggyback ride, he whispered, "As tightly as you can, like a koala. Don't look down."
A moment later, the door opened to an empty room and an open window.
He couldn't believe he had done it. Sure, he'd done foolish things before, but this was a whole new level. He had stolen his father's car. Sure, he saw it as 'borrowing', but Senior would not care. He was so seriously screwed...
Tony glanced at his silent companion, who hadn't spoken a word since they left the house, hours ago. "Talk to me, kid."
Kelly looked at him, the look on her face far too serious and knowing for a child of her age. "Why did we have to run? Is... Did your dad hurt you?"
He had no idea what to say. He could easily lie, but...
"It's okay. I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to. I had a friend at school once. His dad wasn't very nice either."
Tony cleared his throat. "It's fine. Not really a secret. It's more like a secret that everyone knows, but no one likes to talk about it. My father just got a little angry. I wasn't being a very good boy, and so he punished me." Honesty was good, right? He wasn't sure how one was meant to be around kids.
"My dad and mom never hurt me, even when I am being a really bad girl."
Tony didn't know what to say. Honestly, it wasn't like he had anything to compare to.
"I don't like your dad," Kelly said after a pause. She sounded upset, maybe even angry.
Tony smiled faintly. "I don't like him either. Don't worry, you won't see him ever again."
"But what about you?"
The smile vanished. "He's my father."
For the rest of the drive, Kelly kept giving him sad looks.
Some time later, Tony stopped the car in front of a police station. He was glad to have a friend who was a cop, even though that friendship started when the man arrested him a few years ago, after he ran away from home and was caught trying out drugs with his new 'friends'. Thankfully, it was only that one time, and he'd barely made it to the 'going to try it' part. He had never done anything so stupid again. No thanks to his father, but every bit of thanks to the cop who was like some long-lost uncle to him, or an older brother.
"All right, Kelly. We are going to meet my very good friend."
|
Nobody was really surprised when Hinata told us the news. Nor when he invited all of the old third years and all of our volleybally club to the coffee shop. Ok, when I say invited, I mean practically forced us with his pout and puppy eyes. It was almost unsettling how cute he looked like that.
Two days later, everyone was gathered in the coffee shop after hours, Hinata standing in front of the group, a grin plastered to his face. Kageyama, who was standing next to him, had a small smile of his own, indicating that he was happy about the so-called news as well. Hinata then pulled up a stool, sitting down on it and clearing his throat.
"Alright! Gwaaah! Ok, guys, this is really exciting, so! As you guys know, a few months ago, Tobio and I bonded and mated and stuff!" He waited a minute to continue, as if making sure everyone actually knew what he was talking about. "Ok, anyway! After my heat last month, we found out that I'm pregnant! Uwaaaah! I'm so excited!"
In all honesty, this really doesn't surprise me. It's not uncommon for omegas and their mates to have children while still in highschool. Actually, scratch that, it happens more often than not. However, that didn't stop the feeling of joy for my packmates, making me smile. Everyone gave their congratulations before I walked over to Hinata and gave him a small hug. (Yeah, right. More like awkwardly holding your arms out around him, Tsukki!) He wrapped his arms around me, gently nuzzling my scent glands and giggling.
"Congratulations, Shouyou. You too, Kageyama." The latter gave me a smile and nodded his head. I patted Hinata's head, pretending not to hear Suga cooing in the background. "So, this is really good news."
"Mmhmm! Thank you, Kei! I was all like, bwaaaaah, when I found out! I wanted to tell you first but Tobio said we should tell everyone as a pack thing!"
"That's good. I mean, the pack is like your other, other family. You should tell us together."
"Well, yeah, but you're like my best friend!" Best friend, huh? Hmm. "But still! I'm just really excited!"
"This actually explains a lot. Your smell changed a lot. You smell disgustingly like the King." Hinata blushed and laughed when Kageyama suddenly took the stance of an angry bird. "But in the best way. Really. I'm happy for you."
"Ooh! Kei, you should stay the night at my house! It'll be fun! Pleaseeeee!"
"Alright. I don't see why not."
"Yayyyy!"
After some more socialising, mainly Nishinoya snuggling up to Asahi and everyone watching in a mix of horror, amusement, and affection, people started to leave. One by one, the team members left, including Hinata, Kageyama and I. We split ways at the fork in the road, Hinata and Kageyama sharing a small good night kiss and nuzzling into each other before Hinata buried his face in his scarf and stuffed his mitten covered hands back into his pockets. He smiled at me and we trekked through the snowy streets to Hinata's home.
When we arrived there, Natsu greated us at the door, looking tired and about to pass out.
"Oh, Kei, just go wait in my room for a minute, yeah? I have to put Natsu to bed." I nodded, walking up the stairs and into the familiar room, seeing it covered, surprisingly, in books.
I flipped over one of the covers and saw that it was in Hinata's own way, an instinct tonprepare for having a child. It was titled: Pregnancy for Dummies. That sure as hell fit. Not that I would say that to him in his state, like I would have a few months ago.
I sat down on the bed, at least, the part not covered in pregnancy books and yarn. Speaking of which, did Hinata take up knitting? I looked at the book under it, marked on a page on how to knot baby booties. "Damn, Shouyou. You are very invested." I mumbled quietly.
"Yes, I am." I whipped around at the voice, seeing Hinata standing at the doorway with a tub of ice cream and two spoons. "Strawberry Cheesecake. Our favorite. I was thinking we could watch this?" He pulled out a dvd case, with the title, 'What To Expect When You're Expecting'. I snorted.
"You're in full on baby mode, huh?" The other boy giggled, popping in the dvd and taking a seat on the bed next to me, handing me a spoon. "Thanks."
"Mmhmm!"
About half way through the movie, he and I were sobbing, Hinata bawling about how he thought that 'this was supposed to be romantic comedy' and 'why is itnso sad?'. We went through two and a half boxes of tissues.
But, after we stopped crying, Hinata looked at me and smiled but it was quickly wiped off of his face. "Kei? What's wrong? You smell distressed..."
"Oh, ah... I don't know this movie keeps making me think of babies. Which reminds me that I don't have any and that I won't for a long time..."
"It's more than that too, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Do you want to tell me about it?" I nodded, sucking in a deep breath.
"Well, I met someone. And for the first time, I feel like being an omega isn't such a bad thing. He's such a good guy but..."
"You don't think he feels the same?" I nodded again, making Hinata wrap his arms around my shoulders. "Even if he doesn't, you still have the pack. We all love you."
"Yeah, I know... it's just not the same."
"Hey, Kei? Do you just wanna call it a night and go to bed?" I nodded, watching his figure get up to throw away the ice cream tin. He quickly disposed of it and the spoons, coming back to the bed and cuddling under the blankets, moving his body to snuggle mine.
"Hey, Shouyou?"
"Yeah?"
"What's it like?"
"What's what like?"
"You know... having someone who loves you like that. You know, like Kageyama loves you..."
"Kei... I could go on for hours about how it makes my stomach go all bwaaah, but I know that that's not what you mean. You will find someone like that. I know it. I feel it in my gut. And hey, maybe if you tell that guy, he might like you like that!" He smiled, looking kind of sad. However, one look into his eyes and you could see that he had a certain determination in his eyes. The one he had when playing volleyball. I smiled back and thought about what it would be like if I told him. What I feel for him and if it was anything like what Hinata discribed his feelings for Kageyama to be.
He said once that his stomach and chest felt all tight. That his heart would beat faster when he though of him. That he was ecstatic to see him. To see him smile.
When I went through my mind to think of these things, my heart did beat faster. My chest got really tight and fuzzy whenever I thought of his ridiculous smile. And Inthought of how excited I'd been to see him after I came back from my week off. It was very possible that I was honestly in love with the man. He made me smile and laugh. That's what I always wanted. I may have denied it for a long time but everyone knew that I wanted someone who could make me smile. Someone I could be myself around. And I think he might be that person.
|
Evan grinned at the finished masterpiece that was his bedroom; well, finished for now. He was sure he'd change it again in a few years. The wall facing his door and hosting his twin windows held the mural of their lake, complete with accurate weather. He'd placed his art station between the two windows and spelled his curtains to reflect the sky. The wall hosting his queen-sized bed was a picturesque view of the forbidden forest, rendered from a sketch he had done while at school. Across from it, on the wall that hosted his bathroom and closet doors, was the mural of his favorite camping spot (though his dad never could shoot a stag). Aunt Bella had be-spelled it so random forest animals would appear, doing the same but with magical creatures for his rendering of the Forbidden Forrest. His last wall sported a mural of Hogwarts itself, and if you tapped it with your wand and spoke the chosen phrase it would replicate what Dad called the 'Marauder's Map'.
It came quite handy for keeping an eye on the comings and goings of Hogwarts. It even allowed him to watch the teachers and staff along with his fellow students.
"Nicely done, no wonder you've been so busy." Samuel grinned from his spot against the door frame.
"Watch this!" Evan grinned back before pushing a bit of magic into the 'star' above his light switch. The sky above the lake cleared, the animals disappeared, and the stars above Hogwarts stopped twinkling; the magic in his murals hid themselves. "Now there're no worries." His sly smirk told his dad that tidbit was in there for him.
"Very nicely done," Samuel ruffled his son's hair, not even surprised when it came away covered in paint. "Green? Well, at least it's not pink. Why don't you go wash up? I expect the guests will be arriving soon." He cracked a grin before wiping his hand off on a towel.
"How big is the Gala this year?" Evan swiped the towel from his father and attempted to get the rest of the wet paint out of his hair before viewing it as a lost cause and tossing the towel into a corner with the rest of the cloths he had ruined.
"Hmm, I invited everyone's friends and their families, so who knows?" Samuel chuckled, inspecting his hand for any leftover paint while he shook his head at his son.
"I see; I'll be down in a few." Evan waved his dad off as he headed to his bathroom to take a quick shower.
It took longer than expected to get all of the paint out of his hair, though it was fairly easy to scrub off his skin. Good thing he had been wearing his 'acrylic' clothes. Tuney would've gone mad if he had managed to get the near-permanent paint on any of his other clothes. The grey sweat-pants and white t-shirt were already stained beyond repair, but the elf sure had been hysterical when she found them.
With a chuckle Evan dried, stashing his paint clothes in the sink, before returning to his room to dress. It seemed Aunt Krissy had picked out his clothed this time, and he couldn't help the sigh that escaped. He was old enough to dress himself, not that they would ever listen.
Evan slipped on the coal grey trousers, white button-up, and emerald-green sweater. It was a nice contrast to what he normally would wear, if a bit too formal. He would need to incorporate more grey and green in his wardrobe it seemed. He slipped on his black dragon-scale ankle boots (though the Muggles thought they were snake-skin) before pulling his hair back in a long pony-tail. It had the effect of making him appear older, which he loved.
"Well, time to be a good host." With a chuckled and a slight smile Evan headed downstairs.
Fred pulled at the collar of his new button-down, trying to loosen it without unbuttoning it. Ms. Isabella had insisted she got to dress the twins since Ms. Kristine had picked out Evan and Danny's outfits. The clothes themselves weren't bad, but they did feel a bit stuffy. Both he and his brother were made to wear black trousers, where he had a crimson sweater and George had jade-green.
"Come here!" Danny snapped, appearing in a similar attire of coal-grey slacks and a soft blue sweater. The blond undid the first button and pulled the neck of the sweater up to cover the opening. "Better?"
"Yeah, thanks. Have you seen George?" His twin had been spending a lot of time tormenting another certain blond, and Evan refused to let them tease him for it. Fred couldn't help but grin though; George's first real crush! It didn't surprise him in the least how attracted his brother was to the snarky, bright, brilliant being that was Caroline Forbes, though her return interest did surprise him. It was all a matter of time, he supposed. He couldn't wait 'till he could properly tease his twin for his first girlfriend.
George shivered, a chill going down his spine. He wondered if this was how his victims felt when he was planning some vicious prank. Hazel eyes scanned the crowd until identical hazel eyes glimmered in mischief. He stifled a groan, just knowing that look was aimed at him. What was Fred up to now? He could only hope his twin hadn't planned anything too embarrassing.
"Alright family, twins! Tonight we host the Noir's Annual Christmas Gala! Drink, eat, dance, play, but remember. Everything you do tonight, you do in the name of Noir. Now, let us welcome our guests!" Samuel Noir clapped his hands, motioning for the doors leading from the entrance hall where all the guests had gathered to the ballroom.
George felt a spike of nervousness followed by Fred suddenly standing close enough to brush shoulders. Sure they had met most of Evan's friends and previous classmates, but this was different. This was all of the Noir Clan's family and friends. One wrong move and they embarrassed Evan, his family, Isabella… Why was she nearly as important as Evan? He couldn't remember when she had become as important as the little snake, just that she had. It would've frightened him, if he didn't believe they were just as important to her as she was to them.
Isabella had taken on a maternal role with the twins, one George hadn't been expecting. Her 'motherly' touch was light, just simple things here and there. It was in the way she always inquired after them. She treated them the same as she did Evan or even Danny. It was welcoming, and also the reason they were so determined to not embarrass the Noir family. She made them feel like family.
Caroline paused next to her mother, a sense of anticipation filling her as she entered the Noir ballroom. The place was large and open, just as it was every year, and decorated to a 'T' as a perfect Christmas paradise. Lights glittered everywhere, though no wires hung in sight. Candles and paper lanterns decorated the room in shades of red, green, silver, and gold.
It was just as breathtaking as always, and she smiled as her mother lead her over to greet the hosts. One day she wanted to throw a party this grand.
"Ah Liz, you look lovely this evening." Mr. Samuel came forward and kissed the back of her mom's hand like a prince from a fairy tale. Try as she might, Caroline could never recall her dad doing that for her mom.
"Sam, you clean up nicely yourself."
"I do aim to please."
"Truly? Well," she paused with her nose in the air mockingly and a smirk on her face, "It would please me to dance." She finished in a haughty tone and held out her hand.
"Of course, ma'am." Samuel took her hand and spun her onto the dance floor with a wolfish grin plastered on his face. Caroline grinned at the display, glad her mom was smiling for once. It seemed she only ever smiled when she thought Caroline was looking or when she was with Mr. Samuel. The twelve year old loved her mom more than anything, and she desperately wanted her mom to get the 'Happily Ever After' she deserved.
"What are you thinking about so hard?" a slightly deeper voice interrupted her thoughts. Bright blue eyes snapped up to meet warm hazel and she couldn't help but think of her own 'Happily Ever After' before reality crushed her fantasy.
"What do my thoughts have to do with you?" Caroline snapped in the same way her mother would when dealing with a new recruit. George just chuckled, and she knew it was George. The twins always felt different: Fred gave off a lighter more playful energy, while George was more grounded and serious.
"Just an opener," he gave her that smile that made it feel as if a thousand butterflies were trapped in her tummy.
"Opening what?" The words came out before she could stop them, causing her face to turn red.
"May I have this dance?" He asked with that charming smile still in place. She only hesitated for a moment before allowing herself to be swept away onto the dance floor.
Evan smirked as he watched all the couples gliding around the ballroom below him. If he hadn't known better he would have thought he'd slipped back in time with the way it so resembled the parties of hundreds of years passed. It was with fondness he noted his father and the new sheriff spinning like there was no tomorrow, George and Caroline attempting to imitate it before giving up and surrendering to the beat of the music, and a few other couples he didn't fully recognize.
It seemed as if a blushing Danny had finally gotten up the courage to ask Elena to dance, most likely at Jeremy's ribbing as the boy was visible snickering from the sidelines. Izzy had dragged her dad onto the dance floor while the Noir sisters were all three dancing together to only a beat they could hear. A chuckle escaped the eleven year old at the sight before he shook his head at the trio and allowed his gaze to sweep the floor once more.
Gram and Papa were waltzing off in one corner, while Fred seemed to settle himself by dancing with anyone who dared to look in his direction. Evan couldn't hold in his soft smile as he observed his family. This was what he was fighting for. This peace was something he could easily give his everything for, and he'd be damned if he let a pair of old fools ruin it.
The Noir clan was here to stay, and they'd already begun their takeover of the magical world.
Black Diaries
December Twenty-First. The Twelfth day of Yule Tide. Winter Solstice. It had arrived.
The Noir Clan and Twins gathered in the ritual room of Blackwell, just as the sun was beginning to set. The day had been spent with each individual celebrating the Holiday in their own way before they all came together for a private dinner and for the evening ritual. Fred and George were practically thrumming with energy and excitement for the chance to participate in another ritual.
The room had already been prepared with an alter set at the center and the ceiling and walls spelled to reflect the sky outside. The altar was low and sturdy; decorated with an evergreen cloth and hosting a gold God candle secured on the front-most right corner, a white Goddess candle standing tall on the front-most left corner, a bronze plate engraved with an emblazoned pentagram in the center. A lidded cauldron was set beside the altar, and inside rested a black candle with a Holly sprig wreath circling it.
Roughly two feet behind the altar sat a special green Taper candle nestled in a wreath of Mistletoe. Beside it was placed a basket of what appeared to be river stones. The stones all gave off a low pulse of magic that was only apparent due to the Twins' enhanced magic sight (a mostly recessive magical inheritance on the Prewett side, though apparently their oldest brother Bill had it too). Samuel stood in the center of the room with Isabella directly to his right and Evan to his left.
"I take it everyone has undergone the cleansing?" A chorus of yeses met his ears. "Very good then, shall we begin? As Head of the Noir Clan, I shall be acting as High Priest for the duration of this ceremony. As the eldest unmarried female of the Noir Clan, Isabella shall be acting as the High Priestess for the duration of this ceremony." Everyone dipped their heads in acceptance before he continued. "Everyone please select a stone and please complete the Outer Ring of the Circle." Everyone bar Samuel grabbed a stone, charged it with their magic, and placed it along the outer circle carved into the old stone floor.
Samuel then picked up the ornate dagger the Twins recognized as an athame. "Let it be known that the circle is about to be cast. All who enter the Circle may do so in perfect love and perfect trust." He began, waiting to allow everyone to claim a space before charging the blade and motioning four members to step up into the second circle. Alphard settled on his knees in the North-most spot with his green candle, resting in a saucer of sand as it was. Sheila was next, and she knelt in the east; her yellow candle spelled with a gentle breeze surrounding the base. Evan stepped forward to claim the southern spot for fire. His candle rested in a small saucer of hot coals that were spelled not to melt the candle (the candle's melting point having been raised). Finally Timothy stepped forward, his pale blue candle resting in a bowl of water as he knelt in the west.
Samuel offered his Elements a small smile before he began. "I conjure thee, O Circle of Power, that thou best a meeting place of love and joy and truth; a shield against all wickedness and evil; a boundary between men and the realms of the Mighty Ones; a rampart and protection that shall preserve and contain the power that we shall raise within thee." His voice was deep and flowed in a way that Evan's just couldn't.
"From the darkness is born the light, from void, fulfillment emerges... The darkest night of the year's at the threshold, Open now the door, and honor the darkness." Isabella stepped forward, both she and Samuel facing each other from opposing sides of the altar. She lifted the cauldron and opened the lid, allowing Samuel to light the candle within before once again returning it to its place. Everyone bowed their heads in silent honor to the Holy King.
"Powers of Air, step forth from the darkness, Enter our circle, as dark gives 'way to light. Bring along with you the essence of pine trees; remind us of Springtime As we face Solstice Night." At Samuel's words Bella lit the yellow candle for air. George was disappointed to note a breeze did not manifest, though the scent of pine filled the air when Sam lit the incense and placed it on the pentacle engraved plate. "Powers of Fire, step forth from the darkness, Enter our circle, as dark gives 'way to light, Bring along with you the first glint of tomorrow, remind us of Summer As we face Solstice Night." Once again Bella lit the candle as Samuel spoke, his words ringing heavy in the air.
The atmosphere was heavily saturated in magic, though neither twin could pinpoint the source. Sam brandished the athame into the brilliant flame of the flickering red candle before allowing it to join the incense on the plate. "Powers of Water, step forth from the darkness, Enter our circle, as dark gives 'way to light, Bring along with you bittersweet memories, Remind us of Autumn As we face Solstice Night." Samuel sprinkled a bit of salt water from the bowl into the plate as Bella lit the blue candle. "Powers of Earth, step forth from the darkness, Enter our circle, as dark gives 'way to light, Bring along with you the land that now slumbers, Remind us of Winter And this cold Solstice Night." He sprinkled a bit of sand unto the plate as well, waiting for Bella to light the final candle.
"Dark my surroundings, and cold be this night But Thy labor, Blessed Mother Has reborn the Sacred Light... The Child Divine, The most honored Sun Shall return with the sunrise Again, Two will be One." Bella removed the holly wreath so as to present it to each of the 'elements', a sense of warmth over taking the room as she did so. Kneeling before the cauldron she placed the holly wreath behind her with a clock-wise motion. Samuel knelt behind her and moved the mistletoe wreath and green candle into her hands. She removed the lid of the cauldron before placing the mistletoe wreath where the holly one once rested before replacing the candles as well and lighting the green one with the aid of the black one.
She replaced the lid and rose to face the altar. "Hark! Behold the Rebirth of the King of the Woodlands! Behold the Oak King, strong and vital he rises!" She snuffed the black candle out with her right hand and placed it behind her, Samuel returning it to the holly. There was a moment of silence before she began again. "Awake now Thy Mother, Thy Lover, Thy Lady - Awake now Thy Goddess of Life, Death, Rebirth."
Bella took the green candle once more and used it to light the white Goddess candle before replacing it in the cauldron. She lifted the white Goddess candle and raised it above the cauldron with both arms stretched wide. "Awaken, my Lady, look upon Thyne Divine Child, His rebirth while You slumbered Was subtle and silent. The Stag King, the Green Man, Lord of Fertility, He awaits Thy wakening Gentle and benevolent." She replaced the Goddess candle once more before offering a carefree smile. "All hail the Oak King, His rebirth; a promise All hail the Divine Child, Giver of Life All hail the Blessed Sun, reborn to the Mother For he retakes His throne at the end of Solstice Night!"
Samuel came forward with the yule log and set it on a magical spit over the elemental plate before allowing it to catch fire on its own. The smells of rosemary, pine, ivy, holly, and mistletoe filled the air as Samuel waved the others into the circle. Each member was given a small piece of cake and a small goblet of spiced cider, a platter set aside as an offering. Another moment of silence as everyone gave a quite prayer of thanks, and Bella moved forward to thank the Goddess and snuff her candle.
"Carry sweet tidings, 'round the world and beyond, I charge thee as messengers Earth, Water, Fire, and Air Let all rejoice loudly in the Oak King's return Teach all that you meet, with the glad tidings you bear." As Samuel's voice rang out Bella went around the circle and released each element. Once done she returned to kneeling before the cauldron. "Before our circle, tonight, we close. Blessings we ask for this house and our kin. Tomorrow at daybreak, when we arise A special flame we will carry, within... And a gold candle upon our altar we'll light, adding our will to the Sun King's intent to climb aloft in the vaulted skies and for strength back to us; three times, strength we've sent."
With a wave of her hand the green candle went out. She moved to place the wreath of mistletoe with the symbols for the departed elements and saved the last ember of the Yule Log from turning to ash. Carefully placing the last ember is a specialized canister for next year's use; she cleaned up the rest of the altar, leaving the God's candle to burn with a charm so that it wouldn't set the rest of the ritual house on fire.
"Release the Circle." At Samuel's command every member, barring he, replaced their stone into the basket, allowing the energy to dissipate and fade to a gentle hum in the back of their minds.
Black Diaries
"Get up. Get up! It's Christmas!" Evan squealed as he jumped onto the belly of his father.
"Mmm, you've gotten heavy." Samuel groaned as he sat up, causing the younger raven to tumble to the floor with a grin.
"Slow poke!" The eleven year old shouted before racing out the room to wake the rest of the household. Samuel chuckled before slipping on his robe and slippers so he could make his way down into the family room. He wasn't the first to arrive as Al, Rudy, and Andy were all in their favored seats with mugs of coffee in hand. The rest of the adults quickly followed suit with a parade of wide-eyes and yawning children in tow.
Tuney appeared and served the new arrivals either hot cocoa or coffee according to their preference.
"Alright," Sam started, smiling warmly at his family. "Whose turn is it to play Santa?"
"Papa Al!" Bonnie chirped pleasantly. "It was Evan's turn last year!"
"So it is. Alright, make room." Sheila, Andy, and Tim claimed the sofa. Sam, Rudy, and Krissy claimed the opposing sofa leaving Bella, Fred, George, and Izzy to steal the couch facing a silver Christmas tree decorated in all manner of ornaments. Al, Danny, Bonnie, and Evan all sat on the floor in a semi-circle around the tree.
Bonnie plopped the Santa hat on her grandfather's head and waited for him to begin. "Alright! Adults first, you know the drill!" The three youngest gathered all the presents and wandlessly summed the desired ones. "First up, Sammy!" Al tossed Samuel a wrapped package and went around tossing a multitude of colorfully wrapped presents to each of the adults.
Sam was the first to receive his presents. Seven packages were spelled unbreakable and tossed across the room to the head of the house as he lounged in his swade-leather lazy-boy. After several pictures, a couple thrown pillows, and many, many laughs, Sam, Tim, and Rudy had managed to unwrap all their gifts.
Samuel's gift included a new leather jacket with a matching journal set (courtesy of Krissy, Bella, Al, Sheila, and Bonnie). Andy, Tim, and Izzy managed to get a full case of his favorite bourbon, to which he was eternally grateful. Rudy had handed over a brand new copy of the movie Terminator which had Sam bouncing in his seat almost as bad as the box of prank candies from the twins. The silver chain from Danny was immediately used to replace his old one, while he had Tuney hang the enchanted portrait of Hogwarts (from Evan) at the head of his bed.
Tim had been gifted many new dress-shirts from his sisters-in-law (one of which was a hideous orange with green palms). His wife and daughter handed over a small box with a beautiful set of topaz cufflinks set in silver. Sam had joked that now he could wear his Hufflepuff tie to work. He had rolled his eyes, but the grin he wore said he would do just that. Danny and Evan snickered as he unwrapped the new stationary set from them, his face a mix of surprise and confusion until he found the Arithmancy journal George and Fred had managed to copy from their mother's collection. Tim had stars in his eyes as he considered all the possibilities.
Rudy was pleased with the small wardrobe he received from Krissy and Bella, but couldn't help the grin as he opened the matching boots from his daughter and in-laws. Izzy had tossed over a box containing a chess set made of African marble, exclaiming how the set had been her idea, but her mother and father insisted on the material it was made from. The twins' gift of spying equipment was rewarded a snort and the new car parts for his current project from Sam, Danny, and Evan also earned a large grin.
Shelia's favorite gift, a gorgeous locket containing a picture of their family, earned her husband kiss along with a range of noises from the crowd. Bonnie had been pulled into a hug and Rudy given a tearful smile as she unwrapped their gift of a hand-stitched new altar cloth. The rest of her gifts—her favorite Tracy Chapman CD from Sam, a beautiful portrait of the Night Sky from the Astronomy Tower by Evan paired with an art set from Danny and Izzy, a new telescope courtesy of Andy and Tim, a few new outfits from Krissy and Bella, and a box of Honeydukes' newest flavor chocolate from the Twins—had been received with whispered thanks and sweet smiles.
Andy felt her own teary smile as she opened the present from her husband, a new engagement set. She rewarded the man with multiple kisses, receiving the same reactions from the crowd as Shelia. She had been the first to comment on her sisters' trend gifts of the year as she open the gorgeous cloaks she had received from them. The Stephan King book set from Rudy and Bonnie resulted in a barely concealed squeal as she came that much closer to completing her collection. Both the catnip and pet toys from her daughter and Sam had resulted in pillows thrown at the gift givers. The Twins' gift of sugar quills had been nice, though the blood pops had caused raised eyebrows. Her confusion only increased upon opening a satin cape and plastic vampire teeth from Evan and Danny. When finally getting to Sheila and Al's gift she groaned, sending those around her into a laughing fit. A complete set of Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles explained the pattern her gifts had taken this year, though Andy couldn't stop her smile. Rice had been an author she'd wanted to read from since The Witching Hour had been released a year prior.
Once the laughter had finally calmed, Krissy patiently unwrapped her small hill of presents, much to her family's annoyance. The smug look in her eyes as she made a point not to rip the wrappings proved to everyone she was purposely tried making a nuisance of herself. It was after nearly twenty minutes of folding wrapping paper and stacking presents—the recently released New Balance and styled scrubs from her younger sister, potions books from her son and nephew, antidotes to pranks from the Twins', new cauldrons from Sam (he had melted her favorite a month earlier), a set of rare potion ingredients from her older sister and Tim, a recently released Reversing Transfiguration from Izzy and Bonnie, and a much required spa trip from Al and Sheila—that Danny groaned in annoyance. The blond jumped from his seat. "You're taking too long Mum!" He exclaimed and ripped the paper from his mother's last present. Krissy chuckled at seeing Rudy's gift of her favorite liquor. "Danny, love, you know all you must do is ask if you want a sip from Mummy's glass." The eleven year old flushed at this and plopped back into his seat beside Evan, his face glowing in his embarrassment.
Bella snickered at her nephew and messed with her hair. "Don't worry, Dan, your Mummy was always a tight ass." She easily dodged Krissy's thrown pillow and stuck her tongue out at the woman.
Krissy rolled her eyes at her sister, "Just open your gifts."
Waving her off, Bella happily obliged. Her first present, a small box from Bonnie and Rudy, was received with a squeal and happy dance as she waved around Metallica concert tickets. The case of her favorite wine from her oldest sister's family and Italian chocolates from Al and Shelia received blown kisses their way. Much to Danny's ire, the gag gift of fox ears was welcomed, as seen how Bella transformed into Trixy and tackled her nephew then proceeded to put them on once human again. Sam broke out in laughter as Bella pulled out his gift of a collar and leash. "With your personality, you'll definitely be in need of a leash Trix."
Bella blinked at him before smirking. "And here I thought you didn't buy into that pureblood propaganda Sammy."
Sam choked, falling from his chair. Krissy hid her smile behind her hair. The Twins didn't bother hiding their laughed while some of the young kids' faces turned green. "Piss off Bella," Sam managed, face red with embarrassment and annoyance.
Everyone calmed down from Sam's blunder, Bella happily excepted gifts from her Twins. Fred presented her with an old Potions book, covered in notes and post-its, looking very similar to one of Sam's leaguers. From George, she received a silver teaspoon with part of the handle having been seared off and twisted back to make a loop. On the bowl part was engraved a little black fox. Bella's eyes lit up and she pulled both her Twins to her sides and kissed their heads repeatedly until the boys managed to pull away sheepishly, allowing Evan to present his gift of two plushies. Bella let out a strangled sob and pulled her nephew into a crushing hug. The reaction confused everyone, who didn't know the significance of the African Wild Dog and Dhole plushies and were unable to see their name tags, bestowing the canines with the names "Gred" and "Forge".
The Twins glanced over at their crushed friend, raising questioning eyebrows. Evan chuckled and shook his head. "Later," he promised, his voice near silence. The gingers exchanged a look before giving the raven a nod.
It took a few minutes of Sam insisting Evan be let go before Bella finally calmed. She kissed her nephew's head upon releasing him, only to grab hold of her Twins and pull them against her sides. Andy cleared her throat and told Al to get a move on.
Al nodded and tossed Izzy her first present. The oldest teen opened it, only to squeal and jump at Sam and Bella with loud "THANK YOU"s. Bella patted her hand, encouraging her to wait for summer to use the tickets to visiting her boyfriend on the Romania Dragon Reserve. Izzy nodded eagerly. Each of her gifts were received with equal excitement—a signed Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt and CD from Danny, Evan, and Bonnie, Auror Robes from Krissy, a home-made "Badger Girl" shirt from the Twins, and Al's old bike with top of the line safety equipment courtesy of Shelia. It was a good holiday on her part.
"Gred and Forge?" Al smirked at the astonished looks he received from the gingers as they were tossed a large pile of gifts. From Bonnie and Izzy, they got Dr. Seuss' "Thing 1" and "Thing 2" shirts, both of which were put on immediately. A Marauder's Leaguer from Sam was reward with endless praise on the Twins' part. Boxes upon boxes of clothes from Krissy along with a note tell them to "never wearing those rags again" were received with laughter all around. Two Cleansweeps from Al and Shelia left them wide eyed, while the OWLs study guides from Danny caused both gingers to roll their eyes. Andy and Tim's gifts of Apprentice Beginner's Guides, Charms for George and Potions for Fred respectively, caused the boys to stutter and blush. Bella gifted her Twins with matching necklaces and a card, explaining how the necklaces were reusable portkeys that would take them to Blackwell manor then back to their previous location. Evan's gift made George speechless while Fred got teary eyed. Each received an individual certificate stating they were "Ward of the House of Black".
Neither ginger knew how to properly thank their new family. All they could offer was a smile and quiet "Thank you", which was rewarded with loving smiles in return. The Twins exchanged a look as Bonnie opened her first present, silently promising to show their thanks, somehow.
Bonnie snorted as she opened her gift from the twins. It was a "Badger Girl" shirt like Izzy's only her shirt's main color was yellow while Izzy's had been black. Three spy specialized walkie-talkies came from her grandparents and Bonnie was already making plans to leave one with Caroline and Elena so they could talk while she was in Hogwarts. The rest of her presents were squeal worthy—prewashed ripped jeans and oversized glittered cashmere sweaters from Aunties Bella and Krissy, three fashion show tickets from Aunt Andy, Izzy, and Uncle Tim, a summer dance program from her Father and Uncle Sam, and an adorable Northern Saw-Whet Owl from Danny with all supplies courtesy of Evan.
Danny was elated with his presents. His mother and Aunt Bella had outdone themselves this year with his pure white dragonhide boots and matching cloak. The first edition of Frankenstein from Bonnie and Rudy was received with a large grin as was the VHS tape of Edward Scissorhands from Uncle Sam. The necklace presented to him by Evan and the Twins he had raised his eyebrows at, only to slip it on immediately when told it held a disillusion charm embedded in so he could finally get that peace and quiet he could never achieve at Hogwarts. The Super Nintendo Entertainment System from Aunt Andy, Uncle Tim, and Izzy had him barely containing his squeak of excitement. His favorite gift was from Al and Shelia though; a gorgeous Persian cat.
"Alright! It's Evan's turn!" Al passed over a pile which Evan immediately tore into. It was to his great joy he received a re-stock on all his favorite art supplies from Aunt Bella, and a new oversized red Nirvana sweater from Aunt Krissy. The two-way mirrors from Papa Al and Gram were a pleasant surprise, and he quickly thrust one in his father's direction, pleased he would no longer have to wait on a letter for more important conversations. Danny got him A Beginner's Guide to Alchemy by N. Flamel, which he took as a hint to not forget about their current mission. Fred and George had pooled the rest of their money together to buy the most expensive emerald-green cloak they could afford (arguably a trench coat made of thicker material but nice all the same) to which they had a simple black lotus embroidered on it in thick black thread. Uncle Rudy and Bonnie had managed to get him a slot in the upcoming Amateur Circle display at the art museum a few towns over, which had prompted a girlish squeal and happy dance from the pre-teen (to which he would adamantly deny later on). The large dry-aquarium styled tank garnered some odd looks (especially since it seemed to be larger on the inside…) but it, along with the few things he suspected to be pet supplies of some kind, was received with gratitude from his Uncle Tim and Aunt Andy. The blue-green, Sorong-type tree python on the other hand had him very nearly vibrating in his seat before he ran around giving the entire group hugs in thanks.
"That just leaves you, Papa." Bonnie called, pushing the old man's presents closer at hand. Al smiled down at his first granddaughter and deliberately picked up the present he knew to be from her and her father. The Polaroid camera was immediately put to good use by taking a snap-shot of the family. One of the several ridiculous Christmas sweaters from Krissy and Bella was paired with his new replica of the 4th Doctor's Scarf from Danny and Evan. Al had always been a big Doctor Who fan ever since Sheila had first introduced him to the crazy Muggle story-line. He would never understand how brilliant the non-magical populace managed to be while the Wizarding World simply remained stagnant. As such, the complete VHS set of the 1st through 4th Doctor was a welcome gift from Sam and Izzy, maybe even a bit more than the new fishing set from Andy and Tim, though certainly not more than the new Amulet from his wife.
The odd little model of the TARDIS from the twins is what really caught his interest though. Somehow they managed to enchant it to flash a light and blare the TARDIS's welcoming sound after you tapped the top and mentioned a particular time. It would work much the same as a Muggle alarm-clock, though you had to lay it on its side and open the door to actually see the time. George had mentioned it was a glitch they were still working on but Al was impressed none the less. The two boys were showing an ideal amount of talent, and he was proud Evan had collected them. No matter what name they went by a Black was a Black, and every Black knows how to garner proper allies. If this is what the twins could manage in a couple weeks he was nearly terrified in what they could manage in months or years.
Those two boys had nearly as much potential as his youngest grandson, and he'd be damned if he let their overbearing mother squander it. Now, it was all about the best way to help promote it…
THE BLACK FAMILY'S NEW NAMES
Sirius Orion Black- Samuel Alphard Noir
Harry James Potter- Evan James Noir
Narcissa Virgo Malfoy nee Black- Kristine Charlotte Noir
Andromeda Tonks nee Black- Andrea Renee Ebony nee Noir
Bellatrix Aaden LeStrange nee Black- Isabella Evelyn Noir
Draco Lucious Malfoy- Daniel Lucifer Noir
Nymphadora Tonks- Elizabeth Nicole Ebony
Theodore Edward Tonks - Timothy Phillip Ebony
|
Tommy could barely remember Phil and Techno. He barely even knew them at all because of how much they were absent from his life.
Wilbur said Phil lived with them all the time when Tommy was an infant. Once Tommy was 2 years old and Wilbur was 9 years old, Phil deemed them old enough to be left on their own. Techno lived with them too, being the same age as Wilbur.
Tommy never knew quite what was up with Techno. All he was told by Wilbur was that Techno suffered from some kind of "voices" in his head. Of course Wilbur knew a few of the gory details of Techno's 'condition' such as the blood lust, but he spared Tommy those gruesome details. He didn't need to know that.
So when Tommy was 2 years old, Phil started travelling and leaving the three boys at home. He didn't explain much, but Wilbur knew he was searching for something to help Techno out. These trips initially lasted 1-2 days, with Phil just dropping out to visit the nearby villages. However, when he couldn't find anything, he started travelling farther, which extended his trips from lasting anywhere between 3-7 days.
Eventually, Techno's condition worsened. He had headaches constantly, and was irritated all the time at those surrounding him. He was annoyed when Tommy cried, or when Wilbur spoke to him when the voices were being loud. This resulted in Techno attacking Wilbur when the two of them were just 9 years old, severely hurting Wilbur and giving him a permanent scar across his cheek. After that, Phil stopped leaving Techno alone with the other two boys. In fact, Phil started to bring Techno with him when he travelled, leaving Wilbur alone in the house with 2 year old Tommy to take care of. In this time, Phil and Techno ended up travelling for longer periods of time, their trips usually lasting several weeks before they came home for a few days before they headed out again.
As far as Tommy was concerned, life was pretty good. He got to spend lots of time with his big brother Wilbur, which he had no complaints about. Wilbur was fun and nice. He never really liked Techno because of how hostile he could be, and Phil stopped being around enough for Tommy to care about him.
Tommy and Wilbur slept in the same bedroom. Techno used to share a bedroom with Wilbur, but when the other's mental health took a toll, Wilbur ended up sleeping in the same room as Tommy. Even in their brother and father's absence, Wilbur couldn't bring himself to use the empty bedrooms to sleep in.
Those early days with Wilbur were the best. Wilbur would crawl into Tommy's toddler bed with him, and they would lay down together, Wilbur telling Tommy of exciting pirate tales that he made up. They didn't have very many kids books, so Wilbur got used to making up stories.
Wilbur told him stories about sailors and the magnificent, giant ships they rode on. Tommy loved hearing Wilbur's tales about the sea which stretched so big and wide. When Tommy fell asleep, he would have dreams of some day embarking on a big adventure with Wilbur like their father does, where he and Wilbur are pirates sailing the seven seas.
After awhile, Phil and Techno stopped coming home when they went out. Their trips started to last a month or longer, and they were constantly on the move. There was the odd day where they'd come home for a day or so if they were passing through, but other than that, they were never home. Phil and Techno became strangers to Tommy, as the years passed.
Wilbur did his best to provide and care for Tommy as he grew. He did everything he could to keep Tommy happy even as his mental health dwindled. Tommy wasn't always the easiest child to care for, but they made it work.
Time went by, and Tommy noticed how Wilbur was now all grown up. No longer the young, naive child he had once been, Wilbur was now a mature 'adult', as Tommy would call it. Wilbur got a job to help pay the bills for the house, along with helping to feed them. He cooked and cleaned for them when he wasn't working. Tommy did his best to help, but it was pretty hard for a child to help do the large chores around the house. Wilbur ended up just telling him to leave all the chores to him to not get in his way or make things harder than they already were.
Wilbur's health deteriorated quickly, and the combined stress of parenting and having to juggle a job made him struggle. The huge amounts of stress and anxiety Wilbur had ended up giving him regular nightmares.
" Wilbur stood on the deck of the boat, with Tommy by his side.
They were dressed up in dirty pants and tunics which were typical for pirates to wear.
The boat rocked violently back and forth, the sea threatening to push the boat over and drown them in the black, cold waves. The sea sprayed cold water into their faces along with the heavy rain which was pelting down on them and soaking them both to the bone.
Wilbur pulled his gaze away from the dark sea, noticing that Tommy had strayed away from his side, now hanging onto the railing of the ship and staring into the dark abyss that was the deep sea. Something was wrong, though. Tommy wasn't looking at him, nor responding when Wilbur tried to talk to him. The child merely sat there motionless, soaking, staring into the water, deep in thought.
'Tommy?' Wilbur questioned, taking an uneasy step forward, putting his hands up in front of his face to shield his eyes from the heavy rain. He took another unbalanced step, the strong winds combined with the rocking of the ship threatening to blow him over now that he wasn't holding onto anything.
Wilbur kept approaching Tommy, but it seemed impossible to reach him. Wilbur could move, and he could walk towards Tommy, but it seemed like the child would get further and further away from him every time he took a step. Like it was impossible to get to him no matter what Wilbur did.
Finally, after calling his name again, Tommy turned his head to look at Wilbur. The older male froze upon seeing the child's face. Tommy's eyes were as black as the sea waves that were crashing around them, a cold, dead expression resting on his face.
'Wilbur,' the child called, questioning. 'What are we sailing for?'
The wind picked up, and Wilbur began unsteadily running at the child who he still couldn't reach. In horror, he watched as the wind blew hard, and the boat crashed down onto the waves hard, ripping the child up into the air and tossing him overboard into the dark sea."
Wilbur woke up screaming. After realizing it was a nightmare, he'd hold Tommy tight, sobbing into the child's shirt for over an hour until he calmed down. Tommy was quiet, and simply let him cry, supporting him by hugging him back and telling his brother he loved him.
After that, the pirate stories stopped.
Many years later, Christmas morning came around and Tommy and Wilbur were still living on their own. Techno and Phil hadn't been home for over three months at this point.
There was a single box underneath the tree with Tommy's name on it. The child got so excited noticing this, realizing that Santa had indeed came. However, he did notice one thing - there wasn't any gifts under the tree for Wilbur. Tommy told Wilbur that Santa must have forgotten Wilbur's present, not realizing that the single present Wilbur bought for Tommy was the only thing they could afford to purchase. Nevertheless, Tommy reassured Wilbur with a big smile and a pinkie-promise that he would share his present with Wilbur. His older brother just smiled weakly in response, happy that Tommy was at least happy.
Later that day, around dinnertime, Tommy was hungry, so he went to find Wilbur.
He found his older brother sobbing quietly in their bedroom, a crumpled letter discarded on the floor.
"My dear sons,
I'm sorry we couldn't be here for Christmas. Techno and I are still very far away.
Good news is, Techno's a lot better now! We finally found a solution to help him.
Bad news is, we won't be returning for awhile. We're really sorry and Techno is better off living separately, away from civilization. Until he's capable of handling his voices appropriately, we'll be staying away. I hope we can return in a year or two, possibly longer if needed.
I'm terribly sorry. Hopefully you boys are doing okay, and I miss you every day.
Sincerely,
- Dad."
Uncrumpling the letter, Tommy couldn't understand most of it, but he understood the general message that his dad and brother weren't going to be coming home. It wasn't surprising, really. Tommy couldn't bring himself to care, after all, Techno and his father Philza were just names to him at this point. He'd only met them a small handful of times as far as he could remember. If they lasted this long without them, then maybe they didn't need them.
Tommy just hugged Wilbur, and let the older male cry onto his shoulder while Tommy rubbed his back like Wilbur used to do when Tommy cried.
Once Wilbur calmed down, Wilbur informed Tommy that they would have to leave. Something about not being able to afford living here as the rent was too high for how big the house was, Tommy didn't really understand because it was adult stuff.
Wilbur quit his job, and packed everything they needed into two backpacks, one for Tommy, and one for Wilbur. This consisted of mainly a blanket, some food, money, and a few possessions they could fit in their bag.
Three days later, they left their childhood home for the last time, the very day Wilbur turned thirteen.
|
Chaos Incarnate [2:26]
Detective Pikachu:
Midoriya, I have an important question.
Purrple Dream:
He’s busy.
Detective Pikachu:
Doing what?
Purrple Dream:
Making something, with Tokoyami.
Sparkles:
I don’t want to know.
Detective Pikachu:
Oh. Aoyama, are you a secret cryptid?
Sparkles:
:)
Flight Risk:
He goes around giving people cheese at 3am.
Detective Pikachu:
Hey Midoriya, what are you making?
Flight Risk:
Mothman statue.
Purrple Dream:
?
Flight Risk:
You’ll see in the morning.
Flight Risk:
This is also quirk training IG.
Flight Risk:
Hey Kaminari, what was your question?
Detective Pikachu:
I just wanted to know if you could use those whips for bondage.
Flight Risk:
I refuse to answer that question.
Chaos Incarnate [5:37]
Human Sonic:
Midoriya, what have you made?
Flight Risk:
Mothman statue.
Human Sonic:
WHY IS THE STATUE SIX METERS TALL?
Froppy:
Wait, what?
SugarStrength:
I’m wondering how more than why.
PunkJack:
Midoriya, how did you make this?
Flight Risk:
Never ask me how, only ask me why.
PunkJack:
Midoriya, WHY did you make a 6m mothman statue?
Flight Risk:
All Hail.
AlienQueen:
All Hail.
Floaty:
All Hail.
Detective Pikachu:
All Hail.
Tapey Boi:
All Hail.
Ready Player One:
All Hail.
Rocky Boi:
All Hail.
Visible:
All Hail.
Flight Risk:
I made it for religious purposes.
Aizawa Shouta:
Problem Child… What have you done?
Rocky Boi:
He did the greatest thing.
Aizawa Shouta:
Get rid of it. Please?
Flight Risk:
Give me some time.
Aizawa Shouta:
You have 2 hours.
We teach Problem Children [6:29]
Dead Tired:
I don’t know why I haven’t expelled Midoriya yet.
Sagittarius A:
What happened now?
Vlad the Impaler:
I’m curious now.
Somnophilia:
You need to tell.
Dead Tired:
Midoriya built a Mothman statue.
Vlad the Impaler:
That’s pretty normal. There’s usually at least one every year.
Dead Tired:
It’s six meters tall. You can see it from pretty far away.
Thin Might:
How did he build that?
Dead Tired:
I don’t know.
[SECURE] Veritas
Izuwu:
It’s another quirk, some sort of earth manipulation quirk.
Toshuwu:
Ah, the Third’s power, Stone Manipulation.
Aizuwu:
How did you explain it to Tokoyami?
Izuwu:
I already got the stone out, then we carved it, then I used it again to erase the stone. He didn’t question it.
Aizuwu:
This is getting harder to explain…
Izuwu:
We’ll find ways. There’s always a way to explain things. People will believe what they want to believe, whatever’s convenient.
Izuwu:
I’m surprised people accepted my half-assed explanation for Blackwhip.
Aizuwu:
What was your explanation?
Izuwu:
“I concentrate the smoke generated from my fire into strong whip-like shapes.”
Bakuwu:
Honestly, I feel like I was the only one to piece it together.
Izuwu:
Not even Keigo suspected anything.
Aizuwu:
Have you cleaned up your Mothman statue?
Izuwu:
Yes.
Bakuwu:
I helped. I had the opportunity to explode something, so I took it.
Chaos Incarnate [7:37]
AlienQueen:
PLEASE tell me you managed to get pictures of the statue.
Flight Risk:
Of course I took pictures, what do you take me for, someone that doesn’t appreciate my own work.
Flight Risk:
Mothman.jpg
Hexapus:
Why did you make that?
Explosive Boi:
Because mothman’s cool.
Red Hot ice:
:)
Flight Risk:
I don’t know why, but that’s really ominous.
Human Sonic:
Todoroki! That is an inappropriate use of your quirk!
Flight Risk:
Todoroki, I love you so much right now that’s amazing.
Flight Risk:
But let’s melt it before Aizawa sees it.
PunkJack:
Maybe you shouldn’t discuss this in a chat where he can see it.
Flight Risk:
OH SHIT!
Flight Risk:
Well it’s gone now so…
Red Hot Ice:
It was unfortunate that I had to melt it.
Explosive Boi:
I got to explode stuff lol.
Flight Risk:
Oh shit.
Flight Risk: @Aizawa Shouta
I’m probably gonna be late for class.
Aizawa Shouta:
Why?
Flight Risk:
I gotta preen my feathers. It might be a while.
Aizawa Shouta:
And you couldn’t have done this earlier why?
Flight Risk:
Everything felt right until now. IDK how to explain it…
Aizawa Shouta:
How long will it take?
Flight Risk:
About an hour or so.
Red Hot ice:
Can I help?
Private Message
between
Flight Risk
and
Red Hot ice
.
Flight Risk:
So uh… I don’t know how to explain this….
Red Hot ice:
?
Flight Risk:
Taking care of my wings is… something rather intimate.
Red Hot ice:
I don’t care, will it take less time if I help?
Flight Risk:
Yeah, it should take about fifteen minutes if you help.
Red Hot ice:
?
Flight Risk:
Doing it myself requires quite a bit of awkward stretching.
Flight Risk:
Sometimes I wish I could detach my feathers like Keigo can…
Red Hot ice:
I’m outside your room rn.
ENDTHEPINING [7:44]
Visible:
intimatetdzkmoment.jpg
Visible:
Squeeeee!
Speedy birb:
That’s…
Speedy birb:
I think it’s happening.
Ice Ice baby:
They’re both blushing like mad.
Speedy birb:
Well when it comes to preening, the two of us only allow people we trust a lot to do it.
Speedy birb:
So yeah.
Floaty:
So this, after the flight, surely they get it now.
Explosive boi:
Nope. It’s gonna take them fucking forever.
Froppy:
Let’s hope not.
Creationist:
Bakugou, it’s not like you’re any better..
Explosive boi:
Hah?
Floaty:
U + Kirishima.
Explosive boi:
Explosive boi
has left the chat.
Creationist:
Great. Now we can help him as well.
Floaty:
I’m surprised they’re not together tbh.
Froppy:
Like seriously, they’re pretty much attached to each other.
Ice Ice baby:
Let’s focus on one thing at a time.
AlienQueen:
Agreed.
Chaos Incarnate [12:22]
Hexapus:
Lunch rush’s food feels off…
SugarStrength:
He was sent off on a mission. Someone else is cooking for today.
Druid:
?
Eternal Darkness:
What sort of mission would Lunch Rush be required for?
Sparkles:
What even is his quirk? Making good food?
Rocky boi:
How did he pass the entrance exam?
Aizawa Shouta:
It was a disaster relief mission.
Aizawa Shouta:
His Quirk is Chemical Manipulation, he’s actually quite powerful.
Aizawa Shouta:
He passed by corroding the robots.
Red Hot ice:
I have a theory…
AlienQueen:
Lunch Rush is not my dad.
Assidic:
Lunch Rush ain’t my pops.
Aizawa Shouta:
Lunch Rush does have a daughter however, she’s in her second year at UA in general education learning to be a chef.
Red Hot ice:
*puts away cork board with pictures hung up with push pins connected by colored yarn.* Well back to the drawing board.
Flight Risk:
Who taught Todoroki how to do that?
Detective Pikachu:
What?
Flight Risk:
Asterisks.
Red Hot ice:
Kaminari did it.
Detective Pikachu:
Todoroki! You said that you would keep that a secret!
Red Hot ice:
I could never keep a secret from Midoriya.
Human Sonic:
Everyone! Put your phones away! Eating lunch is important!
Flight Risk:
How about no?
Human Sonic:
How about yes?
Human Sonic
has frozen the chat for
38 minutes
. (Until
13:00
)
“Iida, was that a meme? I would’ve never thought it would be in you?”
“I blame you and Kaminari for corrupting everyone. Apparently even I am not immune.”
Chaos Incarnate [14:02]
Flight Risk:
alrighty guys, looks like All Might’s late. Did anybody snag what the lesson plans might be?
Human Sonic:
Midoriya! That’s highly irresponsible!
Froppy:
:)
Flight Risk:
An unsettling smile… Do I really want to know?
Tapey Boi:
I think she knows what’s happening.
Flight Risk:
*Shudders*
Flight Risk:
Last time she planned a lesson it was brutal, do you remember the Swimming Training that she did for our Student Planning Project?
Flight Risk:
Which I still think that All Might did so he didn’t have to make 20 lesson plans.
Froppy:
I'm surprised that some of you didn’t know how to swim.
Red Hot ice:
I could’ve frozen the water.
Froppy:
Aizawa was telling us about adapting to circumstances. You can’t rely on your quirk all the time.
Creationist:
That lesson was great Tsu!
Flight Risk:
Of course you would teach something you’re skilled at. Still, that was one of the hardest exercises I’ve done.
Purrple Dream:
Why?
Flight Risk:
I couldn’t really use my wings to swim. They actually made it harder.
Flight Risk:
My lesson plans were on quirk analysis, unfortunately.
Detective Pikachu:
Midoriya is sad he couldn’t teach people flight.
Flight Risk:
Kaminari SHUT.
Human Sonic:
Guys! All Might is explaining the lesson plan! Please got off of your phones!
Izuku turned off his phone and put it back into his pocket the moment Iida sent his message. He could still hear people chattering, but a single glare from their class president was enough to silence them.
All Might had asked for them to be summoned to the entryway to Ground Beta, and he was standing there, in a modified version of his hero costume designed to fit his emaciated state. A large box on a platform beside him. Chatter began again, about what it could possibly be, but the class president shut it down quickly.
“The rules of this game are simple.” Said All Might, appearing thankful that 2-A’s class president had been calming everyone down. “One person hides, and everyone else looks for the hider. When you find the hider, you hide with them. The goal of the game is to be the last person still hidden.
“You have full permission to use your quirks and you can hide anywhere except the main UA building or the dorms.”
Izuku took all of this in, his mind already going through efficient search patterns and techniques of spotting people.
“The Hider will be…” All Might began, rifling through the box “Young Midoriya!” He said, triumphantly holding a brown ball with elegant winged designs, intricate designs of blue and orange fire laced across it, as well as green-blue lightning and his Blackwhip represented by black lines traced across the entire thing. It was very detailed, and unmistakably
him
.
Well there go all of his plans. He has to find a hiding spot now…
“You have five minutes, go, now!”
He takes off immediately. He’ll find a good hiding spot later. Now it’s time for distance.
|
"Misato...I told you to call me before you did anything rash!"
"Ritsuko...you read what I did. I had to act. It's for his safety!"
"I understand that, but couldn't you have been a little more subtle!? Besides, if you wouldn't have lost composure, it's possible we could have questioned Nagisa and he would have cooperated!"
"I can still question Aoba and Hyuga. I haven't lost my leads."
"Dammit! Misato!", Ritsuko rubbed her temple and took deeper breaths, "I will talk to Shinji. I have to do it without you around. If I have to do an emergency session through his door, I will."
Misato narrowed her eyes, "We can't just ignore what we're reading. These files...this...! It's connected to my own father...and his work 19 years ago. Second Impact is...he died that day and this copy of his research is all that's left of him..."
Ritsuko nodded, "I know. But Shinji's health comes first. He's devastated! I don't know what this kind of trauma will do!"
"I can't believe I sat right over there and gave them relationship advice.."
Maya was looking out the window, on alert, ready for anything if they were followed.
Ritsuko sighed, heading to Shinji's room and knocking on the door, "Can we talk?"
Silence from the other side.
She sat down, leaning her back against the door, "If you want to, we can talk just like this. You don't have to say anything. I'll just speak."
It was still quiet.
"Shinji...Misato had been looking into...the place where your father worked, Seele, due to a case. We couldn't have known we would find out the things we did. I should start by saying this...Nagisa Kaworu, we don't entirely understand what he was involved in, but after getting to meet him the few times I did, this is tough to believe. I am sorry you have to go through this at all. This is...your first relationship, first love even. For it to turn out like this is heartbreaking."
There was some shuffling noises on the other side, then silence again.
Ritsuko sighed again, "When you're ready to talk, you know where to find me. I am always willing to listen."
It was late, she was exhausted from all the reading of the new information she, Ibuki, and Misato uncovered and they still weren't done.
To her though, Shinji came first. She couldn't imagine how he was feeling. They also needed to know everything he knew about Kaworu, but that would come with time. He'd fainted in Misato's backseat and when he'd come to, he and Misato had gotten into an unusually heated argument.
He was trying his best to vouch for his lover, but the new information just kept coming and he couldn't keep up. How could he defend against things he knew nothing about? Every new fact or speculation hurt him inside and she could tell while trying to calm things down between the two.
She listened to see if there would be any response, even crying. Yet there was nothing.
Asuka, thankfully, was out at a friend's house. It was one less person to involve in these matters.
"Shinji, I really am sorry. I'll come back another time. Please...don't neglect to take care of yourself okay? No matter how you feel."
She got up, going back to the others.
It doesn't make any sense. None of this does.
I don't...can't believe that someone so kind, caring...loving, could take another life. Let alone two?
I refuse to believe it.
It's not true.
I am not a target. I am not a victim. Misato is wrong.
He loves me.
His gazes said he loved me. He said it with his words and actions. His hands were always gentle. We came to express how we feel in so many ways, especially with touch.
How many things have you lied about?
Even if you lied, I still don't believe you would hurt someone. That's not you. Your last words to me were...
"Shinji, please...do you trust me?"
I do. I trust you. I want to believe in you so badly.
I wish it was all just a bad dream. That I could wake up in your arms again. Feel your kisses, hold your hand, and listen to you tell me about how beautiful life is. Point out to me something I used to miss when I was too self-absorbed to notice.
I told you that I'll love you no matter what I'd hear. I put the red thread on your finger because I meant it. I mean it. I still do. I won't take it off. I want to keep it on. I want to believe. I do believe in you.
My chest hurts.
My eyes sting.
I can't bring myself to get out of bed.
But why did you lie to me? You must have your reasons. I can...I can forgive a lie, but please tell me that you didn't do what she says you did. Tell me there's been some kind of mistake.
You won't answer your phone. Why won't you answer me?
I need to hear your voice. Please...
You've done so much for me. I was...I was such a mess before you came into my life. I was...tiptoeing on the edge day in and day out. Dancing with the deadly thought that I don't belong here. That I never did.
You made me feel...like I belong. Like I could do anything. Like I have a purpose. Like I have a future.
Like someone could love me for who I am. As I am. Flaws and all...
Like I deserve love.
The music isn't helping. It's songs you showed me after all. One you put on while running your hands over my shoulders slowly, letting me get used to touch. Those careful hands that ran over me to help me... wouldn't hurt another person.
And when you'd touch me...
I'd feel truly alive.
My heart would sing with joy.
You knew how to make me smile, laugh, feel so many things I thought was strange at first, but got used to over time.
I love you so much it hurts. It hurts to know that you won't answer. The last time I saw you...oh no that look....you looked stressed, hurt, confused. That's what tells me that something isn't right with what I'm hearing.
I just want to be with you again. You are my comfort on a bad day. I always knew you had a secret you were so scared to tell me. I told you I'd wait as long as it takes. I didn't want to hear it from anyone else. I wanted you to tell me in your own words.
Will that happen? Will you come back to me? Do you still love me? Did you ever? Was it all a lie? What's the truth anymore? I'm losing it.
The tears won't stop.
Please answer me. Please tell me it's all wrong. Please tell me everything wasn't a lie. Please...I can't live without you. You made me forget what it felt like to be lonely. You are my happiness.
I want to be with you forever. I want...if I could just see your face again. I'll listen to what you have to say, I promise.
I want...I wanted to...use my song for you, to ask you, on your birthday...if you'd be mine for the rest of our lives. Is it foolish? Hasty? Am I stupid for that? Please tell me. It...it came across my mind as I came up with the melody. As I played the piano in secret to practice without you there. As I wrote a song that describes your beautiful eyes, your wonderful smile, your amazing spirit. It would have been almost a year since we'd met by then...and I wanted to propose to you..
I close my eyes and see nothing but you, the you that I've come to know since you came into my life.
The you I opened my heart to. The you I gave myself to with every part of me...that makes up me. I didn't just give you my heart and body, I gave you everything. I don't want to have been wrong to do those things. I don't want to be wrong for loving you so goddamn much.
My heart...the heartstrings within me...they're frazzled and frayed. They're changing colors. They used to be so warm. You felt like home. Now...it feels empty, hollow, I...
Can I...wait for you to come back? Can I allow myself to do that? Is it stupid for me to do that?
I want to...I want to wait for you...to come back to me. Is that okay?
You wouldn't hurt me...right? You're not a bad person...right?
Kaworu...
"Is this your first solo? How exciting!"
"I know that I'll be working on a guitar based song with Shigeru and for that, I'm only singing. But I...thought about making a piano song for you..."
"I'm touched! That's honestly incredibly sweet of you!"
"It starts like this...", he watched himself press the keys on the video. "But I don't have much else. I want to think about it more. I also have to think of what to call it. When you...called me something beautiful in this world, I was a little taken back. I want to write you a song and hopefully I can complete it by your birthday. That gives me about six months to perfect it. I definitely will. I just...want to express something similar back. It's hard with words but maybe with some lyrics."
When writing the song, the joy that he'd felt swept him up into a frenzy of inspiration. He'd seen in his mind...them moving together, feeling the bliss they'd come to know together from how touch had evolved between them. He saw the face of the person who made him happy, who he wanted to make happy. He saw their long walks in the park, holding hands and talking, he saw them stargazing while laying together in the grass, he saw the person who'd changed everything.
"Ah, to think your first song is one you're writing for me! I cannot even begin to express the joy I feel just knowing that! I can't wait to hear it! I'll wait patiently! If you want to come here and practice without me to surprise me, I'll make sure to give you the best directions to come here from your house or the café."
"Let's take a picture together to remember such a wonderful moment!"
"Memories can be something extremely beautiful."
How could those tears that day not have been genuine?
"Thank you...I'm glad to have met you."
"I love you."
"I truly believe I was born to meet you."
He thought back even further.
"What I mean is, I'd like to open your eyes."
"I don't want you to be disillusioned. I don't want you to think of me as this perfect person. I'm so far from that."
That was okay, no one is perfect. It's something he'd learned early on from Kaworu telling him that. He'd originally seen Kaworu as...so perfect. Everything he wasn't at the time. So learning he also suffered was secretly a relief. They were on the same level.
"It's okay. You can let it out." The hug from that night they sang together in front of other people. It was the first hug he'd ever gotten.
"It's poetry night."
"Do you trust me?"
"Scarlet knows he has found a pleasant thing in Cerulean."
He covered his face, letting Ode to Joy play.
Looking at the red threads hurt too much.
Do I...cut them off?
He got up, he looked around. It'd been days since the gallery, and he hadn't left his room, no matter who called, no matter who banged on the door. No matter who left food on the other side. He'd grabbed scissors off his desk, bringing them to the red thread around his wrist.
Then paused.
I can't.
He put the scissors down.
Kaworu wasn't responding on...anything. He wasn't responding to the calls, to the texts, not even as Tabris on the poetry blog.
Why did Misato show them a picture of his father? That was just as shocking as her accusations, honestly.
"If I were to...go away for a while...would you be okay with that?"
No. No, he wouldn't be okay with that. It meant he knew that he was...leaving. To wherever he was right now, not answering on anything.
He knew the right thing to do was to ask more questions. Get more information on the situation. He was only going off the original accusations Misato had made that night. She was making them based off whatever she'd found and he wasn't privy to that information per say. Though if he looked at it, perhaps he'd find something.
"30 people disappeared all at once according to these reports! All of the people who vanished before this one day...are somehow connected to this too!"
"Misato, I haven't disappeared! Shigeru and Makoto haven't disappeared, and he's known them for years!"
"They're a part of whatever the fuck is going on. Of course they haven't vanished. We don't know the amount of time before someone disappears either."
Misato scowled continuing, "The people disappearing is all Seele. That makes sense. It started slowly since the day he was born and has only picked up since. He was a small child, of course he might not have to do with that! But this...30 people disappeared at once on the same day 7 years ago. This says he killed 2 people that same day! And these sick fucks wrote praise for it. What kind of cult shit is even happening at this place!? The instant he left with Hyuga, no more vanishing Seele employees. Something is really fucking strange about that. I don't want you anywhere near him until I get to the bottom of this!"
He closed his eyes, and he'd thought of their first time exploring each other physically.
“I’ve never been this close with anyone before. It’s a little addicting."
“You have such a gorgeous smile.”
“We can worry about explaining it on the canvas rather than with words. Let that be the outlet for our feelings."
"Let's make one hell of a painting together."
He'd thought of the accusation that he was being manipulated somehow. There's no way. There's just no way. It didn't make a bit of goddamn sense. No one was that good of an actor.
"Please don't look so troubled, Shinji. It was a long time ago. I've come to accept that I can never truly be normal, no matter how much the people I care about try to help. And yet you accept me, no matter what I may say that I feel is revolting about me..."
"Yet here you are, as understanding and sweet as always, eager to bring me comfort."
"Can I tell you those words right now?"
He was back on his bed, pulling the covers over himself, shutting out any light.
"If you didn't leave, you could just...tell all of us the truth. Tell me the truth. I'd listen. I'd understand. I would explain to the others. Everyone would try to be understanding."
He'd dreamt of them, he'd dreamt of happier times. It made waking up so much more painful. It made reality hurt his heart all the more.
"Could you say the different types of feelings that we feel are like heartstrings?"
The grey heartstring represented loneliness.
The red heartstring represented love and passion.
The blue heartstring represented sadness.
The yellow heartstring represented happiness and joy.
The purple heartstring represented longing.
The green heartstring represented desire.
There were so many more. Some heartstrings made up pillars larger than others, depending on what you gave priority to in your life. What you heeded.
What would happen if a heartstring were to snap?
"When one is lost within their own heart, they often resemble a madman."
Well now he understood that particular logic. He felt like he was losing his mind from the hurt of his heartache. He felt lost and alone.
I want to believe in you. Please...I can't even...cut the threads off...
"It's me again. Dr. Akagi. I brought you something to eat." She sat on the other side of the door, "If you'd talk to me, maybe we can put our heads together and sort this out. I need to know everything you know. That will make this easier."
Silence.
"Shinji...it's almost been a week."
More silence.
"I'll leave the food at your door. I know I say this every day but, if you want to talk, I am here. I'd seen your relationship develop from the very beginning. I am open to understand and discuss everything. I ask that you open up to me when you're ready."
She sighed as she was only met with more silence. Getting up to walk away, she frowned to herself. She was committed to see things through, so like Misato had, she had to put the investigation first now. They were in too deep to back out.
"EVERYONE COME HERE NOW!"
She ran towards Maya's screaming and widened her eyes.
The screens they'd set up had flashed with an insignia of a snake wrapped around a skull.
Misato raised her voice, "Can you do anything!?!?"
Maya began typing rapidly, "Someone is trying to get at my data!? This timing, it can't be!? Is it someone from Seele? The government? I don't know. But I won't lose! I refuse!"
A message popped up on her screen, "Hey."
Maya smirked nervously, "This asshole. We've got a hacker problem. Two can play at that game!"
Shinji turned over in bed, and noticed a brightness on his laptop screen that was not normal.
His document maker seemed to...open on it's own. He didn't want to get out of bed...but somehow, words were typing on the screen on their own.
W-what?
He got up, sitting before his laptop, looking at the words displayed.
'Hey. I am Vagabond.'
Vagabond?
'I am a friend. I'm here to help.'
He typed back, hoping this would work as a two way conversation, "Help how?"
He waited a bit before he got a response, 'Find your love.'
Now he was fully alert. This person...knew something.
"You...know what's going on?"
'I don't know much, but I'm working on it as we speak.'
"Do you know where he is? He isn't responding on anything. I need to talk to him."
'I don't think he can. Those are the rules he agreed to.'
The rules he agreed to?
'How are you feeling?'
Shinji bit his lip. All the things he'd thought about resurfacing, "Awful..."
'Tell me everything.'
"How...do I know that I can trust you?"
There was no response for a moment, before the words were typed in, 'It's a leap of faith.'
Somehow...that was the first comforting thing he'd heard since that day, "You're not...secretly Kaworu are you?"
'No. But if we work together, maybe I can help you reach him. Tell no one that we're talking. If the people in your house ask, close this doc. I won't leave a trace that I spoke to you.'
"How are you doing this?"
'Your passwords are too easy.'
That was alarming, but something told him he could trust Vagabond, "If you can find a way to talk to Kaworu then I...want to talk to him..."
'I understand. Now tell me...what's on your mind.'
He started typing away, desperate to have this conversation. Desperate to make sense of everything that had been on his mind. Of the things that he'd been told, of the arguments he'd had, of the state of his heart. He knew that he should be talking to Ritsuko, but somehow, this was better. He'd even typed his own internal question of if he should be trusting his own judgement anymore, since he could have been wrong about the person closest to his heart. Yet pouring his heart out to this stranger was appealing.
'I believe he loves you. That is not a lie.'
After he'd typed so much to vent, he felt himself shaking, sobbing at those ten words.
'It sounds like he always wanted to tell you the truth. But this truth is ugly. You'll have to brace yourself.'
"I want to believe in him, but it's hard..."
'I understand. For now, information is key. I got what I need for today. I think you need some air. You should go back to work.'
He wondered how he still had a job since he'd just...not showed up for a week with no notice and ignored everyone trying to reach him, "I need to...recover first...I haven't been taking care of myself..."
'Your health comes first. Eat, gather your strength. Go to the café to get out of the house. If it's too much right away, go to the nearby park.'
"Will you be there? Can we meet in person?"
'I probably should not. Let's talk again tomorrow. Just like this. Don't change your password ok? Otherwise I'll have to guess all over again. I will tell you when I find out where he is or find a way to reach him undetected. When you're home, open up docs, and let me know it's you.'
"Thank you so much for this."
No response for a while. It seemed Vagabond was no longer there. When he'd heard a knock on his door, he closed the doc out quickly.
"Shinji...did anything strange happen with your laptop? I really need to know, it's important!"
It was Maya. He didn't know if it was more suspicious to answer her or not answer.
There was whispering outside the door before Maya replied, "I am sorry to have bothered you." And he could hear her walking away.
He reached and felt the wetness of his cheek. He'd been crying again since he saw those words that...Kaworu loving him was not a lie. That their entire relationship was not a sham or elaborate mind game. This person, the hacker, had no reason to lie to him. Why go through all the trouble to lie to him?
I love you. I really want to believe that you didn't do those things. That this is all a misunderstanding.
I want to...need to...talk to you.
Please...
|
Aizawa felt his spine prickle as he creeped through the hall. The intruder was still there, but now the lights were off. On one hand, it was easier for him to move, his darker color scheme disguising him perfectly. On the other hand, it made it harder to locate the intruder himself. At least, until he showed himself. Right now, the only thing that could make the person reveal himself was Quirk usage. So Aizawa had a plan. Sending the hallway into darkness would, hopefully, make the man desperate enough to use a Quirk to help him locate light.
Theoretically.
So here he was, in full hero costume, stalking down the hall. Snipe and Ectoplasm were in the hall above him, hoping to stop the man if he tried to flee up that way. Present Mic and Midnight were in the hall under him, for the same reason. Toshinori was watching 1-A, keeping them busy. And, as soon as he turned the corner, he stopped moving. The man was right there, looking into Mirio’s dorm room. Whatever he was looking for obviously wasn’t in there, judging by the hissed cursing. He rattled the doorknob, before giving up and striding down the hall. Towards Aizawa. He looked into every dorm window as he went, seeing the same thing. Darkness.
At least, until he saw Aizawa.
His pace stopped. Jade green eyes met Aizawa’s own black eyes. THe man’s whole body was covered, the only thing showing his eyes and mouth. His mouth twisted into a snarl, and Aizawa saw the back of his throat lighting up. He only had enough time to jump out of the way before blue flames were careening towards him, lighting up the hall. His own Quirk activated and the stream of flames cut off, and the man clutched his neck. He glared at the Underground hero, mouth still twisted and eyes narrow and full of hate. His pupils had no shine to them.
Eyes of a killer.
“Eraserhead. I see you haven’t changed. Sticking to the dark, cowardly as ever.” Aizawa didn’t let the taunting words get to him, keeping his Quirk leveled on Wyvern. He took a step forward, then two. The villain didn’t flinch, letting Aizawa get closer, and closer, and closer to him. Finally, the two were almost chest to chest. Aizawa narrowed his eyes, watching Wyvern do the same. Then the pro hero threw a punch. Wyvern caught it and flung Aizawa over his shoulder. Grabbing onto the villain’s wrist, Aizawa used it to help him balance himself and planted his feet. The momentum all transferred to Wyvern, who grunted as his feet flew off the ground. He was thrown into the wall and Aizawa felt his Quirk fall as his eyes started burning.
Da** it, not now…
A burst of navy flame shot out of the darkness, Aizawa twisting and flipping to get out of its radius. Using the flame as a cover, he took 30 seconds he’d have rather used to fight to messily drip his eye drops into his eyes, blinking. Then Wyvern was on him again and the two exchanged punches and kicks. A deadly dance. Aizawa had no time to think. This was a villain, an extremely dangerous villain, and he was focused on getting him
down
.
Toga skipped down the hall, letting her knife swing by her side. Right now, everyone was in a meeting about Wyvern, and she was kicked out for ‘being immature’ and ‘drawing away from the purpose of the meeting’. Like, seriously? This was her Izu-kun’s abusive father, she had a right to want to kill him! But of course, the League wouldn’t listen to her, so here she was! Unfair as heck!
At least, until she passed the television.
THe news stopped her in her tracks. Her knife clattered to the floor as she drank in the video on the TV.
U.A. ON LOCKDOWN: VILLAIN ATTACK OR SOMETHING MORE SINISTER?
Her eyes widened as she took in the sight: U.A., in all its glory, except there was a clear dome that she knew first-hand was made of extremely thick bombproof, Quirk-proof glass. She knew that the only reason that U.A. would go on lockdown was if there was an intruder or a villain attack, and the League wasn’t there, so it had to be….
Wyvern.
She raced back the other way, picking her knife back up as she went. They had to make a move, now. Her Izu-kun was in danger.
Aizawa grunted as he was, once again, thrown to the floor. The hallway was cracked, the linoleum lining the floor warped and splintering apart. There were patches of shiny red on the skin he had exposed, due to the fire-breathing villain in front of him. Of course, he got back up and kept fighting.
To be honest, this was kind of refreshing. He hadn't had a fight like this in months, and it was interesting to fight a villain where, no matter how many times he was struck down, he always got back up. Of course, as Aizawa punched him down, it was a back and forth battle. At least until now. Wyvern had fallen limp under the onslaught of hits, and Aizawa restrained himself. Because, as much as he wanted to beat him until he couldn’t stand, or terrorize anyone ever again, this was a human. A killer, but still a living being. And now, as the villain struggled to his knees, Aizawa let him. He looked up, and Aizawa’s breath hitched in his throat against his will. His jade eyes were softened by pain, but with a glitter in his pupil, they looked almost exactly like Midoriya’s own eyes. Cloudier, but almost the same color.
Then he remembered. This was Midoriya’s father. This was the man who had done his part to mess his student up, almost beyond repair. At least, until the man’s face split into a grin, and Aizawa noted with a tiny swell of panic that the blood and cuts that should have been there weren’t. Then his clothes burst into flame, throwing Aizawa back a few steps. He threw his arm over his eyes, protecting them the the dry, painful heat rolling through the hallway. When it lowered, Wyvern was gone.
Midoriya shut the door behind him, finally relaxing. 1-A had been understandably concerned when the school locked down, and he was finally out of the chaos that was the unstoppable force of 1-A meeting the immovable object of Toshinori Yagi. It was exhausting, and his chest twinged as he was forcefully reminded of his binder, digging into his ribs. Dysphoria was just under the surface, ready to claim him, but he knew that it would hurt him to keep his binder on.
So, with a heavy stone in his stomach, he slowly slipped the binder over his head, ignoring the dysphoria he knew was coming. Almost immediately putting his shirt back on, he sighed as the bagginess helped hide the figure he never wanted. At least, until the arm wrapped around his waist, one hand resting on his hip and the other one covering his mouth. A body pressed close to him, and he shuddered.
He couldn’t move, terror and memories from two years ago of hands holding him almost exactly like this as pain ravaged his system from between his legs and a deep, almost painfully gravelly voice whispered into his ear. But the voice now was smooth and silky, a voice that made him freeze and fear curdle in his stomach.
“Kirai misses you, and so do I. Won’t you be a good girl for your daddy and come with me?” As soon as he said that, the hand moved from his mouth and chopped against the back of his neck, and darkness swelled around him, stealing him from the realm of consciousness.
|
“Jane, where were you last night?” Frankie said with a frown as Jane walked into the department. “Ma was worried sick about you.”
“Yeah, I know.” The detective said glancing at her phone, eleven missed calls, four voicemails, all from Angela Rizzoli she was sure. Jane shrugged at him, “I had work to do.”
Jane had holed up in her apartment most of the weekend, festering. On Sunday, the Rizzoli family dinner night, she had not even mustered up the will power to call and let them know she wasn’t coming. She couldn’t bare all the questions her mother would most certainly pester her with.
‘Where’s Maura, Janie?’ Jane could imagine her mother inquiring her in a rebuking tone, ‘What did you do now?’
Rather than have her mother nagging her all night long, she had hidden like a coward, listening to her phone ring again and again. Each time her heart had leapt for only a brief moment, hopeful that Maura would miraculously decide to be on speaking terms again. After the fourth time of seeing “Mom” flash on the screen she had thrown it angrily across the living room. It had hit the opposite wall, the battery popping out.
Jane had buried her head under a couch pillow for nearly an hour before she had bothered to get up and put it back together. She had just picked it up when she heard the apartment door open.
“Janie?” her mother called into the dim apartment. “You better be here young woman.”
“Ma!” Jane complained, she should have known that there would be no hiding from her mother. “Is it too much to knock?”
“I have a key.” Angela said frowning, still looking at her with a scolding expression.
“I know.” Jane said, rolling her eyes agitatedly, closing the door behind her mother. “I am very much aware of that fact.”
“You didn’t show up to dinner.” Angela said squinting at her oldest daughter as she flicked on the light.
“I know, Ma!” Jane said irritably, heading for the kitchen. “I had work to do.”
“What, here in the dark?” her mother said incredulously. She set her purse and keys down on the counter, studying Jane closely. “You didn’t answer your phone.”
“It broke.” Jane said dropping it on the counter in front of her mother as she opened the beer she had grabbed from the fridge. That wasn’t really true, but Jane had ceased to care. She took a sip of her beer, then squinted and pinched the bridge of her nose. All this beer and no food had given her a hangover, but she hadn’t felt like going out to buy groceries. Normally she just ate leftovers from the take-out Maura and she ordered, but there wouldn’t be any more of that.
Angela’s voice softened, as it only very rarely did when she spoke to her daughter, “Jane, what’s wrong? Did you and Maura have another fight?”
“What?” Jane said frowning at her mother, “What makes you think that?”
“Because Maura stopped by this morning,” Angela said watching the brunette with concern, “she apologized and said she couldn’t make it to dinner tonight.”
“Did she say why?” Jane said, unable to hide her curiosity for any piece of information on how Maura was doing.
“She tried to tell me she had a lot of work to catch up on,” Angela said squinting suspiciously at Jane, “Then explained that she didn’t think it was a good idea and wouldn’t say anything more.”
Jane was silent. The real reason she had avoided going to dinner was not only because it would be held at Maura’s guesthouse, but also because she was sure that Maura would not be there. Jane would have to sit at the dinner table next to Maura’s empty seat, sit on the couch without Maura snuggling beside her, do the dishes in the kitchen without Maura chatting with her. Without Maura, Sunday dinners were just … dinner.
“Don’t worry, Janie, you guys will work things out.” Her mother said, placing a sympathetic hand on Jane’s arm.
“I’m not so sure this time, Ma.” Jane had said fighting back tears.
Angela hugged her daughter tightly, “You guys will work this out just like you always do, Janie, trust me.”
Angela had left shortly after that, but not after rebuking Jane once again for not returning her calls. It had been late, so Jane had crawled into bed, clothes and all. She buried her head under her pillow, screaming into it with frustration.
She tossed the pillow at the wall angrily, rolling over with an exasperated sigh. Jane’s hand hit the other side of the bed, Maura’s side—at least that was where Maura always slept when she stayed over. Jane’s hand wandered to Maura’s pillow, pulling it to her face. It smelled just like Maura’s hair, even though she had not slept there in more than a week.
Jane inhaled Maura’s smell deeply, her heart sinking. Could they ever fix what she had broken? Would Maura ever speak to her again? She knew that the doctor would have to work with her whether they liked it or not, but would Maura’s voice ever soften again, would she ever smile at her, join her for coffee, come to Sunday dinner?
Jane hid her face in Maura’s pillow, committing the scent to memory. Who have you been kidding? She thought to herself as she drifted off into a restless sleep. Trying to convince yourself you weren’t in love with your best friend?
xxx
Upon showing up at the Boston PD, Jane had specifically avoided the café, not wanting to run into her mother there. But without her regular morning coffee and a horrible night’s sleep, she was running on empty. Yawning, she stood waiting for the elevator. She checked her phone, as she thought, all eleven missed calls were from her mother.
She listened to her voicemails as she rode the elevator up, three of them from her mother, frantically searching for Jane. She felt a stab of guilt in her gut, she could have at least called Frankie and told him that she wasn’t coming. Jane snorted, thinking about how her mother would have pestered him to no end.
As elevator doors opened, the fourth voicemail started. Silence, then a click as the phone disconnected. She wondered if that had been Maura, but her phone had been off, it had gone straight to voicemail. Jane stepped out of the elevator, heading for the bullpen, staring at her phone pensively.
“You okay?” Korsak said as Jane approached her desk.
“Hm?” Jane said, looking up at her former partner dazedly. She had been lost in thoughts about whether or not she should head down to the morgue to see if she could find Maura.
Korsak shrugged, “Something up?”
“Nah.” Jane said shaking her head, “Any new cases?”
Frost handed Jane a case file. “Yep.” He said with a nod, “Morning.”
“Yeah…” Jane said, her eyes scanning the file.
“You sure you’re okay?” Frost said.
“What? Why?” Jane said frowning at her young partner.
“First of all, you normally have some smartass quip about the unfortunateness of it being morning.” Frost said, squinting at her.
“Secondly,” Korsak added, “you’re reading that upside down.”
Jane blinked at the file in her hand. She hadn’t even noticed. Her mind had still been on that voicemail, her body merely mimicking the act of reading the case over. She looked up at Korsak and Frost, then tossed the file onto her desk.
“I’ll be back.” She said turning and heading straight back to the elevator.
“Where are you going?” Frost called after her.
“To do something I should have done a long time ago.” Jane said resolutely as the elevator doors closed.
xxx
Maura had come in very early that morning. It wasn’t that she had a lot of work to catch up on or anything; she simply needed the distraction. There was something about the structure and organization of the work environment that usually calmed her in times of stress.
The problem was, she didn’t have much work to do. Except for finishing up some paperwork on some cases, she had little to distract herself with. There were no bodies in the morgue, no evidence to examine. Of course, had there been any new cases, Maura would have to deal with working with Jane directly. She didn’t know if she was ready for that yet.
All weekend long she had dreaded it whenever her phone rang. Jane had called her several times, but that wasn’t really what bothered her. What she really didn’t want was for the department to call and ask her to come to a crime scene. Despite how much she longed for something to distract herself, she kept wondering how she would be able to compose herself when Jane showed up.
The department didn’t call, a rare occurrence, especially for the weekend, which left Maura with nothing but her thoughts. The memories from Friday night kept threatening to overcome her as she tried to focus on anything other than the detective. She had tried yoga, meditation, jogging, going to the gym, nothing worked. Everywhere she went Jane followed her.
Why? She thought, suddenly opening her eyes. She had been attempting to meditate once again, there on her living room floor, for nearly an hour. Why did she kiss me if she isn’t attracted to me?
Maura wondered if the Jane had simply been caught up in the moment. But that didn’t make any sense to the doctor. It wasn’t as if it had been a particularly compromising moment, it wasn’t as if either of them was intoxicated. Maura tried to shake Jane from her thoughts.
Still, Jane’s horrified expression burned in Maura’s memory. If the detective had thought that kissing her would comfort her somehow, why did Jane look so surprised when Maura looked up at her? What did that fear mean? Was it fear of what she had done or why she had done it?
Who do I have now? She thought to herself as she stood up, giving up on meditation again. Where do I go without my best friend to console me?
For some reason, the uncompromising detective was the only person in the world that understood her. Despite how often the two butted heads, Jane was Maura’s only true confidant. Jane was more than her partner, her protector, she was the only person she sincerely trusted. After all those who had lied to her, abandoned her, betrayed her, Jane was the one person Maura never thought would hurt her.
Who did she have now to help her understand? Who would hold her and let her cry without question—without judgment? When Ian had left, it had been Jane that was strong for her, Jane who had helped her put the pieces of her heart back together. Now whom did she have to turn to?
These questions had haunted Maura all weekend long, no matter how hard she tried to engross herself in distractions. She had been so preoccupied by these worries that she had even picked up her phone and stared at it for a while, wondering who she could call. In the end, Jane was the only one she had. But as soon as she heard the detectives recorded voice, she had no idea what to say.
Now, as she sat in her office scrolling the through shoe sales with nothing else to do, her anxiety was eating at her again. She sighed heavily.
Abruptly, there was a soft knock at the door. Maura looked up to see the tall, brunette detective standing in her doorway, a very cautious smile on her face. For a fleeting second, Maura’s heart fluttered, an instinctual reaction to the sight of her best friend. Then everything that had happened came crashing back down on her.
“Hey…?” Jane said, approaching Maura carefully, breathlessly. “Can we talk?”
“Is there something I can help you with, detective?” Maura said more coldly then she had intended. She was avoiding looking Jane in the face, unsure if she could remain professional if she looked up into the detective’s coffee brown eyes.
“Maur,” Jane said following the doctor as searched for something to busy herself with, “please, don’t be like that.”
“If you want to have a personal discussion,” Maura said sorting some files into her filing cabinet, “this is neither the time nor the place.”
“I don’t care where we are.” Jane said, talking to the back of Maura’s head, wishing she would just turn around and look her in the eye. “We need to talk about what happened.”
Maura spun around. Her eyes flared as she looked Jane right into the eyes, “You kissed me. You regretted it. I left. That’s what happened.”
“Maura, I didn’t—I mean I don’t—” Jane said, suddenly interrupted by her phone ringing. She looked at Maura pleadingly before glancing at the screen.
“This better be good, Frost.” Jane said, staring desperately after Maura, who had retreated back to her desk.
“Yeah, we’ve got two more bodies.” Frost said, “Where are you?”
“I’m downstairs—what do you mean more bodies?” Jane said, only half listening.
“If you had read that case file you would know what I’m talking about.” Frost quipped, “You better get your ass to the scene quick before Cavanaugh has a heart attack. He wasn’t very happy when you left without warning.”
“Yeah, I’ll meet you there.” Jane said after Frost gave her the address. She looked up at Maura who had just hung up the phone on her desk.
Maura was grabbing her coat when Jane hung up. She glanced at the detective briefly and then headed for the door. Jane touched her lightly on the arm. “Please, Maura, can we talk about this later?”
Maura looked up at her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to. The doctor wasn’t sure she was ready for what Jane had to say. But Jane looked at her so desperately, so pleadingly, that she finally nodded.
(to be continued)
|
Kan lights another firework and steps back at a safe distance, glancing back when someone calls to him and spots Shirakumo and his group of friends approaching him.
“Hey, I saw you earlier; Why didn’t you come up and say hi?” Kan asks the smaller man as he wraps his muscular arm around him and pulls Shirakumo against his side. “You’re usually really chatty.”
“I...uh, had to catch up with my friends first.” Shirakumo says, giving Yamada a look when the blonde flashes a knowing smile at him. “So...were you guys firing off fireworks for the festival?”
“Me and my old man, I just got here to take over for him so he can take a break.” Kan says, letting him go as one of his friends sets off another firework. “What have you guys been up to?”
“I just got done wiping the floor with Yamada at a ring toss game and...won this.” Shirakumo says, showing him the stuff bear he had won and shrugs like it wasn’t a big deal; Kan ruffles his hair with a smile and pats his back.
“Thats pretty awesome, I was never really good at any of those sorts of games.” Kan laughs, Shirakumo gives a quick glance towards his friends, sees Yamada motioning for him to give it to him as Aizawa just stands beside him with his arms crossed and raises a brow.
Shirakumo turns his head back to look at the bear, feeling his cheeks heating up and slowly holds the bear up to offer it to the larger man, unable to meet his eyes because he’s afraid he’ll pass out if he sees the other’s face.
“I want you...to have it.” Shirakumo manages to get out, staring at the ground as he waited for the other man’s reaction. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest and his face is burning, jumping when he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to at Kan, heart fluttering when he sees the other smiling.
“That’s really sweet of you.” Kan says, patting his shoulder as his other hand comes up to grab the bear. Shirakumo feels as if all his confidence was sapped away and feels knees give out, falling to the ground like dead weight like his soul just left his body; Yamada and Aizawa watch in disbelief before rushing over to their friend.
Kan kneels down beside them as Yamada lightly smacks the side of the fainted man, trying to get him to stir before the blonde let’s out a sigh.
“This wasn’t supposed to be how it went.” He says, running his hand through his hair and looks at Kan, who seemed to be equally worried.
“What are you talking about? How what went?” Kan questions, looking confused and turns his attention to the bear the other had just given him. “What is this about?”
Yamada mutters something under his breath and looks down to their unconscious friend, not really sure what to say because it wasn’t their place to tell him that Shirakumo had feelings for him.
“Why...don’t you stay with Shirakumo until he comes to and he’ll tell you.” Aizawa suggests, shrugging on his jacket and places it underneath the man’s head. Kan sits down on the ground with them as fireworks continue to explode over head, waiting for Shirakumo to come to.
Shirakumo stirs from the loud noise, opens an eye and slowly sits up, rubbing his head.
“What happened?” Shirakumo asks, noticing the fact that he was on the ground. “What...?”
“You fainted, buddy; Dropped like a sack of potatoes.” Kan tells him, holding the bear in his lap. Aizawa tugs on his elbow, motioning that they should and let them have their alone time.
Yamada follows close behind and takes a seat next Aizawa on the bench, watching their friend fiddle with the hem of his shirt as he spoke to Kan.
“Think he’ll tell him?” Yamada asks, leaning forward with his arms against his knees. Aizawa just shrugs and leans back on the bench, pulling Yamada back to lean against his side.
“Hopefully without passing out this time.” Aizawa huffs, letting out a yawn.
It was getting late and the festival is almost over, probably best to start heading home.
Yamada starts patting his arm to get his attention again and sees him staring over to Shirakumo and Kan so he follows his boyfriend’s gaze.
Kan had Shirakumo in a hug, his arms holding the smaller man close as the other held his arms around his neck. It didn’t work in the way they planned but it did work out in the end.
“Think we should leave them to it and head back to the dorm?” Aizawa asks his boyfriend, stretching his back to make his back pop and gets up. “They’re probably going to shut down the booths soon.”
“Yeah, let’s let Shirakumo know that we’re going before we head back.” Yamada says, cupping his hands around his mouth before shouting towards their friend. “Shirakumo! Hey! We’re going to head back, you okay with that?!”
“Yeah!” Shirakumo calls back with a huge smile on his face before turning back to Kan, both sharing the same expression as Yamada and Aizawa walk away, after Aizawa picks up his jacket to let the two of them to have their moment.
“Are you happy now that you fulfilled your role as matchmaker?” Aizawa asks, shoving his cold hands into his pockets and sees Yamada has a little pap in his step with a satisfied look on his face.
“Of course I am, I already knew Kan liked him.” Yamada says smugly, his green eyes glancing over to him as his smirk grin wider.
“What?” Aizawa asks with confusion, his brows rising in surprise. Did Yamada even know Kan, how could he possibly know that?
“I run into Kan from time to time and he asked me about it, told me Shirakumo gets really happy when he’s around him.” Yamada explains as they walk back towards campus. “So Kan asked if he liked him, sounded very hopeful too so I asked him if he liked him or something and Kan said he was really fond of him.”
“So you knew this entire time and didn’t say anything to Shirakumo?”
“I didn’t think it was my place to tell him.” Yamada says, looping his arm around his and pulls Aizawa close. “I like to think I just have them a little push.”
Yamada lets out a loud groan and pulls away to press his hands against his ears, staring up at the sky with a frown.
“Are you alright?” Aizawa asks with concern and looks up to see the fireworks. They’re setting off the much bigger ones right about now, the sudden louder sounds of explosions must be getting to him.
Aizawa quickly reaches into Yamada’s bag to pull out his noise canceling headphones and offers them to him, which the blonde takes gratefully and puts them on, pressing them to his ears.
Time to go home.
He gently presses his hand against Yamada’s back and they walk away from the festival, the sound of the fireworks slowly growing faint behind them.
|
Seemingly knowing his presence is a sore spot, Wen Xu brings Xue Yang with him when he visits next. Xue Yang is not a frequent tormentor, but he is always more unwelcome than Wen Xu. He's a wild card, with no goals except his own enjoyment. He is unafraid of Wen Ruohan and will overstep any boundary given to him.
At first, he simply paces around Xichen without really paying him much mind. Instead, he tells Wen Xu of his most recent tactics with Xiao Xingchen. That he finally convinced the rogue cultivator to call him 'master'.
“It was a beautiful sight. That sanctimonious Daozhang, crawling on flayed knees and palms; took me hours to slice his skin off in the first place,” his voice tickles with delight the more he speaks, “I had to chain him in place to keep him from moving around too much.”
“I am glad your pet is doing well,” Wen Xu says with an audible eye roll.
“Hey now Wen-gongzi, jealousy isn't a good look on you,” Xue Yang teases, the honorific dripping with sarcasm, “You get access to all the Sect leaders whenever you want. Not my fault you can't keep one. Have you even asked? What about that little Nie?”
Xichen doesn't expect the full body ripple that jars the chains holding his wrists high on a hook above him. The mere mention of his friend's younger brother sends images he has been trying to avoid rushing through his brain.
“Oh, don't like that, do you?” Xue Yang says with a sharp grin, rounding on Xichen, “Guess I'll just have to give the Little Princess some extra attention the next I see him. Just for you. I'll even be sure to tell him who says hello.”
Wen Xu chuckles in tandem, “It's about time we dote on that boy anyways. Nie Mingjue is getting a bit uppity again.”
The force at which Xichen is grinding his jaw pops in his ear. Xue Yang is right in front of him now, reaching out to grab his chin and throw his head from side to side, “You're a sentimental fool. All of you are. You make it so easy!”
He then scrapes a line across Xichen's cheek with what must be a deliberately blunt knife, humming, “Well this won't stick now will it?”
He cuts another line unevenly over the top. It's deep enough for a slip of warmth to spread just below the sting. Xichen keeps his mouth shut, but his eyes leak salt water into the wound. He flinches when the two meet, and Xue Yang laughs.
When he guides the knife to the other side, Wen Xu stops him, “No, only the one. As it is, my father might be upset that you marred his pretty face.”
Xue Yang pouts, appraising, knife still hovering, “You sure? I can't just... Oh fine! At least Lan Wangji is more entertaining. We get to play with him.”
His brother's name ignites Xichen's otherwise deliberately cool temper, proving true Xue Yang's accusation that their sentimentality makes them easy. He cannot help but wonder if the comment is correct. If Xue Yang and Wen Xu are allowed to play with Lan Wangji.
And what that word could mean ranges from this almost mundane physical torture to threats far more intimate; he has not been able to shake the trepidation that Wen Ruohan tucked tight underneath his skin at the banquet.
The feral spark of possibility razes his thoughts. Wen Xu has made plenty of implications in the past, but for some reason it is Xue Yang that makes the gravity sink in. Of course Lan Wangji would be a favorite of theirs – he is the embodiment of stoicism, and the Wens are walking hammers. Crude and eager to prove their superiority.
Lan Wangji's endurance gives them a challenge, not to mention he is likely expending much of his energy on worries about Xichen and Wei Wuxian rather than his own spiritual, mental, and physical maintenance.
That is particularly true if Lan Wangji knows what Wei Wuxian is being forced to do – how he is being compelled to seek ways to piece a soul back together. To dabble in necromancy only spells comeuppance, and it is assured Wei Wuxian will be genuine in his efforts in spite of who is demanding him to. It is understandable too, not just because disappointing Wen Ruohan will surely bear consequences but because he owes a debt of life to Wen Ning and his sister. He will want to fulfill his duty to them, and in turn himself.
Wei Wuxian is not accustomed to being helpless, and the opportunity to control life and death in the face of Wen Ruohan's dominion over them must be alluring. Perhaps it even feeds the ambition that he can grow stronger than Wen Ruohan. And is that such a bad thing for his allies?
Wei Wuxian finding confidence, and perhaps even beating Wen Ruohan at his own game. Maybe that's all they have. And out of all of them, Wei Wuxian is the only one capable of carrying such a dark burden and not letting it consume him. So they would hope...
It is truly desperate times when Xichen muses on the possibility of necromancy being permissible. His Uncle would be furious, but his uncle is dead, and they are at a terrible precipice. Who is Xichen to judge what it takes to liberate them?
Of course, that is if Wei Wuxian can succeed.
The chance to see arrives just a few days after Xue Yang's visit, the cut on his cheek scabbed over by the time he is taken to the throne room yet again. Everyone is there this time, even Jin Zixuan and Nie Huaisang. Wen Qing too is placed next to Wen Xu, the traditionally set tables they sit at a mockery of casual. The rest are situated as they always are, near enough to their family to find some solace in the orchestrated reprieve. He and Lan Wangji share a look, one that has Xichen on his toes. Wangji is utterly troubled under his controlled facade.
Beyond his brother, the first thing Xichen notes is that Wei Wuxian is not chained by Wen Ruohan's throne. Rather, he is given free reign in the center of the floor. He is more put together than Xichen has seen since their capture. Hair recently washed and tied with the red ribbon that had been missing before, clothing dark and fresh. But there is still a collar around his neck, face bone-rigid and gaze tempered with a sort of subdued craze. He's the epitome of single-minded focus, hanging off an edge of potential failure.
He circles a motionless figure absolutely covered in talismans – on first glance, the only distinguishable feature is the black curtain of hair that falls over their face. On second glance, it's the crooked knuckles peeking out at his sides. They're corpse pale but for the pop of straining blue veins. Xichen thinks he sees them pulse with contrived life.
So Wei Wuxian succeeded in making Wen Ning a living corpse. What else is there to do? Why are they all here?
Xichen looks up at the throne to see if more of the ploy is written on the game master's face. Instead of focusing on Wen Ruohan, he is distracted by the individual who has seemingly taken Wei Wuxian's place at the foot of his dais. Meng Yao is kneeling there, heels tucked up behind him. He's clad in simplistic dark gray with extravagant beetle-wing purple designs on the hems. The muted colors make him seem a ghost, the perhaps intentional invisibility weaponized by the embellishment of his insect wing, usually reserved for nobility. He's risen in stature, whilst still being a fetching trifle in the eyes of Sect Leader Wen.
The penchant for dangling mistresses in public has never been Wen Ruohan's habit – though his own father and his son Wen Chao were both known for it. This is atypical, and it digs under Xichen's skin. Why Meng Yao? He does not seem to be there under duress; his features are not blank, but rather keen. He leans back freely, head tilted just enough to invite Wen Ruohan's stroking finger.
It stings, the sheer surrealism of it a stinking rot that dribbles outward from Xichen's clenched stomach. That feeling only gets worse as Wen Ruohan waves his hand, commanding Wei Wuxian to begin with a looming, “Show me what you've learned.”
What follows feels like a fever dream. Wei Wuxian lifts his flute to his lips, Chenqing having been returned to him for this specific task. The body of Wen Ning responds in perfect precision. With the uplift of a shrill note, his left arm rises. With a low note, his right leg. But precise control does not seem to be Wei Wuxian's goal.
Abruptly, Chenqing sends out a flurry of discordant melodies. There is no obvious prescription to it, and Wen Ning is appropriately confused. Then the music smooths out, something like a goal in mind. It is in these moments that there are heavy twitches of Wen Ning's head, his body moving less like the undead and more like a bewildered child straining to find sense in the dark. Even more telling is the fact that he moves toward Wen Qing.
The air around the austere audience is at the edge of a pin. Every sound echoes, every breath heady with a quickness to be silent again. The miraculous progress turns on its head so abruptly that Xichen blinks more than once and still doesn't register what went wrong until screams have already died in mangled throats.
It is indescribably perturbing to see the body of Wen Ning of all people become so very capable at ripping through flesh. Whatever Wei Wuxian did to bandage his soul and tie it back down to his earthly body transformed him into a black eyed, blue-veined beast.
Wen disciples lay in a small heap near Wen Qing. Much too close to the throne to be suffered lightly. Guards rush to shield their leader. Meng Yao too stands with arms crossed, as though ready to fight. He doesn't strike the fitful warrior he likely thinks he does, but it scarcely matters. Wen Ruohan however stays calmly sitting even as Wen Ning blusters his way in his direction.
“If he gets closer, Wei Wuxian, your experiment is over,” Wen Ruohan cautions, voice calm as the stone of his throne room is gradually spattered with pink tissue and torn limbs. Wei Wuxian responds with a look of panic, flute changing tune in an effort to reign Wen Ning in. When it fails, he sputters with platitudes and tries again.
Xichen and the other prisoners cannot move from their tables, shackled in place. Wen Ning doesn't seem to care about the sitting ducks though, rather he goes for moving targets. Any moving target. Wen Qing seems to realize that, staying immobile even as Wen Xu lifts his weapon to engage Wen Ning. When the Wen heir is easily lifted by the throat, Wen Ruohan finally intervenes with an outstretched hand.
Wen Ning is whipped back from his prey. Drawn up into the air by the power of the Yin Metal, he flails angrily but uselessly. He looks like a little doll, movements aborted and stiff.
“You had your chance,” Wen Ruohan states as he crushes his fingers into a fist. Wen Ning does not gasp, having no breath to do so, but his face does become almost comically crunched. Quite literally squeezed on the inside. The concept would be ridiculous were it not so tragic to see the boy dying yet again, in spite of the debatable remnant of his actual existence.
“No! Please!” Wei Wuxian begs, clamoring in Wen Ruohan's direction, “Not like this! Put him down! Let me try again.”
Sect Leader Wen lashes out with his other hand, stopping Wei Wuxian in his tracks. Unlike the living corpse, he has air to lose, hands scrabbling at his throat. Lan Wangji lurches forward. Xichen reaches out to push him back.
“Sect Leader,” a voice slices through the aching clamor of pained groans from Wen Ning's victims. The tone is tactfully refined with a hint of shy urgency, but it nonetheless feels overtly unwanted. Yet, Wen Ruohan shifts his gaze towards it with joint traces of annoyance and intrigue.
“It would be a shame to lose such a weapon without using every tool at your disposal,” Meng Yao advises modestly, head bowed but eyes tilted up, “And you have the Gusu Lan Sect.”
He doesn't need to say anything further; the reputation of the Lan Clan speaks for itself. They are known for calming spirits – can they not also do the same with a living corpse? A blade of betrayal settles between Xichen's ribs; the same dagger that slipped into him the last time he saw Meng Yao in this very room. This time though, it twists with ruthless efficiency.
Xichen tries very hard not to surrender to his feelings, the rage or the unease, but he has never been as good as Lan Wangji at concealment. He is quite sure he glares at Meng Yao's averted face. At Wen Ruohan's scrutiny. He is fully prepared to refuse if Wen Ruohan agrees. It will require returning access to their Cores, something he may be unwilling to do. Yet it's the principle of the matter. Lan skills will not be used for something so abhorrent.
But then Xichen thinks about the lack of judgment he gave to Wei Wuxian for his efforts. The underhanded chance that this could work in their favor.
“Which one?” Wen Ruohan says to no one in particular, eyes skirting between the Twin Jades. He releases Wei Wuxian at the same time, and in the man's first gulp of air, he perhaps inadvertently answers for him - “Lan Zhan!”
Lan Wangji closes his eyes in resignation. Wen Ruohan flings a choosing hand in his direction and Wen Xu moves toward to take up the order. Xichen tries to catch his brother's attention, but his eyes remain closed until after Wen Xu has smugly reconnected his access to his Core. It seems there was an unseen command to bring Wangji as well, the instrument held by a nameless Wen Disciple.
His brother gives him just one glance, and in that icy stare, Xichen knows even if he told Lan Wangji no, he would be ignored. He has decided to help Wei Wuxian – to commit an atrocity against Lan tradition. And Xichen doesn't have it in him to be disappointed by what it's come to. Instead, he is nearly relieved to be resolved of the decision. Although, if this indeed does succeed, he will make sure Lan Wangji does not stand alone in his responsibility.
Speaking with spirits has its nobility. Spirits can help solve crimes and bring closure. But manipulating corpses is not so honorable; Xichen has known this to be a fact his whole life. And yet, watching the effect of Chenqing and Wangji on the struggling Wen Ning feels so very far from dishonorable. It feels more like justice to return some semblance of sanity to a boy forced into an early death only to be turned into a ghoul against his will.
He stops fighting Wen Ruohan's grasp on him. His body is released as a result, and there he stands, no hint of violence gracing his frame. But it's not merely control that is restored to Wen Ning's decaying mind. The whites of Wen Ning's eyes filter past the consuming inky-black. He blinks. And then he answers his sister's cry.
“Wen Ning?”
“Jie...”
To say the breath is punched out of Xichen would be an understatement. No one has ever seen something like this before; a living corpse brought back to awareness. Enough to talk, to know themselves and their family.
Even Wen Ruohan is taken aback, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. But then he's smiling, and it's one of the most terrible sights Xichen has ever seen. Because he's smiling at Lan Wangji. At Wei Wuxian. In one look, he devours them both. With one gesture, the room is emptied, and all Xichen can do is look back to see his brother standing next to Wei Wuxian and his jointed creation Wen Ning before the doors bar him from knowing more.
|
As the two groups approached the space station, the TIEs started to pull ahead of the Lambda shuttle, evidently intending to enter the station first. With a mental shrug, Luke signaled his wingman to follow his lead and did the same.
Accommodatingly, the largest hangar bay of the station had been decorated with a large Imperial Crest on one side and an Alliance Starbird on the other, clearly designating the respective landing areas.
For a pair of vessels lacking landing gear, the two TIE Interceptors came down smoothly. Not to be outdone, the two X-wing pilots did their best to execute a flawless, synchronized landing, too.
Helmet off, life-support gear next, strip the suit to the waist and raise the canopy, wriggle out of the suit and step into proper boots, then slide down the ladder to the ground. Loose-fitting flight-suits and long familiarity with the cramped interior of their fighters let the two Alliance pilots hit the ground in a respectable outfit in less time than it took the Imperials to shed their helmets and life-support and exit their ships, if not by much.
There were tiny handholds worked into the struts supporting the dagger-shaped wings, Luke noted with interest (or maybe regular features serving as improvised handholds), allowing the TIE pilots to work their way towards to the ground without jumping the entire distance.
While waiting next to their vessels for the respective shuttles to descend between them, the fighter pilots used the time to study their opposite numbers. One of the men in Imperial pilot-black was a non-descript, medium-sized man Luke thought he'd seen fleetingly in the Lady's fighter bays; the tall, sharp-featured man on the other side, though, every fighter-crazy kid in the galaxy could have recognized: Baron Soontir Fel.
Luke shared a look with Wedge the moment before the rounded arrow-head of the MC-20 shuttle descended between them, with Han at the helm apparently dead set on setting down precisely in time with the Lambda. The following minute the young Jedi spent wondering why Fel had not only returned his scrutiny but turned an even longer considering look on the Corellian rebel pilot.
Oo oo oo oo oo oO
Further musings were cut short by the hiss of opening shuttle hatches. The rebels were exiting their ship in rows of two, with Han behind Leia and Madine following the much shorter Bothan, and were joined at the bottom of the ramp by the two X-wing pilots plus General Calrissian and a pair of droids.
Lord Vader descended from his shuttle like a storm cloud, all billowing black, a quartet of high-ranking officers at his heels. The TIE pilots fell in smartly behind them once they'd reached solid ground.
A querying lick of flame brushed against Luke's mind – Safe? Healed? Problems? – but barely awaited the answering thoughts before the official round of introductions began.
There was hardly any need to point out Luke, Leia, Han, and Calrissian to the Sithlord – or the latter to anyone else – but proper manners had to be obeyed and so those four were just as painstakingly introduced as were Madine, Fey'lya and Wedge, and likewise the six other Imperials Vader had brought with him.
Leia, Madine and Fey'lya were officially speaking for the Alliance High Command; while Han and Calrissian as generals and Luke and Wedge as highly decorated flight officers stood in for the Alliance troops. An uncharacteristically silent C3-PO[1] was to take minutes, while R2-D2 would, "ensure privacy against uninvited parties – any objections?"
Lord Vader spoke for himself, obviously; while according to his curt address, two admirals represented the Imperial Navy, two generals the Army. The pilots didn't stand for anything but themselves if the name-and-station-only introduction was anything to go by, but at least Luke found out that the second one had earned himself the designation Black Two, which was saying something!
The young Jedi recognized exactly one of the flag officers by name and voice – Admiral Harrsk was a short, compact man with greying dark hair – the rest were unknowns.
After a moment of irritation, the lack of familiar faces was only practical, though: the Sithlord was an unavoidable cause of offense, but to additionally bring along the Butcher of Hoth for a first-time meeting might have left the wrong impression (provided the man even was in any shape to follow the invite).
Likewise, even Lord Vader might run into tough luck, at present, if he tried to convince his ship to let her admiral walk into danger without her. The local administrator-turned-not-quite-voluntary-host for the occasion was terrified enough without a 19-kilometer behemoth of a warship trying to crawl into his hangar bays.
When everyone was officially known to everyone else – no objections were voiced against R2's presence and indeed he was joined in his task by a mouse droid painted an unusual blue-grey – the two groups relocated to a lavishly – if a bit hastily – decorated meeting room deeper inside the station.
There, further diplomatic niceties were exchanged and the status quo was set down in record, making the young Jedi wonder if such a tense meeting might actually get dull, contrary to all expectations. But of course, right after that thought, his father made things interesting again by throwing a handful of chips onto the table that no one had known he had.
While digging through the wreckage for three days longer, the Imperial salvage crews had not only located plenty of dead bodies but also the rare additional survivor. Six of those had been Alliance personnel.
Lord Vader's offhand offer to return them, too, led the way to the first Alliance condition for a lasting peace: the release of all captive rebels in Imperial custody.
An exchange of all captured combatants was the counter-offer; given the number of Imperials gone MIA over the years and the amount of rescuees identified via their old military files, "it is evident that you have absorbed a substantial fraction of those into your own forces, over time. For those who saw no other alternative, for fear of being labelled traitor in any case, for their involuntary absence, it must be made clear that there will be no repercussions, for them or their families, if they return to their previous allegiance, now."
Leia and Fey'lya bristled – in the latter case, literally – but Madine, who'd left most of the preliminary speeches to the professional politicians, pronounced the amendment, "reasonable."
Setting her jaw, the Alderaani princess questioned the emphasis on combatants and demanded a general amnesty for anyone arrested for Sedition against the Empire and similar charges doled out in the wake of peaceful demonstrations.
An amnesty for peaceful protesters was immediately granted, but with the caveat that there would be no overall pardon for violent criminal acts. Leia sharply asked for a further specification and the gleaming black helmet turned slightly to the left.
"Admiral."
"Yes, milord." Admiral Harrsk, hardly slouching before, straightened further. He focused his all-around glower specifically on the princess.
"I have a brig full of pirates, partly caught red-handed while preying on civilian merchant ships, the rest when we captured their main base of operations," the greying man growled. "Will you claim them for your Alliance, too?"
For all his bluster, there was something mulish in the admiral's attitude, Luke thought. Like he really didn't want to give up his (likely hard-won) prisoners but expected to be overruled, a pawn sacrificed for the sake of compromise.
Leia's eyes narrowed.
"If piracy is what they did – no," she said coldly. "I am sure you have evidence against them that we might review independently?"
Something in her tone or her eyes must have struck a chord within the older admiral. He sounded much more agreeable when he said, "Certainly, ma'am."
Oo oo oo oo oo oO
A pause for refreshments put an end to the discussion shortly afterwards and the two groups withdrew into separate side rooms. The moment the opposite side was out of sight and R2 had declared the room clear of listening devices, the diplomatic front of icy politeness fell apart.
While the representatives of High Command turned into a snarl of heated accusations of playing into the Empire's hands with unagreed-on concessions and just as searingly cold refutations, Han rolled his eyes, snatched a glass off the sideboard piled with refreshments and sauntered over to the panoramic window to admire the view.
Slightly wary of his own glass of something greenishly amber, that Calrissian had pressed into his hand with the firm recommendation that he just had to try it, Luke was about to follow his friend when he saw the Corellian suddenly stiffen, whirl and stalk over to the squabbling politicians.
"He's playing for time," Han said, butting in without any regard for the ongoing argument.
Fur rippling with irritation at being cut off in full flow, Fey'lya rounded on the former smuggler. "Do you have a point, General?"
The Corellian ignored the sharp tone. "We were all wondering why he wanted to talk to us first, instead of moving on Coruscant as quickly as possible. I should have realized it lot sooner – I usually have a good eye for ships and that monster of his took a real beating at Endor, however that happened.
If he'd turned up with her hanging all in tatters, the sharks calling themselves Court would have smelled blood and jumped him immediately. By waiting a few days to patch her up and paint over the patches, he can make an entrance that at least looks full strength – bet, it'll take a dockyard overhaul to really get her back into shape – and since he had time to kill anyway, he probably thought he could do something useful with it."
Still faced with stares of incomprehension, Han waved an impatient hand at the expanse of transparisteel behind him. "That's what they started doing right now: painting the patches. You don't waste time on that until you want to look nice!"
The use of paint to avoid unnecessary violence had more Piett's hallmarks to it than the Sithlord's, and the young Jedi was pretty sure that his friend had Vader's priorities backwards – negotiations with the Alliance were going to take up some time so why not tidy up the Lady in the meantime – but that sort of inside knowledge would only raise more awkward questions.
And, it was gratifying to see Han get the sort of considering looks that said, 'huh, maybe he didn't make general solely for the fact that he's sleeping with a member of High Command.'
Now that the Sithlord's reasoning about the timing had a logically sound explanation, the debate returned to the issue of Vader's sincerity – or rather lack thereof, if he was really just playing for time.
Previously content to simply listen, Wedge cleared his throat and put forward that, based on all previous experiences, Vader's idea of killing time in the presence of rebels would also kill said rebels, so there had to be more to it than that.
Luke was resigned to give another round of repetitive endorsement when Madine turned his attention on the young Jedi – and then blinked in surprise at the first question.
"Jedi Skywalker, your impressions on the men Vader has brought along?"
"They don't trust us," Luke replied, after a moment's consideration. "They trust Vader enough to hope he knows what he's doing, but they don't trust us to keep our word on anything we might decide here."
That answer brought him general attention. The intelligence chief was still quickest with the follow-up question.
"Because we are rebels?"
The young Jedi shook his head. "Because we agreed to these talks only because Vader had us at gunpoint at Endor, with a good chance to destroy us for good. And as with all gunpoint agreements, there's no reason to keep it once the immediate threat is removed."
Indignation and disbelief (more or less visibly expressed) greeted his statement and Luke hastened to explain further. "Well, that's what the left-hand general is thinking – he's the only one I could easily read. The rest has much better shields and if I tried to get anything but the most obvious surface feelings from them, they would probably notice – and Vader would certainly notice."
Has noticed already, I expect, and probably chose to have the man along precisely for being easy to read, was another thought that went unvoiced. It didn't keep distrust from briefly joining the disbelief, but Madine nodded, satisfied.
"Anything else?"
Luke shrugged, out of immediately noteworthy information, and his sister promptly cut in.
"They address him as ‘milord’," Leia said slowly – and the former farmboy knew, just knew, that this was going to be one of the details a princess noticed in her sleep, while he wouldn't get the significance in a hundred years.
Fortunately, he wasn't the only one the comment left stumped.
"Meaning?" Han asked.
"Meaning he hasn't declared himself Emperor, yet, or they would go for ‘Your Majesty’," Leia explained.
The former smuggler shrugged, truly unconcerned or possibly playing devil's advocate, it was hard to tell with the man, sometimes. "Might be habit. I mean, he's been called a lord for the last two decades or so, maybe they aren't used to it yet."
The erstwhile senator shook her head.
"No," Leia said with conviction. "If he'd assumed the rank, he would stand on the proper title – everything else would be a deliberate refusal to accept his new status, to his face and in public, too. For all his loathing for the court, Lord Vader knows the rules of the game well enough to nip that sort of dissent in the bud."
Fey'lya and Madine both nodded grudgingly. The Sithlord intended to secure Coruscant first, for a proper coronation in the capital, was the best explanation for the delayed ascension to the throne anyone could come up with, before a soft chime announced the continuation of the main negotiations.
[1] Thanks to dire warnings that one wrong word might not only spell destruction for the garrulous droid, but also for the galaxy's best and only chance at peace, voiced by at least three different persons and sufficiently in advance for Threepio to jabber himself through the first shock.
|
“Seriously though, I never thought I'd actually be kinda worried for Loki," Steve admitted.
They had somehow managed to get the Assembly to agree to grant Asgardians sanctuary yesterday — and in Steve’s opinion Stark had practically pulled a miracle — but today was arguably worse.
Today was Loki’s trial, arguably the most trying part of all of this (Thor's near-constant anxiety in the past ten days had begun to grow on him, huh), and despite not wanting to show it, Steve — everybody here, really — had to admit that he was kinda worried for both of them: if Loki had truly been only a pawn, a theory he was, by now, pretty convinced about, he deserved to be forgiven for the invasion.
(A part of Steve wondered if he could’ve gotten Bucky pardoned had things gone differently. If he'd been a better friend — to both Bucky and Tony.)
"Life does that sometimes," Natasha remarked. He’d have to agree.
"Guys, if this is all we wanna talk about, then don't you think we should turn the livestream back on?" Bruce asked, eyeing the remote.
Like yesterday, they’d been sitting in one of the Palace’s luxurious lounges — a wide, comfy room with an interesting combination of a natural and modern aesthetics; with walls adorned with contemporary Wakandan art; surrounded by a wide variety of sciophytic plants, and provided with just about every kind of entertainment tech you could think of — listening anxiously to a special livestream of the events of the Assembly. Until recently, at least.
"Nuh-uh. It's giving me a headache." the Valkyrie replied, squishing the large teal-blue cushion in her lap even harder.
"Then can we talk about something else?" Steve asked.
"Hey, have we told you about Get Help ?" Valkyrie asked, a smile suddenly tugging on her lips. "Bruce, have you told them about that?"
"Get Help sounds like going to the therapist or something," Natasha replied dryly.
"Except it's a game Thor invented when they were like, eight, and it's hilarious," Bruce replied, a smile beginning to form on his lips. "So basically, Loki pretends he’s dying, and Thor, who’s supporting him, yells for help, and when said help arrives — ” he waved his hands in a throwing gesture, “Thor yeets Loki on their faces!”
He what?
“That’s okay, but what’s yeet supposed to mean?” Steve shot him a confused look.
“Uh… throw something violently?” Bruce replied, as Steve’s frown deepened. More internet slang, he supposed. He’d never get used to half of it. “Princess Shuri told me it was... common vocabulary now? And — ”
Speak of the devil.
A projection of Princess Shuri suddenly appeared in front of them, startling Bruce and himself.
"Shit, shit, shit. " In the projection, Princess Shuri pranced around restlessly, hastily typing things on several computers and moving around projections. "Guys, we've — fuck," she declared angrily, making zero sense at all.
"What happened?" Nat asked, leaning on the table, brows furrowed.
"The assembly — somebody's — Fuck! Fuck." Steve furrowed her brows, bracing himself for the bad news.
Had they lost?
"Princess Shuri. Princess. Calm down," Steve stood up, ready to take charge and help out if he could. "What's happened? Is everything okay?"
"It's been bombed!"
"What?"
"The UN Assembly. Has. Been. Bombed."
It took Steve a moment to register the true meaning and weight of what was being said. A wave of distress washed over him the second he did. Of all the scenarios he could’ve imagined, that had not been one.
Shit.
"What, like, like Vienna?" Natasha questioned nervously.
"Oh, Fuck," the Valkyrie said.
"Who did it? Loki?" Rogers questioned, his brows furrowing. Had they been mistaken? Had all of this really been another complex plan of his? "Jesus, just when I thought I could maybe, maybe —"
"Wasn't him unless he had a death wish, and — " she facepalmed, " — he was right in the middle of it and he probably isn't, you know, dead probably, but —" She said something — likely several colourful curses — in Xhosa.
Fuck.
"Holy shit — Loki is — And what about Thor and the others?" the Valkyrie nervously inquired, biting her lip.
"Okay okay. Shuri, calm down," she told herself, visibly panicking even more. "Okay, I've ordered the Dora in Birnin S’Yan to go investigate, I'm running diagnosis on — how the hell did my security systems not catch — what else do I need to — "
“Any confirmed casualties?” Steve questioned, frowning in concern. “Is everyone okay?”
"I don't — I've lost the connection, comms just aren’t — how? Shit." Communications had shut down?
Thor, Stark, and several innocents were in danger.
If not dead, a fatalistic voice in his head supplied readily.
"Princess Shuri, we need you to —"
The princess interrupted. "Guys, guys, aren't you like the Earth's Mightiest Heroes or something? Go do someth —" abruptly, the lights in their room shut down and the screen blacked out.
What just happened?
"What was —" Bruce started, “And communications with the people at the Assembly have shut down? Completely? Is that even… possible?”
“The UN’s been bombed, and…” Natasha swore nastily in Russian. “Not again.”
"I don’t care about the details; we need to go. Now." the Valkyrie stood up, her fists clenched. “Thor is in danger.”
"What about Princess Shuri, the lights just — it was a power blackout; she may also be in danger," Bruce replied, his anxiety clear in his voice.
"I'll go check on her," Steve announced. "Bruce, come with me. You two, go check up on Tony and Thor. If the attack continues, they'd need as many fighters as possible." Nat was excellent at espionage and subterfuge; if there was an ongoing plot involved, she’d be the one best equipped to figure it out Plus, Thor (and maybe even Loki) were Valkyrie's friends, and she should be there to help ‘em out.
"What would the Other Guy do here?" Bruce questioned nervously.
"Not the Hulk, Bruce, we need you,” he replied firmly. “You could help Shuri sort out technical failure and reestablish communication. It's possible her security protocols were overridden." Steve gestured to Bruce to come along.
"Okay," Bruce nodded.
“And we go check up on Tony and Thor,” Natasha confirmed, and Steve nodded. "We're on it." She motioned to the Valkyrie to follow her as both of them hastily exited the lounge.
Well, to use 21st Century slang, shit had just gotten real.
“... And on your end, Princess?” Okoye’s projection questioned as she wrapped up her briefing.
The lights had been quick to come back on, and Steve and Bruce had soon found Princess Shuri safe and well guarded. The Palace Premises’ electricity grid (one which ran completely on solar energy with the photovoltaic farms placed quite close to the main Palace building) had been tampered with, a problem that had been fixed rapidly, but they’d realized that that wasn’t the biggest problem on their hands.
“We would manage, General,” Shuri replied, her attention on the hologram before her as she furiously typed away. “But the origin of the blackout doesn’t seem to stem directly from this attack.”
Apparently somebody had tried to mess with the Palace’s electric grid, and then begun an attack on the security databases as soon as they got things back online: a perfect surprise attack, one not only completely unexpected but also launched amidst the chaos and confusion that the attackers had caused themselves.
“I would agree; it seems more like a temporarily disabling low-range EMP. My opinion, Your Highness,” Okoye added, “is that we have an infiltrator, possibly more.”
What?
He clenched his fist in frustration and anxiety. Bombing the UN again, cutting communications with them, a temporary shut down of the palace’s electrical grid, an attempt at hacking the security servers — it looked like a full-scale cyber attack to him — and then they had infiltrators?
Whoever was doing this was indeed extremely thorough with this.
“Did you just say, infiltrators ?” Bruce echoed from where he was sitting several feet away in the lab. He’d been facing and navigating through several holographic projections, while the Princess’s hastily assembled team furiously typed away on others. While Bruce wasn’t authorized to involve himself in matters of Wakandan cybersecurity, obviously, Shuri had recognized his smarts and made a quick exception, allowing him to assist her team.
Steve turned to Bruce and gave him a grim nod, mouthing, “yeah.”
“Well, Damn.” The Princess bit her lip. “Engage security protocol number fifty-three,” Shuri commanded, as the projection’s Okoye nodded. “Enter into total lockdown. See to it that all palace staff below Clearance Level Five stay in their chambers. No unauthorized access permitted.”
“What do I need to do?” Steve asked, walking towards her.
“Pick up the Kimoyo beads over there,” she replied without skipping a beat, vaguely pointing to his right. “I’m allowing you Access Level Six. It basically means that you’ll be allowed entry into most places, ‘cept for the hangars, any other modes of transport, the rest of my labs, any strategically important locations within the palace.”
She then turned back to the projection, addressing Okoye. “I’m handing Captain Rogers over to you. Level Six clearance, as you heard. If needed, you can increase his level; I’m leaving it up to you.” Okoye grunted in agreement.
Turning back to Steve, Shuri ordered, every inch a Royal, “Go join Okoye, she’s already busy ensuring the Palace’s safety. I’ll get your kimoyo beads to allow you to communicate with her and the rest of the regiment.” He nodded, as Shuri turned toward another hologram.
“What about you two and the rest of the team?”
“We were unprepared,” Bruce replied, at which Princess Shuri gritted out an angry “ obviously ”. “These guys are still trying their best to gain access to the servers.”
“Pity I can counter them better than they think I can.” She announced while glaring at the projection, still typing. “Aha.” She smirked, “it’s coming from North Korea.”
North Korea, huh, Steve thought. One of the countries that have not signed the Sokovia Accords.
“So you’re... handling the cyber-stuff.” He asked, still knowing next to nothing about all of that.
“We’re handling the cyber-stuff,” Bruce affirmed, pushing his glasses upward. “You could say that.”
Moving over to the table the Princess had pointed to, he picked up two Kimoyo beads, and then one of the Wakandan sci-fi guns as well as a Glock-26 he had more experience with, and strapped both of their holsters to his thigh.
“I’m angry. Very angry. It was bold of them to try to attack Wakandan cyber-infrastructure.” Shuri announced, momentarily turning towards him, voice quivering with rage. “And they’re going to pay.”
One glance at her expression told him he needn’t doubt that.
She cracked her knuckles. “It’s virtual ass-kicking time.”
Steve sped out of the labs, using the Kimoyo beads to communicate with Okoye and her regiment. The Lockdown protocol they’d implemented, he’d quickly learned, had not only blocked any movement for unauthorised persons but also located exactly where any such person was in the palace.
So far, there were two: one had been in corridor C-21 when the alarms had started blaring and had managed to stumble into the nearest room — the Throne Room — before the movement restrictions kicked into place. The other had just entered the palace mere seconds ago when the lockdown began and was stranded there.
Okoye, along with four others, was to head to the Throne Room to neutralize the first one, while Steve, under Ayo’s command and along with three other Dora, would handle the other.
Oh well, he’d dealt with worse before.
As the kimoyo beads lifted the barriers to where the second unauthorised person was stranded, “Rogers,” he heard a semi-familiar voice call his name from before him: Heimdall.
“Heimdall, what are you doing here?” he asked, confused, before remembering that the infiltrator could be disguised as anyone; he’d seen photostatic veils in action. “And how do I know you’re not the infiltrator?” He swung his handgun from his holster and aimed it toward him, as the Ayo and the three Dora beside him assumed attack stances.
“We’ve possibly found one of them,” one of the Dora beside him told Okoye and the rest of the Dora Milaje through the beads. “If you’re an infiltrator, this is the last chance to surrender.”
“I’m not an enemy, Ladies Dora, Captain Rogers,” The probably-fake-Heimdall said, his gaze unfaltering. The infiltrator had copied his appearance and traits perfectly, down to his voice. “The infiltrator you seek last entered the Throne Room, and a regiment of the Dora is rapidly heading there.”
As if they didn’t know that. Simply stating a fact about his accomplice, one that the enemy already knew, was in no way enough for Steve to believe that this man wasn’t a threat.“Then prove it.” He replied, his gun and the Dora’s spears still aiming for the head.
“And what would you like as proof?” he questioned. Steve narrowed his eyes, before turning to Ayo for further instructions.
“You know Mr Heimdall, Captain Rogers,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the possible target before her. “Ask him something the infiltrator shouldn’t be able to answer.”
“All right… What’s Get Help ?” He asked the first thing that came to his mind.
“The game the young Princes invented?” Heimdall replied after a second, raising an eyebrow.
While it was possible the infiltrators had heard their conversation an hour or so ago, it seemed extremely unlikely. But possible nonetheless.
He held Heimdall’s gaze for another second, noticing the glowing golden swirls of his eyes. There was something deeply unnerving about them. Steve could feel them penetrating right into his soul, seeing right through him as if he were glass.
His instincts told him he wasn’t lying.
“Can’t read that on a mission file.” He lowered the gun.
“Do you believe the answer is sufficient, Captain?” Ayo asked sceptically.
“How about this , Commander Ayo?” Heimdall questioned, as his eyes glowed a bright golden, and Ayo went very still for a second before she jerked back in shock, her eyes blinking rapidly and chest heaving: Heimdall had likely shared his Sight, something Thor had told him about, with her for a moment. “Would another be capable of the same?” Heimdall questioned.
The other Dora, perturbed, warily advanced on Heimdall, before Ayo raised a hand in a motion telling them to halt. “I believe you, Mr Heimdall,” she stated, as the rest lowered their spears.
One of the Dora raised her bead and promptly told Okoye everything. Okoye soon gave Heimdall a clearance level of six: same as Steve. Heimdall, who was staying in the Guest Faculties of the Palace premises, had quickly headed to the Main Palace as soon as the blackout had happened, and had managed to just get inside before the lockdown protocol kicked in, he’d told them. On being asked why he simply hadn’t used a kimoyo bead to communicate with them, he’d replied that he was completely unfamiliar with the technology. Steve could sympathize.
Now that this threat was resolved, Steve and Heimdall swiftly followed Ayo and the Dora out of the myriad corridors of the interiors of the palace, now heading for the Throne Room.
Upon entering, he was greeted by the sight of a black man being pinned to the stairs at the entrance of the hall by a regiment of the Dora, a furious Okoye holding a spear to his neck.
“Seems you beat us to it,” Ayo remarked dryly, nodding in Okoye’s direction.
“My, my, look who it is,” the infiltrator slightly turned his head towards Steve and flashed a cocky smile. “Captain America. Or should I say Captain Wakanda now, huh?”
“Who are you?” Steve questioned, eyes narrowing, handgun raised. The other man’s guns lay scattered several feet away from him, out of his reach. Steve also noticed a torn-up photostatic veil lying next to one of the guns.
“Not bothering to play the good cop, my dear Captain?” the man raised an eyebrow.
“Answer the question,” Ayo ordered, as Steve kept his eyes firmly fixed on the guy and scrutinized him for any other weapons or explosives visible on his person. None to be seen as of yet.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, lady?” he sneered at her, then turned his attention back to Steve, motioning with one hand towards another of the Dora who coldly glared back at him. “For a bunch of bigoted xenophobes, they certainly seem quite enamoured with you , Captain Rogers.”
Steve felt a pang of annoyance. Affiliated with him or not, this guy had the same irritating penchant for mocking Steve as Loki.
“I will not repeat this again.” Okoye applied more pressure on her spear, a tiny drop of blood already oozing out of his neck. “Who do you serve and what do you wish to achieve with this infiltration?”
He continued to ignore Okoye and her threats, his glare fixed solely on Steve.
“I’d suggest you cooperate.”
“Oh, but there’s no need for that.” What? “I’ve done what I needed to do.”
This — all of this — could be a trap, he realized. Shit.
He forced himself to increase his alertness, and cast a wary glance around the room, before raising an eyebrow in Heimdall’s direction, nonverbally asking him for possible hidden explosives or assassins in the room. Heimdall briefly closed his eyes.
“ What do you mean?” Okoye barked, and then turned to another of the Dora. “Put him in the cells, maximum security. Prepare for an interrogation.” The woman nodded.
He glanced again at Heimdall, who shook his head, but he did not allow himself to relax just yet. There were things, he had learnt from Thor, that could be shrouded from Heimdall’s gaze.
He brought his attention back to the man before him. More of the Dora rushed to circle them lest he attempt to escape, but he seemed unfazed by all of them.
The man simply winked at him. “I’m afraid this is goodbye, my dear Captain,” he said in a copy of Steve’s accent, his voice seething with contempt and sarcasm. “God Bless America.”
Steve felt a chill run down his spine.
The very next moment, the infiltrator smiled and clenched his jaw tightly, and Steve heard an audible crack.
“Shit,” he heard Okoye remark before registering what had happened.
A cyanide pill.
He flinched in horror as the man immediately dropped to the floor, his face going red and his body starting to convulse. He looked away. He knew the end result anyway: he’d be dead in a few moments.
Shit.
“You promised much, and you failed. You underestimated our enemies’ capabilities. Gravely,” his Boss questioned, his annoyance barely veiled . “You have something to say about that?”
He’d failed to gain access to several files he’d set out to get, and the counterattack had obliterated pretty much all of his cyber-infrastructure, yes. But purely by accident, he’d managed to get something — a few pictures and a single set of coordinates — and that would be enough. For now.
“We may be losing this battle on a lot of fronts, sir. True. But with what I’ve just found, ” he smiled, “ you can be sure as hell we’re gonna win the war.”
For all the mess this situation had created, it had gotten over — at least on their side — rather quickly.
After the whole infiltrator mess, Steve had gone back to check up on Bruce and Princess Shuri and had found them annoyed and tired, yes, but with a triumphant grin on their faces, meaning that the counterattack had been successful. But since they were not done yet, and Steve couldn’t help them, he had taken to patrolling the grounds under the Ayo and the rest of the Dora’s command, while Okoye herself coordinated with the security and intelligence forces in Birnin S’Yan, and Heimdall, also under the Dora’s command, diligently checked the palace for any other clandestine activities.
Which meant he had gotten time to think and strategize.
He tried not to remember it, but the scene and the man’s last words kept coming back to him. While he’d seen more than his fair share of deaths both before the ice and after it, he was not particularly comfortable with someone committing suicide in front of him.
Focus, Steve, he told himself.
All they had managed to learn was that the infiltrator that they had just fought was of Wakandan heritage, but wasn’t a citizen. Where he had grown up and who he had served they couldn’t point out. Even the accent was not discernable. The only vague hint they had gotten was his last words, and they were likely nothing more than jabs at Steve.
Another illegitimate child of a War-Dog, Okoye had speculated. Knowing something about the events of last year, he had not liked that possibility one bit.
Despite how little he knew about them, he didn’t like their War-Dogs anyway. Secretly festering HYDRA or not, all secret services no matter where had one thing in common: they didn’t tend to care about fleeting matters such as ethics and human lives. This country was amazing on many parameters, yes, but he wasn’t exactly naive enough to believe Wakanda’s version of SHIELD would be much different in that regard.
Almost two years ago, he remembered, Steve had given T’Challa a warning. Let them try, T’Challa had replied.
Well, now they were trying.
“Steve.”
He was brought back into reality when Nat suddenly spoke up through the comms .“We’re here.”
Nat had promised to call them ASAP, but it had almost been over an hour since they'd left. He knew better than to disturb her and knew perfectly well exactly how capable both women were of taking care of themselves, but with how this evening was going, he was almost beginning to worry.
He breathed a sigh of relief at her words. “How’s the situation?”
“The explosion was nowhere as huge as Vienna. None dead, thankfully.” He relaxed at the words, only now becoming aware of how tense his shoulders had been for the past couple of hours. “Four critically injured,” she continued, “including Thor and Loki, but they’ll be okay. Asgardians are made of something else entirely.”
“So it wasn’t Loki after all.” He replied matter-of-factly, tone almost entirely free of accusation.
People changed, he knew.
And as much as he still disliked believing that Loki had really changed for the better — or rather, had never been the crazy psychotic demigod they’d fought against — he had decided somewhere in the past ten days to give the guy a chance. He hadn’t attempted to do anything even remotely violent in the past ten days, so that was a good omen, perhaps. Moreover, Thor trusted him like never before. And so did Stark and Bruce to some extent; even Nat.
And as much as he hated to admit it, he could see the similarities between Loki and Bucky.
“Nope, it wasn’t him,” came Natasha’s reply, dealing a final blow to the tiny voice in his head that kept mentioning the ‘It was him; he’d been lulling all of you into a false sense of security’ theory. Nat had better judgement, and he trusted it.
“Stark’s mostly fine, same with T’Challa and Vision,” she continued, briefly mentioning what a political disaster a bunch of world-leaders dying in a secret meeting would have been. Steve didn’t care. He was just glad innocent lives hadn’t been lost.
“The comms breakdown,” she continued her debrief, “that was the bomb’s real purpose.”
It, she explained, was not intended to kill a lot of people. Mainly Loki and Thor, she had deduced, based on where in the room it had been planted. It had also sent out a shockwave that had managed to fry every electronic within a radius of half a mile — even several functions of Stark’s suit — causing communications to break down.
“And news on your end?”
“A cyberattack and an attempted infiltration," he replied to Natasha's gasp. "One which Shuri’s stopped rather successfully,” he recalled Shuri announcing that she had, quote: done the virtual equivalent of whooping their asses into another dimension , and wondered if he had — not understanding her slang — interpreted its meaning correctly.
“We’ve also found the infiltrator. But there could be more, even though Heimdall and the security system say that isn’t the case. We're on the lookout. You stay alert too.” Even if the attack on the Assembly was nothing more than a diversion tactic, they couldn’t take any risks right now. “Who knows if they won’t go for a proper assassination attempt next?”
“My paranoia, as Sam calls it, is rubbing on you,” she chuckled darkly.
“You’re complaining?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Of course not,” she replied. “A little paranoia goes a long way in this business, Rogers.” He could practically hear her smirk.
“Steve,” Bruce’s projection suddenly popped up on one of the Kimoyo beads, startling him a bit. “We need you here. Right now.” The urgency was conspicuous in his voice.
Had something else happened now?
This day couldn’t keep getting any worse, could it?
“Call you back in five,” he told Nat. She’d debrief Okoye about this anyway, if she hadn’t already. “Don’t die.” He disconnected and hurried to Shuri’s labs.
Bruce stood up from his swivel chair at his arrival, looking the most perturbed he’d seen him look in ages, with patches of green clearly visible on the sides of his face. The princess’s team’s faces too were varying degrees of stressed, or panicked, or both. Princess Shuri stood some distance away, receiving a report from an unfamiliar man and discussing potential plans of action in increasingly panicky tones.
“Steve,” Bruce said, his eyes wide, his voice having a bucketload of anxiety. “You need to see this.”
A projection appeared in front of him, several hastily made reports, images, and accounts flooding the screen. A village, south of Birnin T’Chaka, had been attacked what seemed like mere minutes ago.
He recognised the place instantly.
No, this couldn’t be happening.
The images: several bodies, soldiers and civilians alike, lay dead in front of him. Blood was splattered everywhere on the ground. Brutal was the only way to describe it.
“They even managed to take out a P.R.I.D.E operative?” he heard Shuri yell in the background. “Holy shit .”
He swallowed.
Amidst the hazy flurry of information before him, a single report suddenly caught his eye.
No.
Not again.
Not him.
“... Fuck.”
|
Leorio now knew why suburban moms drank.
Having three kids with him in a department store was more trouble than it was worth, but they needed supplies and clothes so there they were. It was mostly Killua that kept running around and getting into everything under the sun, but Kalluto kept sneaking off as well and Leorio had already been glared at by little old ladies more than once.
"If you don't put that back up right now I'm going to choke you with it," Leorio hissed at Killua who was trying to pop Leorio with a bra. "And you," he pointed to Kalluto, "if you don't stop wandering off I'm going to tie you to this cart."
Killua got a solid pop on Leorio before he put the bra up and Kalluto just raised an eyebrow at him, not taking him seriously at all. Oh, these kids were going to cause him to go to jail.
Killua laughed and ran when Leorio tried to grab him, disappearing into the clothing department. Leorio looked around for Alluka, sweet Alluka had been good the whole time, asking for things before grabbing them and tossing them in the cart, but didn’t see her.
He turned to Kalluto. “Where did Alluka go?”
“He’s in the girl’s section,” Kalluto said walking that direction.
“I said Alluka, not Killua.” Leorio followed him, looking around for the bubbly little girl.
“I know.” Kalluto stopped at a rack of dresses and looked through them, picking out one or two.
“Then why did you say ‘he’?” Leorio watched as Kalluto placed the dresses in the cart and continued on as if Leorio didn’t even exist. Little brat should be grateful Leorio was buying him everything he wanted, Leorio wasn't made of money after all.
“Because Alluka’s a boy. He just likes being called ‘she’.”
Leorio pondered that, spying said little girl across the sea of clothes. Killua was with her thankfully, helping her carry the skirts and cute shirts she’d picked out.
“That’s called being transgender, she was just born in the wrong body.” There was more to it than that but Leorio didn’t really want to get into the details with a ten year old.
“He’s not a girl.” Kalluto turned to Leorio from where he was browsing belts. Leorio realized that the dresses plus the wide belt Kalluto was holding would come together to create a imitation kimono. How cute.
“She’s possessed by a spirit and you can’t believe she’s a girl in the wrong body?” Leorio raised an eyebrow and Kalluto didn’t exactly have an answer for that.
Alluka and Killua came up and dumped their findings into the cart. It was a good bit of clothes, but Alluka looked so happy, and even Killua seemed happy for her, so Leorio didn’t make a fuss.
At least they didn't have to shop much for Killua, he could go back to Mito's and get his clothes from there. If Leorio was less kind he'd send the kids to Mito and let her take care of them, but he couldn't do that to her. Sure he had no idea how to take care of children, but he was going to learn.
Once they had finished with clothes, Leorio led them over to the toys and told them to pick out a few things. Alluka dived into the stuffed animals while Kalluto rolled his eyes and walked off. While Alluka debated between a unicorn and a narwhal, Killua elbowed Leorio lightly.
"Thanks old man," he said, watching Alluka with a smile. Leorio thought it might be the first time Killua was so sincere with him.
Leorio leaned his head down right next to Killua's. "I'm sorry? What did you say?"
Killua shoved Leorio's face away and scowled. "I'm not saying it again to stroke your ego." When Leorio laughed, Killua stuck his tongue out at him and joined Alluka. In the end she couldn't decide and Leorio was too much of a sucker so she got both stuffed animals. They searched around for Kalluto and found him in the art section picking up paper and scissors. Leorio didn't question it, didn't think Kalluto would appreciate him prying.
All in all the food, toiletries, clothes, and toys totaled way too much money, but Leorio bit the bullet and paid up because these kids needed it. He'd have to sell a lot of wine soon.
***
It took a few days for the kids to get settled in, but soon enough they got comfortable in the big house. Kalluto’s room was off limits while Alluka’s door was always open. She’d make a point to keep it open and Leorio couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of something her family did. Locking up a little girl as happy and bright as Alluka seemed too cruel even for a family of assassins.
Leorio didn't like leaving the three home alone while he went to classes, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He told them not to answer the door, not to leave, to behave, and the two boys laughed at him. Leorio had to admit it was a bit funny, him worrying about trained assassins, but Alluka wasn't trained so he was going to stay worried even with their reassurance that they were fine.
Leorio quickly realized Kalluto was going to be a problem. The kid wouldn’t listen to a damn word Leorio said and refused to clean up after himself, leaving books and paper everywhere. Not even his siblings could get him to change his behavior. Leorio got it, he really did, the kid felt powerless so he was acting out, but just because Leorio knew why didn’t mean he wasn’t thoroughly aggravated with it.
It came to a head when Kalluto dropped a plate and simply left the broken shards on the floor as he grabbed another and resumed making himself a sandwich.
“Kalluto,” Leorio said, already taking a deep breath, prepared for the answer before he even said anything. “Sweep that up.”
“You do it.” Kalluto didn’t turn around from the counter. Killua poked his head into the kitchen to inspect the noise, but Leorio shooed him away. Usually Killua would try to help get Kalluto to behave, but something on Leorio’s face must have told him to stay clear.
“No. You’re going to do it.” Leorio grabbed the broom from the pantry and held it out to Kalluto who merely looked at him as if he were stupid.
“Why bother with this? You know I’m not going to do it.”
Leorio grit his teeth and shoved the broom into Kalluto’s chest, forcing the kid to take hold of it. “You are by god or so help me.”
Kalluto kept eye contact as he dropped the broom to the floor, not even flinching at the loud clatter. “I’m not doing it.”
Something snapped in Leorio and he found himself roaring. “Do it!”
Kalluto jumped and immediately dived down to grab the broom. Leorio was satisfied until he saw the look on Kalluto’s face. His brows were pulled together and he was gritting his teeth, but he seemed upset as well as angry.Leorio realized what he’d done as Kalluto started sweeping and felt horrified. “Stop,” he said, lacing the word with an order, just like he’d done unintentionally a moment ago.
Kalluto glared up at him and tossed the broom down, stomping out of the kitchen. Leorio felt like the worst kind of person as he watched him go. He’d wanted Kalluto to do as he was told, but not like that. Leorio sighed and picked up the broom, wincing as a door upstairs slammed.
As Leorio swept the broken plate up, Killua poked his head into the kitchen. “You ordered him didn’t you?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Leorio said. It sounded like the excuse it was.
“He deserved it, being as snotty as he has been.” Killua shrugged and leaned against the door.
“No he didn’t,” Leorio said forcefully, glaring at him. Killua straightened up. “I just took his free will away from him Killua, do you think he deserved that?”
After a moment Killua looked down and sighed. “No, you’re right. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Leorio said, resuming his sweeping. “You’re thinking like a brother, but I have to think like a parent here. If I force him to do whatever I want then he’ll never trust me. Probably won’t anyway.”
Killua fell silent and it wasn’t until Leorio was dumping the shards into the trash that he spoke. “So, do we have to call you daddy now?”
Leorio openly stared at Killua who had the worst shit eating grin on his face. Once Leorio managed to recover, and close his mouth, he said, “If you do I will choke you. Wait. Fuck.”
Killua laughed all the way back to the living room.
***
After that incident, Leorio eased up on telling Kalluto to do things. He still tried to get Kalluto to stop being a brat, but he'd only ask once before he'd let Kalluto get away with whatever it was.
Killua on the other hand, he'd pester Kalluto constantly to get him to behave and even Alluka would try. Sometimes it would work, but most the time Kalluto remained steadfastly stubborn.
At least Killua and Alluka stayed good to make up for their brother's bratty behavior. Poor Alluka would always try and keep the peace and would clean the whole house if Leorio let her. They compromised by taking every Thursday after Leorio's classes and cleaning.
Leorio didn't see much of Nanika, they told him she usually only came out when Alluka was using her powers, but every once in a while she'd show up and request simple things. It was still a little disturbing to see her black eyes and grin, but when she came to him he always had a smile for her.
This time she held up a hair brush and said in her quiet way, "Brush my hair."
"Sure thing." Leorio set his book down and patted the seat next to him as he took the brush. She hopped up onto the couch and wiggled a little to settle and Leorio had to smile at her enthusiasm. He'd learned quick both from Alluka and Killua that Nanika loved her hair being played with, so Leorio made it a point to touch her hair whenever she showed up.
He couldn't see her face as he brushed through her silky locks, but he could perfectly imagine the relaxed, dopey look. "Feel good?" he asked.
"Ay," she said. That was another thing he'd learned about her, she tended to keep her responses short. They told him she was a spirit who'd possessed Alluka and they had no idea where she'd come from or what she was, but as far as Leorio was concerned, she was just another little girl.
After a bit of brushing, Leorio asked, "Do you want me to braid your hair?"
"Ay!" Nanika said happily. Leorio smiled as he started separating her hair into pigtails. Since her hair was layered it wouldn't braid perfectly, but Leorio suspected she didn't care about that. Indeed once he'd finish with her slightly lumpy braids she turned around and hugged him tight.
Leorio pet her head as she clung to him, content to let her take as much time as needed. After a little while she said, voice muffled by his shirt, "Thank you."
"No problem, anytime you want your hair brushed just come to me."
"No really." She pulled away and Leorio realized he was talking to Alluka now. "Thank you for treating her like a person."
"Why wouldn't I?" Leorio asked. Sure Nanika was a spirit possessing someone, but she was still had feelings.
"No one ever does." She looked down and played with her sleeve. "They always say she's just a spirit, just a thing. It makes her sad."
It killed Leorio to know her family was like that, to know they'd kept this little girl locked up and told the other one she wasn't a person. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, waiting until she looked up at him. "I don't care what anyone else says, Nanika is a person. If dragons and werewolves and mermaids are all people then why is a spirit not?"
Alluka smiled and jumped forward to hug Leorio, rubbing her face into his chest. "You're right, thank you."
Leorio laughed and hugged her back. "No need to thank me, it's just the truth."
Alluka leaned back and hopped off the couch, grabbing Leorio's hand and tugging lightly. "Will you come play with me?"
Leorio needed to be studying, but he let Alluka drag him upstairs. "What are we going to play?"
"Tea party!" she said happily. Leorio never thought he'd be perfectly happy sitting on the floor pretending to talk to stuffed animals, but there he was. It got even better when they managed to rope Killua into it and get some real tea. Even Kalluto joined in, though he wouldn't talk to the stuffed animals.
Leorio found he enjoyed having a house full of kids, even brats like Killua and Kalluto. He'd never considered himself parent material, but he guessed he was doing something right. There'd been no major problems so far, other than of course, Kalluto, but Leorio chalked Kalluto up to a lost cause. So long as Leorio kept control over him, Kalluto would never let his guard down around him.
His first true test of parenthood came late one night. Leorio couldn’t sleep, having a test coming up the next morning, so he headed into the main house to grab something to eat to calm his nerves and noticed the TV was still on. It was playing some mindless cartoon with the sound almost all the way down. Thinking one of the kids must have fallen asleep to it, he headed around the couch and saw Killua sitting there, his knees drawn up to his chest. The light from the TV washed all color out of Killua, making him look like a ghost. He was staring at the screen without seeing it, and it took him entirely too long to notice Leorio standing there.
"Shouldn't you be asleep?" he said quietly. Leorio had never seen him like this, so contemplative and soft. It felt wrong and Leorio wanted to fix it.
"I could ask you the same thing." Leorio took a seat next to Killua, watching the TV with him in silence. Leorio couldn't exactly work on a problem he didn't know about, so he waited for Killua to talk.
It took several minutes before Killua sighed. "You're not leaving until I tell you what's bothering me, are you?"
"Nope." Even though Leorio didn't turn to see his face, he could practically feel the eye roll.
"Fine. I'm sc— I'm worried about by family. They could show up at any moment to take Alluka back and I don't know if I could stop them." Leorio didn't miss the stutter, the way Killua almost said "scared".
"You don't have to stop them alone, I'm here." Leorio turned to look at Killua
"Leorio, they would kill you in a heartbeat, especially if they found out you'd bound Kalluto." Killua wasn't looking at him and his voice lacked any kind of real emotion. That alone told Leorio how serious Killua's worry was.
"Maybe so, but that's not going to stop me from trying my best to beat the bastards." When Killua didn't reply, Leorio said quietly, "I know I'll be mostly useless Killua, but I'm not going to leave you alone. I'm never going to, and that extends to Alluka and even Kalluto, the little shit."
That at least got a smile out of Killua. "You'd try and protect Kalluto even after all the shit he's been doing?"
"Yeah, because he's a kid and he needs someone there to help him. Your family obviously aren't the best role models and I don't know what kind of training you've both been put through but I can tell it's not the healthy kind." No child should know how to kill someone, no child should get pleasure out of other people's suffering.
Killua laughed humorously. "You have no idea."
"I'll listen if you want to tell me about it."
"Not really." Killua tucked his head down into his arms, hiding his face from Leorio. It hurt to see him like this, and it hurt worse not knowing how to fix it.
They sat in silence , the cartoon on the TV the only faint sound in the house. Leorio might not be able to ease Killua's worries, but he could at least be there for him. Eventually, Killua mumbled into his arms. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Leorio said, surprised. Killua didn't pick up his head or turn to look at him.
"For putting you in danger. I didn't want to go to Mito's because of it, but I came here instead."
"Good," Leorio said, perfectly serious. Killua raised his head and looked at Leorio as if he'd grown a third eye. "I'm glad you came here, regardless if it puts me in danger. You did the right thing, Killua."
"Did I? We would have been fine going from hotel to hotel where they wouldn't be able to track us. Where you wouldn't be in danger."
"Then why didn't you do that?" Leorio said kindly.
Killua was quiet and turned back to the TV. "I don't know."
"I do. Stability is a big thing, knowing you have somewhere to come back to, somewhere to rest and relax. I don't know if you knew this, but I was practically homeless as a child." That got Killua's attention and he turned to look at Leorio as he listened. "Sure I had a place to sleep and a roof, but the houses in my neighborhood were so shitty I'd have to couch hop just to find a place to sleep where the roof didn't leak or the windows closed. Not knowing where you're going to sleep, or if you'll have a place, that wears on you. After a while you just wish you had a place to call home. That's why you came here, you were looking for a home."
Killua looked down and sighed, and after a moment he said, "I think you're right."
"I'm always right," Leorio said in complete seriousness.
That got a quiet laugh out of Killua and he leaned against Leorio, a warm, comfortable weight against his side. Leorio didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around Killua's shoulders.
Leorio didn't know how long they sat in silence, but he eventually realized Killua had fallen asleep. Leorio smiled to himself as he picked Killua up and headed up the stairs. He knew Killua had probably woken up once he started moving, the kid slept so lightly it was a pain, but he didn't give any indication of it as Leorio lay him down in his bed. Maybe he really was out; Leorio would like to think that.
His little family was a strange one, but he wouldn't trade it for the world. All they needed was Gon and Kurapika to make it perfect. Gon was coming once Leorio's classes were over and Kurapika… Leorio wasn't sure where he was. He'd do near anything to have Kurapika back home and safe, but there was nothing he could do. He hated feeling so powerless. At least he could do something for these children.
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The whole damn tower could have fallen, and taken him with it.
But his reflexes were better than that. One didn’t make a life being driven onward by action - drinking, hunting, fighting, fucking, whatever else remained after that – without these things becoming second nature.
He leapt clear in the nick of time, stepping off to one side, heart hammering as he sucked air back into his lungs through a mad grin that chilled his teeth. The castle was shedding rubble all around as the Beast died, and he looked up to watch it crumbling, barely holding in his laugh of triumph. He’d done it – the creature was dead, he knew his aim was true. Belle would be his, finally. Another grand feat of his to proclaim, another moment of glory to be commemorated on the tavern wall-
Unfortunately all the while parts of the castle kept falling. And so busy was he celebrating, it left him little warning when one piece smashed hard into the back of his skull.
Everything became darkness, and silence.
*
By the time he woke up again the curse had broken, the afflicted assumed their rightful nature and positions, reality was restored. His memory was back, along with that of the others.
Which meant when Gaston regained consciousness he quickly felt a sense of the extraordinarily deep trouble he might be in.
He hadn’t known, of course: he’d thought he was fighting a monster. A terrible Beast that had enslaved his bride-to-be. A haunted castle full of darkest magic.
That didn’t change however that he had done a determined job of trying to kill a Prince. That he had incited a mob against the land’s rightful ruler, a man born of noble blood.
Such men of noble blood - they didn’t tend to look too kindly on that sort of thing.
He spent about fifteen minutes slowly painfully fitting the pieces back into place inside his mind. After that his existence was given over to scheming and fretting.
He tried not to worry though. After all, he wasn’t dead, and he couldn’t help but notice, he wasn’t in a dungeon either. He was locked up yes, probably still somewhere within the castle, but in an otherwise undecorated chamber with a large, very nice-looking bed at its center.
But of course, he was Gaston. The villagers would understand, once he had the chance to explain everything to them. The people would forgive him, would rally around and speak out in his defense.
He only had to get past the Prince first.
But from what memory told him, this was a man his own age who’d spent his life on frippery and fancy parties. No doubt he was soft and ridiculous. Social rank above him or not, he would not be intimidated.
There hadn’t been a man born with the power to intimidate him.
To frustrate him, however: most definitely. Three whole days passed as he paced the floor. Pounding on the door and yelling produced no responses. The room was too high to escape through the window, and the size of the bed made it too awkward even for him to lift. Whenever a servant entered they were accompanied by two armed guards, and kept their eyes averted and wouldn’t answer regardless what he demanded them.
At least they weren’t letting him starve. Though rich food in smaller portions had never been to his taste – he made sure the servants knew his complaints to take back to the kitchen.
He was fair certain he saw one of them rolling her eyes, but it was the only reply he ever got.
Finally on the third day there was a long quiet exchange outside the door. He stood there, eyes squinted, listening.
Then in strolled the Prince.
It was funny to remember he had been the Beast. By comparison he was now far from impressive. He stood about as tall as Gaston, was as fair-haired as Gaston’s was dark.
His looks, his physique, he dismissed, as he regularly did the appearance of any man in comparison to himself – though there was something about his eyes, admittedly. He carried himself with that undefinable air, the way that men born with blood ordained by God did; a constant reminder of the authority they wielded that others did not.
The power to end a life with a wave of a hand, and no need for an explanation.
He set his jaw, stood tall, tried not to fidget his sudden uncertain discomfort.
“Well now. There you are.” The Prince held hands behind his back. “It’s not often I get a chance to look a man in the eye that would try so hard to kill me.”
The coolness of that statement held little promise.
He cleared his throat, reaching for charisma: “I can explain-”
“Oh no, don’t bother.” The Prince looked markedly annoyed. “Really, please don’t – we both know what happened. And we both know why.”
He stared him down, waiting…until Gaston let the mask drop. He sneered, best as he was able.
And in response the Prince smirked back at him, like that was what he had been waiting for. “Now the question is, what are we to do about that.”
His hands curled into fists as the Prince strutted back and forth, looking him over; speculating and distracted.
“Let’s see. It goes without saying, I should think, that at this point if I wanted you dead, you would be already. It goes without saying, that if I wanted you to rot in my dungeons forever, then you would. It isn’t only that you are my prisoner – you are my subject, and you committed a form of treason when you tried to kill me. And my servants. Oh, and my future father-in-law – and let’s not get into what you tried to do to my bride-to-be. She hasn’t the kindest of things to say about you, by the way.” He glanced over at him.
By this point Gaston had no feeling past his wrists, he had clenched his fingers so tight.
“Most in my position would string you up in my courtyard, or chain you to a wall, and have done with it. But I,” he paused, “I have…a different idea. Of course, it all depends on one thing.”
It took Gaston a minute to realize the Prince was waiting.
“Oh?” he forced out.
“Your willingness to cooperate.”
The Prince smiled when he said it. Outwardly it was happy enough, almost pleasant. But there was something off there. At the edges. Or the eyes perhaps. It was always the eyes, with this one – he brushed aside his own nagging sense of discomfort, that unrest, annoyed with himself. With this senseless time wasting.
“What do you mean? What do you want?”
“Now do remind me.” The Prince appeared to be thinking. Or pretending to think. “What was it you said to me, when I spared your life the first time? On the outside of the castle? What did you say to me before I let you go? What were you willing to give to me if only I would let you live?”
Resentment soured deep in his stomach. “I don’t remember,” he lied, brusquely.
“Come now. I think we can do better than that.” Still the same expression – pretending to think. Mocking him, now, but sharp. Like a cat toying with a mouse. About to pounce and there was nothing the other could do but wait, hold still and pray for the best.
His shoulders drew together tightly, his neck trying to sink into his spine as he stood there, uncomfortable.
The Prince was doing his best to make him feel weak. And it was working. His life and liberty sat poised precariously in the palm of the other’s hand.
“I believe your words were, ‘I’ll do anything’,” the Prince said at last. “You said ‘anything’. Does that sound right? Do you remember saying it, now?”
He had to unhinge his jaw, swallow the rage that had dried his throat, before he was able to speak.
“Yes, I remember.”
The Prince’s smile was gone. His blue eyes piercing, he put a hand to his own ear and tipped it forward.
“What was that?” His voice was soft in a way that could only be described as dangerous. “To whom is it, Monsieur Gaston, that you are speaking?”
Any other man alive would have had his teeth broken in by now. But the reminder worked, unfortunately.
Gaston lifted his chin.
“Yes, I remember…my lord.”
The Prince let his hand fall, expression again more neutral. He exhaled the word, “Good.”
There was a silence that went on too long, prompting him to grow impatient enough to demand, “Well? What do you intend to do to me?”
“Find a use for you,” the Prince answered, strangely. “And perhaps, teach you a lesson.”
Teach him a lesson? It was really too much – every ounce of his not inconsiderable pride rankled.
“You can try,” he retorted, as defiant as he felt he could get away with.
But the Prince only smiled again. Then he snapped his fingers, loudly.
The guards shuffled in, set a small chest at the feet of their master, who sent them away with a nod. He waited until the door was shut again before looking back at the other man.
Languidly. Like he had about forgotten he was there.
“Take off your clothes.”
Gaston had expected – almost anything else. He stared rather openly.
“Oh, you heard me correctly. Going by that shocked look on your face.”
The Prince was silently laughing at him. That cleared up his hesitation rather effectively as anger rose once more.
So it was to be an attempt at humiliation, was it? Fine, fine. He’d show him. Gaston had nothing, absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. In front of a Prince or any other man or God.
He did not face away as in brisk movements he tugged off his boots, his shirt and vest, his stockings and breeches.
He kicked his clothing aside and then he stood there with legs apart, chest puffed, put his hands on his hips and looked the other man in the eye as he dared him - glaring, confident - to make a comment.
The Prince did not look away either. He took time letting his eyes drop down, past his chest, his stomach and thighs, not averting his gaze from his cock. He had played this game before.
“Very nice.” A wry observation.
He let out a short, unkind, “Ha!” Not caring, in the heat of the moment, who was talking to.
“I should make you show me yours as well! Since, evidently, you consider me a rival.” He showed his teeth, using the tone of a man looking to find a fight.
The Prince’s responding smile this time was slow. His voice carried knowing confidence.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get a sense of it well enough before we’re through.”
Gaston’s expression fell, his brow wrinkled, not understanding.
“It’s funny you should bring up Belle however. It does come back to her – and not in the way that you think.”
And before he’d even the second necessary to feel rage at having that name spoken so carelessly – reminding him that he had lost, despite his best efforts, and the Prince had won – the next words came just as offhand:
“Lie down on the bed, on your stomach.”
Some instinct had determined where this headed while his mind struggled to catch up, sending a warning chill up his spine.
He wasn’t trying to look confident anymore as he stared at the Prince again. In response to his uneasy bewilderment, the other moved his head, nodding. He repeated more softly, more intently, “Lie down on the bed, on your stomach.” Drawing the syllables out.
His movements felt strange as he followed the order, as if his limbs weren’t attached to his body – because surely, this wasn’t happening? He was misreading the situation somehow. Yes, they said many things about nobles, their appetites and perversions, but there was no chance, truly-
“Comfortable?”
The question seemed mocking, interrupting his delayed thoughts, so Gaston didn’t answer. He only frowned, annoyed, squirming on his belly against the soft mattress.
It was better than anything he had ever owned, much to his irritation. It was better than anything anyone in the whole village had ever owned. Or ever would own, probably.
He heard that wooden chest opening. The Prince started to speak once more.
“The thing about Belle – she’s so clever. So determined. That bright mind and perceptive nature that makes her eyes light up more than any precious gem I’ve ever held. Oh, she’s a confident woman, that’s for certain, and she considers herself anything other than some naïve sheltered maid. Some innocent. But the thing is…Belle is. An innocent.”
The Prince had been waxing on in an admiring way. Listening with a scowl Gaston barely paid attention as he walked to the front of the bed.
Until he reached out, took Gaston’s right hand before him, and fastened it with a cuff that he chained to the bedframe.
And still speaking idly, he took his left hand and put it also in an identical cuff that he too chained to the bedframe.
“It’s not her fault. Or any failing on her part, really. But she can’t help it. No matter what she is still a young woman, raised under limited means – and no books would have fallen into her lap to help illuminate certain parts of the world, the more mature reality they keep hidden from maidens. The unsavory education we must admit that men such as you and I receive and take part in, too easily. Such things are not suited for a young lady’s consumption. Even one as curious as Belle. Where would she ever even go to uncover it?”
As the Prince mused, Gaston was staring at his own hands. Still trying to grasp what happened. Eyes growing wider he tugged experimentally – the chains, and the bed, were strong enough he wasn’t breaking them.
Ludicrously behind their black leather the cuffs were lined with something that didn’t chafe his wrists at all. As if they’d been designed to serve their purpose in comfort.
The reality was sinking in. He felt like he was drowning in frigid mud.
“And it isn’t as if I don’t love her. Truly, I love her.” In his pause the Prince sounded pained. “I love her for what she is, and have no desire to change her. It is myself I worry about.”
Head pressed to one side against the bedsheets Gaston struggled to understand him, his own breathing hitching.
“Because I…no doubt you’ve heard my reputation.” The Prince was at his legs now, chaining ankles in the same way he had wrists: first one, then the other. “I was a rake, for years and years, before the curse befell me. I see no point in denying it.”
There was almost fond recollection in his tone, yet at the same time regretting.
“Not the worst of men, but, well – fittingly, considering what I became: an animal. I collected lovely damsels. One right after the other. And when I grew bored, then I’d cast around for a young man with that pout to his lips, that secret shine to his eyes that said he’d be willing to be corrupted. I was insatiable, truly. To me they were all the same. All that mattered was that they were…beautiful.”
That word seemed to hang in the air, even as it landed like a blow in the pit of his stomach. Beautiful.
Twisting his neck, having to gather nerve to do it, he looked back where the Prince was still standing. His expression was wistful. But his eyes-
He had seen that look, in some of the most dangerous animals he ever hunted. The haunting boldness of one willing to lash out and take whatever lay within reach.
Because they knew their own strength and felt no fear of death. They knew that nothing could stop them.
“I want to love Belle the way she deserves,” the Prince declared. “The way that our love – purest, true love – deserves. I will bring her to our bed on our wedding night and I will be a gentleman lover. I don’t want to…teach her, the things that I know. I don’t want to dirty her. She would accept, perhaps, for my sake, if she thought it would please me…God forgive me, maybe she would even enjoy it. But whatever it did for my body, it would only burden my heart and sicken my soul.”
He leaned forward, looking him in the eye – and Gaston flinched into the mattress, trying to burrow his body far away as it could get.
Too, too late, he realized; far too late.
“But still I worry about myself, you see. What if, for all that the curse changed me, taught me, what if I still…hunger? What if I can’t unlearn my appetites, and threaten to grow bored with that purest love, if I have no other way of sating my rougher pleasures? My passions?”
The Prince’s voice lowered to a murmur. Every word sounded reasonable, almost sweet, how he spoke it.
“And that, mon cher Monsieur Gaston, is where you come in.” He breathed the familiarity out, heated, so unexpected. “After all you said you would do…anything. If only you could live.”
He had to swallow back a sound it took a beat to recognize – a whimper. He was still too shocked to move as the Prince reached out with one hand and stroked the back of his head.
“Such marvelous hair you have.”
He snapped the thin black ribbon still restraining it. Working his fingers in, he carded long dark locks down across Gaston’s neck and shoulders, as freely and with as much relish as if he’d any right to do so. Without second’s thought.
Like a lover.
Somehow it was this, this that finally brought home to Gaston the reality of what was happening to him.
Entire body tensed he tried to pull away, tugging with his might at the chains, the four points he had been helplessly spread out to. Yanking them back and forth.
It was not too late, he was still intact, if only he could break free – if worse came to worse, he could yell-
“You said anything.” The Prince reminded him – a whisper now, bordering on threat. Fingers curled harder in his hair, not enough to hurt but enough to turn possessive. “Remember? ‘I’ll do anything. Don’t hurt me’.”
Voice shaking, he protested, “I didn’t mean-”
“Anything.” Releasing his hair the Prince cupped the back of his head, petting him even as he pushed his chin down into the bed. It was a playful gesture, with no force behind it – the indignity of it stung far worse than any show of power or pain. “Now, tell me – are you a man of your word, or not?”
Gaston called him a name that had started a knockdown fight in every barroom he ever said it in; the Prince threw his head back and laughed, no doubt amused by the rough vulgarity.
Breathing hard he pressed his right cheek and side of his jaw to the sheets, not daring to look at the Prince as he tried to think, desperately.
He cared about his honor. Well – within practicality, obviously; there were some things he’d do to get his own way. But he was a soldier and a fighter, he had dignity. It was important, so important, to that crucial sense he had of himself.
Ironically it caught him in a terrible position now. Because what was he supposed to do: let the Prince bugger him, or tell him “no” and therefore be branded a liar?
He had said, he did say, he would do anything. If he went back on that now, maybe only the two of them would know. It was still two too many.
Gaston would know. It would poison his sense of pride, fester inside of him every day.
Besides which if he backed out now – he might well get the punishment he’d already been spared. A lifetime in a cell. Or a noose.
He had been willing to beg rather than be killed in a fair fight. He was always willing to trick or lie when the opportunity presented itself to get what he wanted. And, he realized in that moment: he was willing to be made sodomite so long as it kept him alive and free, so long as no one – certainly not this Prince – could call him an oath-breaker.
It was stubborn and it was stupid and neither word occurred to him because it was the only way he lived.
He stopped struggling. Breath ragged with resentment he lay there on his belly, gaze fixed ahead in a fiery glower through the hair fallen in his eyes.
The Prince seemed to be counting for some indeterminate time before he demonstrated enough surrender, that he felt free to run a brief caress to the small of his back. Gaston gagged on his bile, shuddered, bit back every retort or word of protest that wanted to rise inside him.
He could do nothing. Nothing.
“I had a feeling.” The Prince sounded smug – condescending, as he remarked, “What is it that they say – a brave man dies but only once, while a coward dies a thousand deaths. I do wonder, Monsieur Gaston: how many times have you died?”
The insult landed too deep in his breastbone for him to dig out in time. But he pretended not to notice; he lifted his chin and spat out, “Big words, from a man whose antlers I should be using as a coatrack.”
The Prince only laughed at him again.
“Mon dieu, you know, I actually like your spirit! It’s charming, in a disgusting way. How a grown man could live so long without being the least bit self-aware, who knows really.”
He shook his head with nobleman’s amusement as he walked out of sight.
The chest opened and closed again, and the Prince had to be toying with something in his hands – he heard the creak of leather.
“Now let’s see. What are we to do next?”
The air split with sound as he swung what could only be a riding crop, striking Gaston hard on one side of his ass.
He gave a short bellow of pain, too caught off-guard to stop himself.
“Hmm, what was that?” Another thwack, just as hard, to the other side.
“Ouch,” he snapped, not sure what stung worse, the skin on his backside or the humiliation of being spanked.
Fingers splayed he shot the Prince a hard look of reproach. The other noticed and cocked his head aside.
“So you don’t like pain. Being on the receiving end, that is.”
As if needing further proof of this he struck him twice more – this time across each side of his upper back, near his shoulders. He flinched, back arching, with angry audible wince both times.
“No! I do not. What’s the matter with you? Is this truly necessary?”
It wasn’t the pain that made him upset. Bad enough what he’d agreed to: he was losing what little remained of his temper, to think he’d submitted only to be beaten like a convict too.
“See, this is good, though. I’m glad we’ve established this.”
That airy tone threw him and he fell silent once more, listening with apprehension.
“Pain and pleasure are solidly separate to you. Not that that surprises me, given your character. I’d already guessed as much. But, it means I’ll be better able to tell just whatever reaction it is I’m getting, from what I do to you next.”
The riding crop was tossed aside, either back in the chest or to the floor. What came next was – it sounded like a bottle of something? Liquid contents shifting. A stopper being pulled – and there was that smell. Not floral but pungent, herbal. Oil.
The Prince was rubbing his hands together – coating them, that slick sound. Coating his hands in oil.
He curled his lips and clenched his jaw and held his breath so he remained silent, but the flinch still went through his entire body as two fingers were unceremoniously inserted inside him.
The mattress sank slightly, the Prince’s weight leaning against it, getting comfortable. He was moving slow and with purpose as he fingered him, preparing him.
Gaston squeezed his eyes shut, tried not to think about what he was feeling – but he had never been a creative soul at the best of times. He didn’t know how to do much besides live in the moment.
His fingers had curled back into fists. The muscles in his calves had gone completely tense. This wasn’t supposed to happen – it wasn’t allowed to happen. Not to him, not to him…
“I wonder,” said the Prince, as if he was actively reading his mind, “all the women you’ve fucked over the years – and I know, I’m sure, there have been several, paid and otherwise. You’re awful but you’re a rogue with a glimmer in your eye. And God save their souls, young girls are a very particular kind of foolish. A wink from you, one glimpse at that broad chest, these fine legs-” His free hand stroked a long line from just above one knee down to an ankle, giving the restraint there a teasing tug. “-and it’s up and off with their skirts. Am I right? Never mind you are the very definition of the man their mothers always warned them about.”
He wanted badly for the Prince to stop talking. Unfortunately he couldn’t find where his own voice had gone.
“But where was I? Ah, right. I was wondering, the women you’ve been with: have you ever let them do much of anything to you in return? Bite you, scratch you, anything at all?” The Prince was wry now, bordering on shrewd. “Do you let them hold you down and pull your hair? Do you let them ride you from above? Or – and I think this is far, far more likely – you take everything for yourself.”
He rolled his fingers along the insides of his ass, as if worried to miss a single spot. It was taking everything Gaston had not to squirm in response to the psychic agony the mixture of words and motions was delivering.
“You’re rough, and you push and you grab, grunting and grasping, and you have to dominate. Don’t you, you’re all bark and all bite, and you don’t know how to share. You must always be completely superior, completely controlling, because anything less would be unforgivable to your tremendously bloated sense of pride. Your identity as the war-time Captain, a hero of the village – a man.”
He had stopped smoothing his fingers around and now he was pushing – pushing them up and further in, as the muscles in Gaston’s back tightened reflexively. But the Prince’s fingers were still twisting, seeking out…something.
“So I think you have never let anyone do anything to you, that could be the least bit construed as submission.” The Prince sounded, almost, like he was trying to tell a joke: “And now, you are experiencing this. What a vast difference for you that is going to make.”
Whatever the Prince had been looking for – he found it. He pressed down – what was that? It sent an alarming shiver, a tingle, all across his underside. Alarming because it-
A dawning, disbelieving sense of horror swept through him. He panted, openmouthed and desperate, eyes wide and blindly unseeing.
He tried to clamp down on that sensation, trying to deny what was happening.
The Prince’s voice was a low singsong.
“I am so glad that my servants left you the supplies to wash yourself. I am so glad that you used them,” he whispered. “I am so glad that you did such a very, very thorough job. But of course you would. You adore your body, don’t you? Not that I can entirely blame you to be honest.”
The Prince had stood and with free hand reached to cup his cock and give it a squeeze – not hard enough to hurt. But enough to make it clear that he was experiencing the very start of an erection. Gaston shut his eyes tight, shivering with confused mortification.
“Look at you,” the Prince all but purred – obvious he was drinking in the sight of the other’s naked body from his position above. “I have sculptures in this castle that were carved by the ancient Greeks, and yet some of them don’t even compare halfway. Did you see them, on your way in originally? Or were you in too much of a hurry – rushing, as always, to claim your prize-”
He moved his squeezing hand to the very base of his shaft, and flicked hard at whatever that perfect terrible spot was on the inside of him.
His mouth open, the word “stop” ready to explode from his lungs – he swallowed it back down, even though it burned, misery and hatred bubbling. They had a deal. There was no turning back. He wouldn’t give the other the satisfaction.
Just like that the Prince withdrew. He was left trembling on the bed, struggling to breathe normally, every muscle tightened.
From somewhere behind there was the shuffle of fabric and the soft clink of a belt buckle as the Prince undid his breeches.
The bottle, again. More oil rubbed against skin. Then the Prince came back over and, resting hands purposefully on his waist, began sliding cock home inside him.
“There.” His polished, aristocratic voice was rough. “Is that big enough for you, do you think, to compare?”
The idea Gaston would be able to say anything at that point was laughable.
But then the Prince didn’t seem to need a reply. He was rocking against him slowly now, finding a rhythm, holding him by the hips.
“Now, now. Don’t hold your breath – that won’t help you,” he noted, looking down, seeing how wracked the other man was. He coaxed, “Come on. Let it out. Gather it in your ribcage-” he wasn’t certain why he followed the order, but he did, “nice and slow. There. Much better. Isn’t it?”
He exhaled out, the clench to his body forcibly soothed away. The Prince had found his rhythm now and was getting faster. There was nothing he could do but breath with it in time.
The Prince grasped his cock again. A groan of protest escaped him.
“Did you say something?”
His voice came out muffled, distorted through his teeth, sounding nothing like him. “…No.”
That grip tightened on his cock, pumping up and down, not quite in time to the Prince’s thrusts but close. Too close. He was overcome with involuntary arousal. All the while the Prince kept rutting away, inhales turning to quiet grunts of satisfaction.
He reached to thread fingers in Gaston’s hair, tugging back on his scalp, forcing his neck up. “No…what?”
He breathed a sound somewhere between another groan and a whine. The anticipation building, he was unsure whose release he dreaded first. “No, my lord,” he forced out.
A throaty chuckle was torn from the Prince. He let go of his hair, seeking his goal with increased fervor, energy mounting. The fact he could somehow keep talking at this point was nothing short of alarming.
Gaston couldn’t move, could barely think. He lay there helplessly feeling how hard he was in the other’s hand, how hard the other was inside of him. All he could do was lay there, and listen.
“Here is what I know.”
The Prince’s words were a staccato between thrusts. He was nearly there now – they both were, despite all Gaston’s resistance. He shut his eyes, mouth opened in a grimace as the white-hot pleasure-pain built up inside him, too insistent to be ignored.
“I know that you are going to go back to your little village, and your little home, and your town square, and your tavern, and your little life. And you’ll still be a big, strong man, with your big hands, and your long legs, and your tall strong body, and from the outside it might look like nothing has changed. No one around for miles that could ever stand up to you. No one able to stop you from taking what you want.”
The Prince’s words were slurred a bit with half-focus yet still terribly audible.
“But from now on, every time you’d go to silence another, shout over them with your boasting – every time you think to knock someone down simply because you can – and every time you would force attention on a woman that she never asked you for. You’re going to remember this. You’re going to remember this moment, this feeling. Because even if no one else knows what happened here, you will. You’ll always know.”
Gaston gasped and bucked. The picture filled him with resentment and dread.
“You’re going to remember the time you were made to feel small.”
His eyes were screwed so tightly shut they hurt. The taunting promise felt like a curse, a prophecy – and it was this that broke him open, despairing moan escaping his lips as he threw his head back.
The Prince came but a few moments later, one last hard jerk next to finish Gaston off.
His legs were shaking. He didn’t recall grabbing the chains around his wrists for support. The Prince’s body collapsed into his slightly, weight pressing down against him.
For an eternity he heard the blood rushing through his skull, their mixed heavy breathing.
The Prince redressed himself first. Then he returned to the bed where Gaston lay, deliriously convinced somehow every bone in his body had been broken. Why else couldn’t he move?
He stared at the ceiling blindly as the Prince unchained him.
He stroked a palm down his spine, then rubbed him comfortingly between the shoulders.
“Get some rest. You’re going to be sore the next few days.”
It took too long for the words to register – the door was already shut tight by the time he sat up. The Prince was gone, taking his wooden chest with him, and he was still locked in, and-
Pain shot up his back as he twisted, unthinking. He let out an angry yowl with indignation as his insides seared and throbbed. The final aching awful proof of what had been done to him. What he had let be done.
No; that wasn’t it, though; he hadn’t any choice.
It wasn’t as if he-
He swallowed hard, choking on bad taste as he looked down and saw the signs of his release smeared across the bedsheets.
*
Three more days went by.
The physical pain faded. The other pain, feeding his determined rage, grim inside of him, only kept building.
Bad enough to demand such things of him in exchange for his life and honor. But the way the Prince had gone about it, forcing him into being partner to his own undoing – that he had made him doubt himself; actually made even a part of him enjoy it…
It was a sin, an offense against not God but against the masculinity to which Gaston held himself. Instead of the injured party, he had been twisted into being an accomplice.
He made up his mind quickly he was going to kill the Prince. It was the only real solution.
The Prince would be dead so there would be no one left, no one else would ever know. Except him – and he could go home, and get drunk, start a fight or find a girl at the tavern, saddle up his horse for a long ride and go hunting. And he could forget. Yes, he had faith in himself, with the fervent certainty that he simply had to. He could pretend he never experienced…this.
So long as there was no one else who existed in the whole wide world who also knew.
He wasn’t sure how he was going to do it. Or what would come after, how he would explain himself, how he would escape. But those parts didn’t matter. The important part was that he knew what he was going to do.
It gave him something to focus on. Anything other than the alternative.
Those three days went by and the Prince returned. He walked in without preamble as if he expected Gaston to be waiting for him.
He supposed that he was. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go.
He couldn’t remember what the Prince had been wearing last time. Today he was wearing blue. Bright blue, vibrant, beneath finely-stitched brocade that brought out his eyes. Made them gleam with intensity.
Gaston stood, shoulders lifted, fists tight as if he were ready to do something impulsive and regrettable and – satisfying - even though they both knew he wasn’t. The Prince’s face was unreadable as they simply stared at each other.
At last he said, quiet, “Take off your clothes.”
He was less quick this time as he obeyed. There was a fever in his mind circling, that went nowhere, as he kept stealing glances at the Prince, only then to stare sullenly back down at the floor.
But he straightened up with a jolt as the Prince stepped toward him, closing the distance down to an arm’s length. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the Prince as he waited, intensely wary.
“Do we need the restraints today?” the Prince queried. Casually. Like he spoke about the weather.
It took him a moment to understand him – another to make up his mind.
“No.”
“No?” the Prince repeated, watching his reaction.
He shook his head, throat working as he tasted indignity and a promise at the same time. “No.”
“Well all right then. Very good.”
The fact the Prince was happy about it was aggravating. But he had a plan.
He would wait, until the Prince let his guard down. They would be alone – he would have to wait until he was finished with the oil, he wouldn’t be close enough before that. But after, when he went to fuck him again – when he started, when there was little distance between them, and his mind was distracted.
There would be no chance to call for the guards. It would be over too quickly.
He left his clothes in a heap beside his boots and stood with profile toward the Prince. Not showing off this time though he didn’t turn away.
He could read the Prince’s long look for what it was, as he admired the curves and muscles of Gaston’s body.
His mouth set in a line he met the other’s gaze, bitter, and then he pulled his own hair loose, shaking it out between his fingers before smoothing it back down.
The Prince’s smirk was slow and savoring.
Too late he realized that’d been a mistake – he’d wanted to not give him the satisfaction this time. Now it was clear he saved him a step. Instead of an act of defiance, he had done him a favor.
He openly scowled as without command he went to lie across the bed.
The Prince went for the oil - as he waited Gaston crossed arms tight against his body, resting face on his forearms. His pulse was thudding, how he always felt when he knew the moment to act was swift coming.
Biding his time yet remaining sharp, watching for it. That opening.
The Prince began the same way he had before: two fingers, coated in oil.
He tensed and shivered again, the sensation too unfamiliar to him, disturbed by the sharp warmth rising slow from down by his belly.
“Now, remember to breathe,” the Prince chided in a murmur, noticing the tautness stretched between his shoulders. “You’re only going to hurt yourself.”
“If one of us gets hurt here today-” He bit the rest back too late. He hadn’t been able to stop himself. The Prince fell silent.
He breathed shallowly, afraid he had made him suspicious and ruined everything.
But the Prince didn’t stop his action. He was as thorough this time but it seemed he was infuriatingly even slower. His touch was lighter as well, at times feeling like he was even trying to tickle him from the inside. He was trying to get him to enjoy it again.
His fingers curled back into fists as impulses and emotions warred within himself.
“I spoke to Belle, just the other day.” The Prince spoke idly – and Gaston froze. “I’ve been trying to make her understand, you see. Hint at the parts of my past, my wicked heathen ways, she hasn’t yet realized. It’s only fair she knows who she’s marrying. She thinks the worse thing I could be guilty of is cruelty to my subjects.” He huffed and sighed. “I suppose that she’s right – but there are different kinds of ‘worse’.”
Hearing Belle’s name brought up as he lay there being buggered with another man’s fingers, breathing through his nose and fighting off some primal form of arousal, made him want to shrink down and die. He didn’t think the Prince did it on accident. Nothing he did so far felt like an accident.
“Would you believe…”
The Prince drawled his words – and he added an extra finger, stroking upward, hard to the left. Whatever Gaston had been planning was vanishing in a white haze of powerless disorientation.
“When I tried to hint at her that I had many, many lovers before, both male and female, she couldn’t seem to understand that. She tried. It’s not prudery, it’s true inexperience.”
He gave a mirthless chortle: “She asked me, actually looked me in the eye, and asked me – with all the tentativeness of youth – how two men even could be together. Her love of tinkering, and yet she couldn’t grasp the mechanics. Isn’t that funny?”
Gaston choked. He could think of literally nothing right now he wanted to hear about less. “You talk too much,” he ground out.
The Prince had sounded almost somber, but now he brightened as again he laughed.
“God, you’re right! Oh, but I do enjoy it. Conversation is a dying art form.” He pulled free of him, standing again. “But then, so are other things.”
There was a wicked humor in how he said it. Gaston was struggling to remember his plan.
It was hard to move. His muscles felt shaky. His cock had started to throb, persistent, but he tried to ignore it. It wasn’t a bad as the other time. But it was – he felt distracted.
He could hear the Prince shuffling with his own clothes, and he realized the moment he’d been waiting for was at hand. His timing was off; maybe he could still salvage it. Gathering breath he pushed up on his hands, moving to a kneeling position.
He was too slow. His body felt strange to him, made foreign by things he was experiencing; he was slick on the inside, his muscles loosened.
And then the Prince returned.
His first reaction was to go still in panic, thinking he had been found out. But the Prince didn’t seem to mind he changed position without prompting.
“There, there. That’s all right. It’s fine. Here – move forward a bit, give me some room-”
His hand was on Gaston’s cock again, palm and fingers wrapped entirely around. Even in human form his hands were far from small it seemed. He rubbed Gaston with confident steady motion, carelessly possessive, working his thumb against his slit.
Gaston’s breath caught in his throat, his teeth clenched; eyes threatening to roll back in his skull as he fought not to give into pleasure.
The Prince nudged him forward on the bed and he reacted automatically, moving where he was bidden like some dumb animal.
As the Prince knelt behind him he felt a terrific shock – he had thought the other only removed his breeches again. But he hadn’t. He had undressed completely.
Their naked bodies close, he could feel the Prince’s burgeoning erection brush against the back of his thighs. The ripple of his biceps moved against his skin as he reached across him.
He had been around plenty of other naked men. Growing up, long trips for hunting, time in his regiment – he had never particularly noticed the bodies of the others before. Felt no need to pay attention.
Now it was impossible not to notice.
The Prince cupped his ass and then put the head of his cock into place, working it in – it felt rougher, even harder from this angle. Gaston had to set his jaw, forcing himself to relax with a suppressed sound.
The muscles of the Prince’s chest and abdomen were against his back where their bodies pressed together. The closest he’d ever been to another man like this was in a wrestling match and this, this was – so different. Every place where skin met skin felt like a searing line of contact, tingling in confusion.
That hand was still on his cock – it clamped down, hard, at the very base. The Prince had gotten him more than halfway erect and now made it impossible for him to come. Gaston swore involuntarily, gasping.
The Prince moved against his hips, thrusting. Right hand staying put on his cock. Left hand fisted in his hair, pulling head back so he could speak directly into his ear, that confident voice a growl.
“I wonder if you were to see Belle now, could you even look her in the eye? After this?”
He ground against him once, meaningfully. Gaston gave a short, keening moan.
“Then again before long you two will finally have something important in common.”
His breath was hot against his chin and throat.
“You’ll both know what it feels like to have me finish inside of you.”
Gaston growled back, something finally breaking, “Shut…up.”
The Prince laughed, low and throaty, before nipping his earlobe. He still had him in that death-grip and the throbbing in his cock was getting truly unbearable.
He was thrust into, long and hard, the Prince no longer holding back the sounds he made in pleasure. His free arm crossed the front of Gaston’s chest grasping him by the opposite bicep, holding to him tightly as possible as he fucked him harder, harder-
Gaston’s mouth was parted, breath hissing in past his teeth and out again in needy grunts. He reached straight back with his left hand, seizing a fistful of the Prince’s fair tresses, grabbing to him by the back of the skull ensuring they were closer together – closer, closer.
He rocked against the Prince, a counterpoint to each thrust. Their bodies together over and over in collision of friction and sweat. He could tell by sound both their mouths were open, grimacing, in the abyss between pleasure and pain.
The Prince clung to his cock and his arm and he clutched the Prince by his hair. There was no parting them.
The motion had taken over completely, the hardest roughest ride he ever had. He was past thinking – past feeling, almost, so overwhelmed; an end unto itself.
He could feel the Prince grinning against the line of his jaw.
“Are you ready for it to be over now?”
“Yes,” Gaston hissed, struggling, barely able to speak.
The Prince was still rasping into his ear. “What do we say?”
He thought they couldn’t possibly be rutting any faster, motion building to unavoidable climax.
“Nnngh-”
The Prince loosened his hand enough to make him want to scream. “What do we say?”
The word rose from his mind like molasses: “Please.”
The Prince gave a pleased hum, he was on the right track. Still he prompted again, “What do we say?”
He could feel everything and nothing in his body. He needed release from this intensity, or he truly believed he might die.
He had to scrape the words from his tongue, recall his voice where it lay trapped in his throat, and when he managed to push it came as a strangled shout, “Please, my lord - please!”
The Prince gave one last thrust, making his own broken sound of bliss, and he released his hand ensuring they both finished in almost an instant.
Gaston closed his eyes with a moan of desperate pleasure as he slid free from his grasp.
And then the next second his eyes flew open again. Even as afterglow seeped into his muscles, memory reared at him past denial.
Cold trapped his bones, as he realized that he had been begging - and what he had been begging for.
The Prince sounded woozy but satiated. He ran his fingers lightly across his hair, and petted the back of his neck. Gaston couldn’t move.
“Good, mon cher Monsieur Gaston,” he said, sighing shakily. “Very good. Very, very good.”
He didn’t know how much longer the Prince stayed. He didn’t know when he gathered up his things and his clothes and went away.
For a long time he stayed there crouching on the bed, staring down at his own spread hands and seeing nothing.
*
Only one full day passed this time before the Prince returned.
He walked in alone. He didn’t have the wooden chest with him. He was quiet, at first, very quiet.
So was Gaston. He laid on the bed, half-propped on his elbows, and when the Prince entered he sat up enough further so he could watch him, carefully.
But he said nothing. There seemed to be nothing more for him to say.
He stayed where he was, fully clothed, hair tied back. Limbs drawing slightly closer to his body and feeling too self-conscious to move so long as he could see the Prince’s eyes on him.
They watched each other in this way. The moment felt heated, not necessarily with tension; it simply – was.
He didn’t know what the Prince was seeing. But he – he saw something that reminded him of being deep in the woods, rounding a bend and finding himself face to face with one of the bigger predators in the forest. Locking eyes with it across that distance – gaze so unreadable, yet intent and knowing.
Even an experienced hunter left frozen in time and place with that majestic sense of awe.
Somehow the human Prince had become far more intimidating to him, than ever he had been as the Beast.
And more than ever before he felt awareness of the power this other man wielded. In his blood, by his birth, in his wealth and his property and the subjects at his command. It was in every inch of his bearing. He walked into a room and hardly needed the order to make people bow – it was second sense, their knees wanting to do it automatically.
Yes, he felt anxiously aware of how much power the other had. How he could have him killed in an instant if he wanted, perhaps.
But more significant than that: there was this unique power he wielded over Gaston, now.
As he and the Prince gazed at each other, wordlessly, he felt intensely aware of his own breathing, the feel of his clothes against his skin. He swallowed thinly and saw those eyes track the movement of his throat, trailing down to where the top buttons of his shirt were left open revealing some chest hair.
Other than that he didn’t move, because he couldn’t. He felt like he didn’t have the right. Even his body didn’t seem to belong to him anymore: it was as if it belonged to the Prince.
Surely he’d done enough, shown his mastery over it, to claim it after the past few days.
He didn’t understand what was happening to him. His own feelings left him uncomfortable – afraid. Of both the feelings themselves and what they might drive him to do.
But there was no resistance anymore. All the anger had gone out of him, all the fight.
In the face of the Prince’s power, his authority, he became meek. Compliant. And not because there was no point in resisting, no.
Much as it disturbed him, it seemed his body had developed this deep yearning to do whatever he was told.
The Prince lifted a hand in a beckoning gesture and nodded. Gaston mutely got off the bed, moving towards him.
For the first time in his life he was not standing so tall anymore. His chin wasn’t lifted and his gaze kept dropping, darting.
He knew the Prince could see right through him. Right now it was the last thing that he wanted.
He stopped just out of reach of the other, standing directly before him. The Prince let a meaningful silence build before breaking it himself.
“Well?” He prompted, head tilted forward to try to look Gaston in the eye. His eyebrows were raised. “Nothing to say today for ourselves?”
He was a man asking a question who already knew the answer. Asking just to make the point.
His throat felt tight. He kept his head up as he shook it “no” in reply.
“I see.” The Prince looked him over. “I have to say this change in attitude is…rather refreshing. Becoming, even.” A beat, as he considered. “For however long we can make it last.”
He stepped forward, closing the distance. Gaston’s breath hitched involuntarily as he moved nearer, and cursed himself for it. But he knew better now than to try making it go away.
The Prince had that musing tone again, one that made him seem older than he was – air of culture drawing out the differences in their backgrounds.
“It has its own sort of comfort, doesn’t it,” he remarked. “Submission. Giving up on power, giving up control. Surrendering. For once not having to contend with anything, even one’s own will.”
There was a wry smile playing about his lips.
“As strange and contrary as it may seem, in a way...when we are adrift, letting go to sink down into it, nothing can feel more – safe.”
His brow furrowed, not understanding. This sort of talk was entirely beyond him. He merely stood where he was, confused.
The Prince wasn’t surprised he gave no reply. He looked away for a moment, clearing his throat.
“You may have considered by now what eventually is going to happen. If I intend to keep you locked in this room forever. But I do not. In fact I think after today…a few hours from now even, probably less, you’re going to be allowed to leave.”
He started. This was unexpected. But especially so was how he realized he felt no sense of relief.
Freedom was promising, but what was building up most inside him was a rush of…panic.
The Prince kept speaking. “You’ll get back your horse, and your coat, and even your weapons.” He chortled, confiding, “My servants think I’m mad for that last part, but I overruled them. You’ll leave this castle, you’ll go back to Villeneuve I assume, and after that, you can go back to your life.”
The source of his panic was obvious now.
Back to his life: where he was the proudest, strongest, most self-assured person in the village. One everyone looked up to – a man among men. One who was always in control.
Could he act like nothing had changed, like he hadn’t been – like he didn’t know what it felt like to have the Prince’s cock inside of him, his fingers pulling his hair, that voice low in his ear-
What if when he went to speak or move, he remembered? Confidence slipping, feeling like a fraud. Skin crawling with uncertainty, sweating cold beneath his shirt. His voice might falter and, how would they look at him then? Would they see the change in him?
Would they guess why?
The Prince’s eyes danced as he watched his face. He was laughing at him, now; there was no doubt. Silently. But laughing.
“That is, if you want to go back,” he drew out, voicing what they both knew. Pointed: “If you can.”
He felt such dread and despair as he stared at him.
‘This is your fault’, he thought. But even as he stood there, heart thudding - no angry words came to his tongue, and his fists refused to rise. The hatred wasn’t stronger than whatever else he felt when he remembered the Prince’s hands on him; it locked his body in place. Burning and longing, helpless.
He did nothing. He merely stood where he was. Unable to censor the unease and anxiety from his face, unable to act on it either.
He waited for the Prince. He couldn’t speak.
The Prince was looking him over again, eyes half-lidded.
“I think,” he determined at length, like he’d been contemplating a matter of greatest importance, “that today I’d like to see you down on your knees.”
He didn’t think about the why. He merely did as he was told.
He sank down, legs slightly apart, kneeling on the floor. Soon as he’d gotten settled he looked back up again, meeting the Prince’s eyes.
There was something vaguely admiring about his gaze. Like he was viewing an artwork.
“Oh, yes. I do like the look of that, very much.”
He circled Gaston once, slow, taking in every angle. When he got back to the front again he stood closer so he was right before him.
He set his hands on his own hips, tilted his chin in an encouraging manner.
“Well, go on, then.”
It belatedly dawned on him, the only thing that the Prince could want from this particular position.
“You…want me to-?” He stared at the front of Prince’s breeches, then up at his face.
The Prince nodded, looking like he thought it was silly he even had to ask.
His jaw worked, stomach clenching, feeling nervous and resentful. “I don’t know how.”
The Prince gave a snort. “I know you’ve been to a brothel before. I’ve faith you can figure it out.”
Prickling with annoyance, he frowned and glared. But, well: he wasn’t wrong.
His fingers felt stiff, almost fumbling as he reached for the fastenings at the front of the Prince’s breeches, his belt. He didn’t dare look up again. Only focused on what was directly in front of him.
When the Prince’s cock slid free, hanging there at his level, he kept his face blank.
Leaning in, he tried not to come across timid as he suddenly felt, as he took him into his mouth.
He almost missed hearing the pleased inhale from above him. He was trying to process the bizarre sensation.
His mouth was big along with rest of him, and considering he’d both hearty appetite and rough table manners he was no stranger to taking whole bites in one swallow. The Prince however was as large as he where a man counted, and already he was beginning to understand how some women he’d encountered had seemed to struggle at giving him what he deemed a proper suck.
He never tried imagining this from the other side before.
Tentatively he started the motion, lips drawing against thickening skin. He sucked with a moderate amount of enthusiasm; irritated by the genuine concern he could feel that he wasn’t going to be very good at this.
He felt a hand reach down to him, knuckles curling between locks of hair.
Trying to take the Prince all in, something at the back of his throat itched, threatening to make him gag – he had to stop. He tilted his head to the right, seeking a better angle to compensate.
“Slowly,” the Prince advised; “Slowly. Better for you and for me if you go slow.”
He pulled back a bit more and tried again, slower. He could feel the heat of the Prince’s blood, the way his cock bobbed as his arousal was growing.
“Ah – yes. Yes. That’s good…” The fingers in his hair curled tighter. The Prince had to be watching his face, seeing when he struggled, trying to figure out how to move his lower jaw. “Breathe through your nose. Steady. There we are.”
His voice was gently encouraging.
“Try using your tongue more. But easy on the teeth.”
He moved in and out on the other’s length, having found a pace. He shut his eyes. He licked, sucked – one hand slid around the Prince’s calf. He felt the muscle there quivering. There was a faint tremble moving down his own legs also, as he clung lightly, needing the support.
That hand in his hair moved lower, fist now gripping the back of his head.
The Prince spoke in loud whispers turning into deepest moans, breathing heavily between them.
“Good, good – God yes. Oh yes. That’s good…like that. Just…like that. Very, very good…”
He’d been restraining himself so far but lost control for a moment and gave a shallow thrust forward, once, twice – hearing the muffled cough this produced from Gaston he stopped.
“Sorry, I…sorry. Mmph. Are - are you all right?”
His eyes had popped open in startled response but he closed them again. It felt easier to slow at that point rather than pause outright, and once he’d caught his breath he answered the Prince simply by continuing, trying to return to his rhythm.
“Good, I...I -- do keep going. Yes. Yes. Oh God. Yes.”
His own breathing was heavy, nostrils flaring, and the Prince was shaking. He was so hard inside him, cock curling upward against the roof of his mouth. Suddenly that hand in his hair was dragging at him and he was confused.
But the Prince was struggling to speak: “Pull…pull back a bit – you’re not going to be able to swallow-”
The warning was appreciated; within seconds the other climaxed. More on reflex than planning he slid his mouth off him halfway.
The Prince gave a cry so sharp it sounded painful, breaking and gasping as he tried to regain composure. He let go of his hair, mussing it in the process, and wavered a bit before he sank slowly to his knees.
Meanwhile Gaston had turned away from him. Not remotely prepared for the heat of another’s release in his mouth, the texture, the taste, his reaction was abrupt.
He spat out onto the floor, coughing - coughing hard, as he tried to regain control of his throat.
Though he sounded wearier and undone, the Prince still recovered quicker. He sat back, giving a wild chuckle, set about putting his clothing to rights.
Gaston was still hacking and rasping, lungs heaving as he fought to breathe normally.
“That sound,” the Prince said. He was grinning, leering; voice insufferably smug. How he could be so while also panting heavily, who knew. “God help me – I will never grow tired of that sound.”
He lifted his head then. Gave the Prince a look nothing short of baleful.
“You…you --!”
He hated hearing he was essentially last in a line of conquests; he thought himself expert when it came to fucking but here he was so far out of his depth. Being corrupted in something entirely different than his rough, straightforward ways.
He shook his head stiffly and met the Prince in a glower, eyes blazing fury, mouth contorting; the look he gave typically right before he hit somebody hard as he could.
But he couldn’t do it. Even now – even now.
Watching him struggle, the Prince slid closer so he was kneeling right beside him.
“You poor soul. You really don’t know what to do with yourself, do you?”
He eyed him, a long pause, then he pulled a silk embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket.
He attempted to pull away as the Prince’s hands reached out but again his body failed him, will surrendering.
He could only sit there on his heels as the Prince thoroughly, almost daintily, wiped off his chin and mouth and got the stray residue that’d found its way into his facial hair.
“There we are,” he murmured, gazing from beneath fair lashes. His eyes were even more shockingly bright this close. “Much better.”
Folding the handkerchief neatly he tucked it away again. He cupped his left hand beneath Gaston’s chin, tracing lips with his thumb.
His mouth parted, breath warm against the Prince’s fingertips. Even as he continued to glare.
This seemed to amuse him greatly. “Such a face,” he observed, chuckling. Like he was but a sullen child. “Can you truly be so upset with me?”
Gaston’s voice was low. He sneered, even though the disgust he felt wasn’t with the Prince. “You have no idea what it is that you have done.”
He smirked, eyebrows lifting. “On the contrary. I know exactly what it is that I’ve done.”
The Prince’s hand shifted position. Suddenly it grasped the bottom line of his jaw, around his neck. Tilting head up and back, holding him there, exposing the front of his throat.
He could feel the palm against his Adam’s apple as he swallowed in anxiety – the pressure was nowhere near enough to obstruct his breathing, but it was firm.
He was lost again. He cringed from the Prince’s gaze, wanting to break from those piercing eyes but completely unable to move. All he could do was sit there, face contorting with internal agony even as that grasp sent a shiver along his spine.
It didn’t matter he was bigger, broader, that he could do serious damage before the other could call for help if only he moved to act – his hands hung uselessly at his sides. His body felt weak. Fragile.
And with his other hand the Prince reached down between Gaston’s legs, pressing beneath the base of his cock.
“There it is,” the Prince murmured, rubbing through his clothing, feeling the erection that had already started.
He was trembling, held in place tightly by the grip on his throat, breath coming in stifled whimpers. He was on fire with equal parts shame and longing. He couldn’t understand. What had this man done to him – what kind of spell did he have him under?
Even as it was undoing him – he felt like he never wanted it to stop.
The Prince examined his expression with cool, canny satisfaction. He pulled the hand away from his breeches.
He kept him pinned by the throat. With the other hand he petted him, caressing the side of his face.
“It didn’t take me long to find your measure, now did it. I was right all along. You’ve never permitted anyone to overpower you, but now – well, now.”
He imbued the word with meaning. Speaking into his ear again, an intent merciless litany. Those eyes far too close for comfort.
“All your life – it’s not as if anyone stood a chance. You’ve always been taller and stronger, haven’t you. Who could push a man like you to the ground, show you what it feels like? But now you know.”
He smoothed some errant strand of hair away, the motion precise and gentle. Gaston shut his eyes, but there was nowhere to go.
“All your focus on glory, fighting, conquest. But this was what you really wanted. Your true heart’s desire.”
He was wincing, trying not to shake – he wanted the Prince to stop talking. He needed him to stop talking. Not because what he was saying was wrong. He needed to stop hearing it.
“What is it that kills you the more?” he asked, smoothly. “What is it that makes you most horrified – what fills you with dread, to think if the people in the village knew? That you’ve been with a man; that a man has fucked you, held you down, hit you, put you to your knees, made you beg…”
He couldn’t suppress the sound he made, small and strangled where it was trapped in his throat.
“Or,” the Prince finished, “is it that you enjoyed it?”
He had his face in both hands now, cupping his jaw, petting his cheek. He drew out every syllable as he spoke softly.
“You’ll always know. It doesn’t matter, what you do after this. What you choose to do to the farmgirls in the village. To the girls at the tavern. To the ones at the brothels outside of town. Even to that little friend of yours, the one that any with eyes can see positively adores you – after all, it’s not like you can pretend you’re too good for him now.”
A hand ran down the muscles of his neck to under his shirt, stroking his chest. Even as the words made him writhe, he leaned into that touch.
“You’ll always remember this. It’s a part of you that you can no longer pretend to ignore.”
He was hanging there helplessly on every word, every gesture. He was bound in place as firmly as if by any chain. His skin flushed with heat, something unnamed and unknown deep within his body aching.
“Look at me,” the Prince ordered. He forced his eyes open – the Prince seemed even closer than he’d been before somehow, unblinking, and for a moment he forgot to breathe.
The Prince smiled. “Do you want me to touch you now?”
He felt like he had forgotten how to speak. It felt like it had been so long. His voice came hoarsely. “Yes.”
The hand returned to the front of his breeches, pressing harder this time. Gaston leaned much as he could into the friction. The other hand remained firmly on his neck and jaw, not to contain him but because he needed the support.
“Do you want more?” the Prince asked.
His breath broke against his teeth. “Y-Yes,” he entreated.
He undid the lacing and reached inside, caressing him with the tips of his fingers before pulling his cock free. He kept his hand on the shaft, grip firm, squeezing down.
“Do you like that?”
“Yes.”
Not releasing him, his fingers rubbed some spot near the base just behind his stones. The pace was building. They both were breathing audibly.
“And, do you like that?”
“Yes.”
The Prince ordered him with every tightening of his grip, every press of his fingers. His commands lightning-fast.
“Say it again.”
“Yes.”
“Say it louder.”
“Yes!”
Gaston didn’t hesitate each time, body rocked by every stroke. His own voice increasingly frantic.
“Beg me for it.”
“Please, my lord.”
“Beg me harder.”
“Please, my lord!”
“Again!”
“Please, my lord!”
One last pull, one last press, one last hard grasp – he came with a broken shudder, air exploding from his lungs. The Prince caught him in the curve of one arm, held onto him so he didn’t fall over to the floor.
He didn’t know how long he remained there, jaw slackened and hanging slightly open, eyes half closed, head leaning against the Prince’s chest. Hearing the beating of his heart.
It sounded impossibly steady, compared to the thudding rush he felt within his own chest.
The Prince wiped himself clean, incongruously using his own clothing, before running fingers through Gaston’s hair.
“You know even after the curse broke, I had my concerns,” he confided. Quiet yet assured. “What could the future possibly hold? Was everything going to turn out for the best?”
All Gaston could think was that, for once in his life, he knew the feeling.
“But I know now it will be well. Yes, everything is going to turn out fine…”
Gently pushing him away he lifted Gaston’s face in both his hands.
How could he look so – alight with fondness and yet so cool, commanding? It was a terrible kind of beauty. Hard to look at as the sun.
Harder still to look away again.
“My life, and my marriage, will be happy as they should be.” The Prince met his eyes, voice lowering. “Because I will have my wife – and I will have my whore.”
The sentence struck home in its meaning. He gazed at him helplessly.
“Won’t I?” the Prince prompted.
That sinking feeling was pulling him down again, because he knew – he knew there was only one answer. One answer by now that was all he was capable to give.
So he gave it.
“Yes, my lord,” he said to him, voice small.
The Prince beamed with satisfaction.
“Very good,” he spoke soothingly, pleased. “Good boy.”
And as Gaston lingered there, motionless, eyes closing again in surrender as he took a heavy breath - the Prince leaned to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Good,” he repeated, sighing; “Mon cher Monsieur Gaston…”
|
I felt like death.
Maybe the Corporal did kill me and I was, in actual fact, dead right this moment. The only issue I had with my excellent theory was that it felt so goddamn awful. I always viewed death as a sweet release - was my life considered that sinful that I had bypassed Heaven and landed straight in Hell? Do not pass go, do not collect $200. There was so much worse I had planned, too, so many sins yet to commit.
“You can just pull up here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.” I gestured to the sidewalk, my arm a lead weight. Jesus fuck, I was not as young as I once was. Staying up all night and watching the sunrise, as romantic as it sounds, was far from practical. I was little more than a breathing zombie.
“Alright. Make sure you don’t collapse on your way to the front door.” The Corporal pulled up, watching me carefully as I fumbled with the door handle. “I’ll drive by in five minutes to make sure you haven’t ended up as a piece of trash.”
“I’ll be fine.” If anything, I would end up a blushing piece of trash. The sentiment behind his comment made my heart flutter, in a way that still had me questioning exactly how I felt about this guy. Ah, thoughts for after I’d woken up.
I got the door open, stumbling out and reaching back in for my bag. I smiled at him, one hand resting on the door. I cocked a hip, trying to make myself as coy as possible. “Call me?”
“Fuck off.”
Laughing, I closed the car door and waved goodbye. I was reluctant to leave, as ever, but our night together was over. We watched the sunrise, staying out until the sky began to turn to a washed out blue before returning to his apartment. I’d slept for about three hours more at his place before he woke me up, and I surely felt every second I hadn’t been sleeping.
To my utter annoyance, he looked no worse for wear, whereas I looked exactly like a guy who hadn’t slept all night. How was that even remotely fair?
I hauled my ass up the street, struggling to keep myself from falling with every step. My first destination upon getting home was my own bed for some much needed sleep. I did my best to loiter, testing to see if he really would come to check on me, but I could take being upright no longer. I needed to get home and sleep.
Opening the door as quietly as possible (I knew it was futile), I meandered inside, yawning for the upteenth time just as Mikasa came out of the kitchen with freshly made pancakes.
“You look like crap.” She said by way of greeting.
“I feel it.”
“What were you doing all night? On second thought, don’t answer that.”
“Nothing like
that
. I stayed up to watch the sunrise.”
“How romantic.” She walked by me, into the living room, and flung herself down on the couch to eat. “Don’t forget about tonight.”
“I won’t!” I called back down to her, already halfway up the stairs. What the heck was tonight? I guess I could remember later. For the time being it didn’t matter, all that mattered was getting a pillow under my head. I wanted my bed. I felt like I was trying to keep a boulder balanced on my shoulders, it was that heavy.
Tossing my bag aside, I dropped my clothes to the floor and climbed into bed, naked. My pillow still faintly smelled of his cologne, and I buried my nose into it, falling asleep in seconds. I was out for most of the day, waking every now and then to roll over and drift back off.
My bed felt small. Even with just me in it, it felt small. It was also a little lonely, without his frame nestling into my back and keeping me warm.
“Eren!”
I heard my name being called by a distant, and vaguely angry-sounding woman. It couldn’t be my mom, though she was my first thought. I groaned, rolling over and burying myself deeper under the covers. Whatever the woman wanted, it could wait. I wasn’t done sleeping.
“Eren!” She called incessantly, steadily more annoyed with each cry of my name. “Eren Yeager!”
I listened as suddenly rumbles of thunder echoed outside my window, realising all too late they were in fact steps on the stairs. My door burst open, frightening every ounce of drowsiness out of my body.
“Eren! Don’t ignore me!”
I cracked open my eyes, blinking away the blurriness and bringing Mikasa’s towering visage into view.
“What is it?” I asked, yawning and stretching lazily. “I was still asleep.”
“You promised me.”
“Promised what?”
“Armin’s downstairs. I texted him myself after asking you to do it. I knew you would forget. Get out of bed - you’re coming down this instant.”
I let out a loud, disgruntled groan. What the hell was she even on about?
“I’m coming…”
“Liar. Out. Now.” In two steps she crossed the room, ignoring my shriek and grabbing the covers from me. The warmth I’d built up over the last few hours was abruptly cut off. I hurried to cover myself.
“M-Mikasa…!”
“I’ve seen it before. Get dressed.”
“I will! Just… go!”
“You have five minutes.”
“Okay, okay!”
The humiliation. Even if she had seen it all before, I’d hoped by now it was… well, more fleshed out. She certainly didn’t need to see that much of me, and I didn’t want her seeing it. She cruelly took my cover with her, and closed the door.
I was wide awake now, and cold. Confused, too. Great combination.
Armin was here?
I found some clothes to wear and went downstairs in search of Mikasa and Armin. It was as I entered the living room and saw them both together that I remembered. Mikasa was leaving tomorrow.
It must have shown on my face.
“Nice of you to join us.” Mikasa said curtly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be bothering to grace us with your presence this evening or not.”
“I’m so sorry.” I took a step forward, ready to fall to my knees and grovel. “I’ll pay for whatever food you want tonight. Totally my treat. Even dessert, if you want. Just please don’t hate me, not tonight.”
“He kind of has a point, Mikasa.”
“Thank you Armin-!”
“Hate him tomorrow instead.”
My heart sank, so soon after having been lifted. “I’m really sorry…”
“Forget it.” Mikasa said, tapping the space on the couch next to her. I hung my head and crawled over, taking the offered seat. “I want to have fun. You’re awake now, that’s all that matters.”
“Mikasa said you were asleep most of the day.” Armin looked me over. He was sitting in the chair next to us, nursing a steaming drink in his lap. “Out all night?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I was at my friend’s place.”
“The one who doesn’t have a name.”
Oh, shit. This wasn’t good. “Does it really matter…?”
“Of course it matters, Eren!” Mikasa chided. “So, Hange, then…? Kept you up all night?”
“Really, it wasn’t anything like that. Look, it’s your last night here. Let’s celebrate you.” I diverted the conversation, hooking my phone out my pocket and bringing up the pizza place’s number. “I’m ordering food. My treat, if I remember correctly?”
Food was always a perfect distraction, even if it did tuck into my wallet. Three pizzas, three desserts and three drinks later, the order was placed. All that was left was to wait for the delivery.
“I can’t believe you’re going already.” Armin said, looking solemn as he sank back in his chair.
“I’ve already overstayed. Since Eren is determined to stay, my time here is up.”
“I told you I would manage.” I mumbled.
“Somehow, you are doing just that. Even despite staying out all night… again…”
“Hange seems okay,” Armin said, “He’s a good person, I’m sure of it, so at least you know he’s in safe hands.”
Oh, Armin. If I really was staying with Hange, it would be the most dangerous encounter of my life, I have no doubt. They’d put things in places I never knew existed. I’d come home a changed man - wide-eyed and bowlegged, too.
“You guys worry far too much. I’m old enough to take care of myself - I’ve been doing it awhile, nothing's changed just because…” My voice trailed off, despite my attempts to recover. It still wasn’t easy to say it out loud. I wondered if it would ever be easy, or if I’d just grow numb to it. I’d grown a lot since Mom passed; I’d matured (arguably, but let’s say I had) and developed emotionally in many ways since then, and somehow I absorbed the grief. Did I have time left for the same to happen again?
Mikasa placed her hand on mine, and Armin on my knee. They squeezed together, anchoring me into the present moment. I looked up, smiling thinly at them both, grateful for their presence despite their teasing.
“We should go somewhere after we’ve eaten.” I suggested. “Get out the house for a while.”
“That’s a good idea. Where should we go?” Armin said. He thought for a few seconds, and then answered his own question. “How about the park?”
“Is it still there?” Mikasa asked.
“I haven’t heard of it being taken down.” I said.
The park in question was a short walk from here. Though I had no reason to go there for several years, it was a favorite haunt of ours as little kids. A couple of swings and a slide, nothing too fancy, but enough to keep the three of us occupied. The slide acted as a fort well enough, defended by two of us while the other one was chosen to be the invading force. We took it in turns to play each role to keep things fair.
The idea of going there was filled with nostalgia, memories of our past selves flooding back, reminding me how far each of us had come. Mikasa, living upstate and working on her studies. Armin, no longer the little kid bullied by the bigger ones, in a serious relationship with Jean.
And then there was myself.
Shaking off the gloom about my own shortcomings, I took their hands in mine and declared, “We’re going to the park!”
“Dinner first.” Mikasa reminded us. “Then we can play.”
“It should be here soon…” I checked the time on my phone. I placed the order fifteen minutes ago.
“In the meantime, you can tell me more about Hange. How long have you two been dating?” Mikasa said.
I groaned. “There’s nothing to tell you. What is with this fascination?”
“You’re my brother. I need to know everything about this person who thinks they’re worthy of you.”
“Can’t you be more surprised that I’m dating a guy?” I shot back. Mikasa shrugged her shoulders, her expression unchanging. “...Is it really that little of a surprise?”
“It doesn’t matter what gender they are.” Mikasa stated. “Whatever they are is irrelevant. All that matters is that they are good enough for you.”
I didn’t know if I should be offended that my apparent sexuality wasn’t a shock to her, or endeared that she cared so much.
“He really doesn’t like talking about it much but I really don’t think you have to worry about Hange being good for him. Eren even went to buy a bottle of his cologne.” Armin interjected.
“Armin! Why are you telling her that?”
His smile was unforgivable. He was enjoying this, a little too much for my comfort.
“Is that so? If it’s that serious, then I hope you’re using protection. You are, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to wake up and this will all be a nightmare. I am definitely not having this conversation with my sister. No way.”
“Safe sex is important, Eren. It’s not just for avoiding unwanted pregnancy. Anal sex is just as dangerous if you aren’t taking the right precautions…”
“We’re about to have dinner! Have mercy!” I yelled, covering my ears to block it out. Hearing those words from Mikasa’s mouth was disturbing, and not a memory of our last night together that I wanted emblazoned on my mind.
“Armin, you need to make sure Eren is safe, whether he is bottoming or topping.”
“Oh my god… please… stop…” I was going to vomit. There was not enough bleach in the world to cleanse my mind of this.
Armin laughed. “I think he’s got the message.”
The doorbell rang, and I swear I have never moved so fast to answer it. “It’s here!” I cried, launching myself from the couch and, equally, launching myself clear of the awful conversation.
I had never been happier to see a scrawny, bored looking man in his early twenties holding out pizza boxes on my doorstep - and I was a huge fan of pizza delivered to my door. I don’t think he had ever seen anyone happier than I was right then.
I carried the food triumphantly into the living room like an ancient hunter presenting his catch.
“Here we go, guys.” I put the drinks on the coffee table, sitting back down with my own box. My stomach gave a hungry rumble as the greasy smell wafted up my nose. It was nice to know the awful conversation had done little to kill my appetite after all.
With bellies full of pizza and ice cream, under Armin’s suggestion, the three of us headed to a park near the house. It was a short walk to relive childhood memories, and a fitting way to spend our final evening together. At this hour it was deserted, making it easy for us to indulge our inner children - me more than the other two.
“Everything seems so much smaller.” I said, wedging myself at the top of the metal slide.
To think I used to do laps of this, sliding down with ease and landing on my ass at the end, only to get up and do it all again in the name of entertainment. It would be a much smaller journey now, my legs almost to the end as it was, if only I could actually move. My thighs were too thick. How things have changed.
Armin laughed, climbing up to give me a sound push down. My descent was pathetic.
“Of course it seems smaller. You’re bigger.” Mikasa stood opposite me, clutching at the scarf I gave to her all those years ago. “To a degree, I suppose.”
“H-hey! I did grow!” I stood up, dusting my ass off with indignation.
“I’m going on the swings.” Mikasa, ignoring my protesting, sat herself down on one of the swings, pushing off with her feet and gaining momentum quickly.
“They were always your favorite.” I said, climbing atop the slide to help Armin down it.
“If you go high enough, it’s like you’re flying. For a few seconds at least.” Mikasa replied.
“It’s really not the same like this.” Armin said. “It’s over too fast.”
“Everything is.” I jumped down, and helped him back to his feet.
“That’s a little deep.” Armin frowned, but it was gone in seconds. “Race you to the swings!”
“Wai- hey, that’s not fair! You had a head start!”
Armin claimed the remaining adult swing, laughing merrily as I stalked over to the children’s ones. Eyeing them up, the caged seat for toddlers, I figured I would be able to climb in easily enough.
“You aren’t serious…?” Mikasa said, watching me carefully.
“It’ll be fine.”
It wasn’t fine.
A cage is exactly what it was, and the moment my ass hit the seat I was a prisoner.
My legs stuck out, too long to even lift off the ground, and I sat there rocking slowly back and forth as the realization sunk in. I was stuck. While the other two enjoyed themselves, their attention turned away from me (thankfully), I sat uselessly wondering how the fuck I was going to get out of this. If they had to phone the emergency services to cut me out…
“Are you okay over there?” Mikasa asked.
“I-I’m fine. Just contemplating some things.”
“He’s stuck, isn’t he?” She said to Armin.
“I think so. Maybe we should help.”
“It’s a good lesson for him to learn.”
“I
can
hear you guys. I also said I was fine.”
“Then you won’t want our help getting you out of there.” Mikasa was quickly dropping down my Christmas card list.
I wasn’t going to give up. “Exactly!”
Putting my legs firmly on the ground I stood awkwardly, pushing up with my legs and down with my hands in an attempt to dislodge the cage around my ass. The angle was impossible to get right, the bars digging into my lower back and thighs.
“Some things really stay the same,” Mikasa sighed as she appeared in front of me, “You’re as stubborn as ever.”
“Just… get me out of here.” I muttered, defeated.
“I’ll help, too.” Armin offered, hooking his hands under my arms. “I’ll lift, Mikasa push the seat, and Eren use your legs.”
The team effort paid off, and with a great heave, I felt myself freed from the goddamn swing.
Pulling my pants (dislodged in the effort) back into place, I silently vowed never to play on children’s swings again. That was a lesson sourly learned.
As I stood correcting my clothes, I heard something I hadn’t heard in years. Looking up, I saw Mikasa in a moment of joy, her happiness leaping from her lips. She was laughing, hiding her mouth behind the scarf as if to catch the sound from escaping.
I didn’t mind that it was at my expense; it didn’t matter
what
made her laugh, only that she was laughing.
Armin seemed taken aback by it, too, his mouth open in amazement the same as mine. It made us smile.
“W-What is it?” She said, seeing us both staring silently at her.
Saying nothing, I drew them both into my arms, hugging them with all my strength. I wished the hands of time would stop, just for us, to make this moment last longer. I didn’t know when I’d be together with them like this next, how old we would be or even
who
we would be.
I wanted to stay as we were. I clung to them both, and felt their grasp tighten in return. We were all thinking the same thing. I could feel it in the gentle tremor of Armin’s shoulders, the soft sigh from Mikasa.
She left the following morning, amidst a rain of tearful goodbyes from me and Armin. When the time came for our last hug, I squeezed her tightly, too tightly, and reluctantly let her go. The sound of the car door slamming shut echoed in my mind, and her softly spoken words in my ear would never leave me.
“
I love you, brother
.”
I tried to tell her I loved her, too, but the words came out as a series of choked sobs. I’m sure she got the message, reading it clearly from my snot-streaked face. As she drove off, I took Armin into my arms and we stood on the porch, shamelessly indulging our feelings.
I didn’t like crying.
I didn’t like others seeing me cry, either. Yet I couldn’t help myself in that moment, and I didn’t want to hold it back, either. She was my beloved sister, and waving goodbye to her hurt more then than it did a few years before. I could only stand there and pray with all my might that wasn’t to be the last time I saw her.
The passing of my father taught me how fragile our existences were.
I held Armin firmly, as if he too would slip through my fingers like sand.
|
He was being crushed to the bed and fingers were carding gently through his hair as he slowly roused from his pleasant haze. Din took stock of himself, his aching body, the sweet, sharp pain at his neck, the dull throb of his abused ass. Smiling, he stretched out as best he could, causing the weight at his back to murmur and snuggle in closer.
“Paz,” Din groaned, “You’re crushing me here.”
There was a soft chuckle at his ear and lips pressed against the back of his neck, raising goosebumps down his arms. “You like it.”
“Mmm,” Din flexed his fingers as Paz lifted himself a little. Only then did his soft cock slip free of Din’s ass, and make Din aware of its presence. He shuddered, moaning quietly at the feeling of Paz’s cum dripping free following the departure.
“How you feeling cyare? Reckon you can make it to the tub?” Paz murmured. Din took his time to answer the question, testing his wrists and elbows, then slowly rolling onto his back, looking up at his husband who was on hands and knees above him.
“Dunno if my legs will work right yet,” he admitted after testing them and finding them too heavy to lift.
Paz chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to Din’s forehead. “Need me to carry you?”
Din responded by lifting his arms carefully. Paz chuckled, ducking down so Din could cling around his neck as Paz wrapped Din’s legs around his waist and then stood up, cradling his husband to his chest.
The larger Mandalorian cupped Din’s ass and hummed to himself, feeling how slick everything was between the generous amount of lube he’d used and his own cum. “Heh, what a mess. You just don’t want to walk and get it all down your legs.”
“Shameless,” Din muttered against his neck.
“It’s why you love me.”
Din snorted, pressing his face into Paz’s shoulder. Paz patted between his shoulders, moving into the washroom and kneeling slowly, adjusted Din until he was curled up against the bigger man’s chest. Paz played with a lock of hair before reaching to turn on the water, making sure it was running a good temperature before he’d put Din in it.
“Gotta say, there are advantages to Nevarro, especially now that Karga wants to be our best friend.”
“Mmm…”
“No falling asleep in the water, Din,” he rumbled as he eased his husband into the filling tub.
“But it feels good.”
Paz chuckled, kneeling beside the tub. “I’m glad.”
Din shifted a bit, the tub itself was cold, compared to the warm water, but it was pleasant on his flogged back and ass. He settled himself a little more into the water, mindful not to soak his nice new collar. He wasn’t sure if it was treated to be waterproof like the one that bore Paz’s signet. It felt good around his throat, and he didn’t want to let it come off just yet.
Of course, the larger man noticed. “It’s okay, it can get wet.”
The beroya nodded, relieved.
“Relax Din, let me take care of you.”
“Thank you.”
A light kiss was his response. Paz started by picking up the wash-cloth, wetting it under the tap, and helping Din sit upright to wipe the top of Din’s back down. He made sure to be gentle, taking note of whenever Din flinched, as those areas would need a little bacta once they were done with the bath. It was soothing for both of them after their scene; Din who got to pampered and utterly taken care of, while Paz got an opportunity to see that he had not injured his riduur; that the trust between them was not broken. Also, to check for freshly ‘healed’ injuries that his beloved, idiot husband would have cauterized closed instead of treating properly.
He traced a scar he knew and leaned over to kiss it, earning a small huff of air through his husband’s lips. Glancing up he saw sleepy contentment written all over Din’s face, so he continued what he was doing, letting Din settle back in the tub and moving to check his neck around the collar, and down his arms. His hand made its way down Din’s stomach, causing the other to huff. It was ticklish, but Paz loved the feeling of the well-trained muscles quivering under his hand.
“Shebs’palon,” Din muttered. Paz chuckled at the insult, rubbing Din’s stomach and then reaching for his thighs while kissing Din on the lips. Din accepted the kiss, then stuck the tip of his tongue out.
“You need to brush your teeth… or a mint.”
Paz snorted at that. “Is that how you thank me for eating you out?”
“I’ll thank you better after you’ve brushed your teeth.”
Paz shook his head with a laugh. His husband was definitely alright if he was already being sassy. In retaliation, he slid his fingers down under Din’s thighs to his ass, carefully inspecting the abused flesh there. “Hm, Ungrateful.”
The bounty hunter hissed slightly, as gentle fingers pressed into bruises. “You did a good job riduur, ” Din said with a little gasp, squirming his hips. Paz petted his hair with his other hand, still inspecting Din for injury.
Finally, that finger found his still-stretched hole, and Din couldn’t help the whimper that escaped him.
“It’s okay mesh’la , just gotta check you here too.” Paz soothed him with a kiss, taking the time to inspect the loose ring of muscle. Din squirmed, oversensitive to it, but Paz’s touch was methodical and careful, swiping away cum and lube. Paz chuckled. “Gonna need to give you a rinse after this, hmm?” Everything felt fine, nothing damaged and so, he moved to Din’s front again.
While Paz was checking on Din’s knees for damage, Din leaned in and tried to steal a kiss. Paz snorted, turning his head away. “Thought you wanted me to wash my mouth.”
Din snorted, “Want a kiss.”
Rolling his eyes, Paz moved his face back, letting Din take what he wanted. It was a chaste thing; a gentle touch of lips to Paz’s chin and then dragging up to his lower lip, Din’s eyes lidded and dreamy. Paz lightly stroked his cheek, leaning forwards to bump their foreheads together.
They leaned against each other for a moment, just enjoying the contact. Then Paz sighed softly, giving Dins lower legs a perfunctory check. “Can you move these yet?”
“Mmm,” Din lifted his left foot slowly, stretching the knee out. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Din shifted slightly as Paz drained the water and rinsed him down with fresh water, including the top of his head. He sputtered a bit, but Paz insisted on washing his hair, and it did feel nice to have those big fingers massaging his scalp. He relaxed into it, letting his husband take care of him. Once Paz had rinsed the shampoo out of his hair, Din slowly pushed himself up, and Paz stepped into the tub to stand behind him, giving Din something to lean on as he turned on the shower. Din made a contented noise, leaning on Paz and letting his husband play with his hair some more.
It took him a while to muster up brainpower after their marathon sex, but he finally managed a question. “So, where are the little ones?”
Paz chuckled. “The Terrors are with Jiiv, and Kuiil’s sleeping over with his cousins. Savii knows we’ll come for him in the morning.”
“Mmm, good.”
Another snicker out of the big man. “You should have seen her expression. ‘Uncle, he’s due back at midday and you want me to keep Kuiil all night!? Euuugh!” he pitched his voice girlishly high to mimic his niece, and Din hid his face against Paz’s shoulder and laughed at the impression.
Paz chuckled along with Din. It had been pretty amusing, though he didn’t really blame his niece for not wanting to hear about his sex life. He definitely wouldn’t want to hear about hers. Was she even seeing someone? Wait, that’d be hearing about it. He shook away those thoughts, returning focus to his wobbly husband.
Turning Din around so he could hold his riduur from the back, Paz nestled his soft cock between his husband’s ass cheeks. Din laughed softly at the sensation, curling his hands around the arms supporting him. For a moment, they just held each other, enjoying the other’s presence, the water falling around them soothingly. Definite advantage to being back on Nevarro: near-endless hot water.
Eventually though, Paz began to feel guilty, and turned the water off. Reaching out, he grasped the large towel and began to wrap Din in it. Din made a noise akin to a lazy dog, and Paz laughed at him, kissing Din’s neck as the other squirmed ticklishly. “If I let you get settled at the table, will you be alright if I give myself a quick clean up?”
“You gonna brush your teeth?”
“Am I going to-” Paz made an outraged noise, trying not to laugh. “You don’t deserve to be eaten out if you’re going to be like this.”
Din snickered.
“Go get comfortable at the table. I’ll quickly clean up in here and yes, I’ll brush my fucking teeth. Fucking brat.”
A rather unmasculine giggle escaped Din, and he blushed. Paz shook his head at him, heading in to towel himself off and yes, brush his teeth. When he came back, he saw his husband wrapped up in the towel, face-first on the table, looking suspiciously like he was dozing. Paz chuckled, walking over and putting a hand on Din’s shoulder. There was a startle, but less than normal, Din too relaxed to be truly spooked.
“Mmmm, let’s get some food into you cyare, and then we can go back to bed. Sound good?”
Din nooded sleepily, a lazy smile on his face. Paz clasped his face and gave him a very thorough kiss, then pulled back, smirking at the surprised expression as Din licked his lip.
“Just needed to prove I brushed my teeth, since it matters so much to you,” he informed the bounty hunter. Din blinked at him, nodding slowly. Chuckling, Paz put some fruit down in front of him and went to swap the bedsheets to something that hadn’t been submitted to rigorous sex.
He came back to find Din half dozing on the table, supported by a propped up arm. Paz laughed softly, rubbing between Din’s shoulders. About half the fruit had been eaten, so he considered that good enough. He caressed the collar still encircling Din’s throat, smiling at the sight. “I did you good, hmm?”
“Mmmm.”
“Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”
Din nodded sleepily, allowing himself to be directed back to the bed by his husband. Sighing happily into the fresh sheets, Din snuggled into them.
“One last thing to do,” Paz murmured, grasping the bacta spray. Din groaned in protest, wanting to sleep. Paz chuckled. “You have enough scars without getting permanent signs of our lovemaking, Din Djarin.”
“Mmm…”
Ignoring the protests, Paz took to lightly spraying the parts of Din’s body he had noticed needed the attention. He paid close attention to the many welts he’d left behind with the flogger, kissing the love-bites he’d left on Din’s neck now and then. Din sighed and squirmed each time, the bacta spray itching as it did its job. Paz settled down on the bed beside him. Din pulled himself close, resting his head on Paz’s elbow.
Paz hummed, chuckling as Din’s fingers found his plaited hair and started pulling out the knots the bounty hunter had made months prior. Paz closed his eyes, submitting to Din’s touch as the bounty hunter worked his hair loose. In a day or two, Din would insist on washing out Paz’s tresses, and cutting them to the right length before plaiting them again. It was relaxing and incredibly domestic for Paz to sit on the floor, leaned on his husband’s knees as Din meticulously wove his hair back into shape. A little piece of his husband to keep with him while they were apart.
Din’s piece of him was the locking collar that the beroya guarded jealously. Paz loved to see it on his husband’s throat, and whenever Din idly mentioned that someone had complimented the ‘necklace,’ it warmed him. They would lock it back in place in the morning though. For now, Din was still clearly more attached to the padded leather around his throat.
“Go to sleep cyare , you can do my hair in the morning,” Paz murmured, kissing Din’s pulsepoint above the collar. Din grumbled, but nestled in close. He sighed against Paz’s chest.
“Don’t want to sleep yet.”
“Hmm, well. How did your mission go, then? Anything exciting?”
“Shot the last surviving member of a slaver gang.”
“Always good.”
“Shot him in the leg first. He deserved it.”
“Deserved worse in my opinion.” Paz smiled, “Imagine, taking out of the worse kind of trash in the universe and getting paid for it? Brilliant.”
Din chuckled softly. “Nice when it works that way,” He pressed in close to Paz. “H’bout here? Anything new?”
“Mmm, well, young Tomad is taking notice of anyone who’ll give him the time of day, he’s been impressing a couple of the young local Auretiise with his heroic tales. Poor Satrina is trying to get him to settle down and take interest in a proper Mando’ad instead of an outsider, but Korm’rk is no help at all.”
Din snickered to Paz’s chest, clearly only half listening. Paz continued to regale Din with gossip until his husband had passed out.
Giving him a final kiss on the forehead, Paz adjusted himself so he was wrapped around Din, and settled into sleep for himself. Tomorrow they’d go check on the kids, retrieve them from their sitters. Paz quietly thanked the universe at large that he still had a large clan, and now a husband to share it with. Clan Djarin was small, but it wasn’t on it’s own now; it was part of Clan Vizla, and much bigger for it.
He waited for Din’s breathing to even out, signifying that he’d fallen into a restful slumber, and then closed his eyes, sighing contently.
|
Fairy shrimp exist all around the world. In the lower part of New England, Vernal Fairy Shrimp can be found in vernal pools shortly after the spring thaw. These tiny crustaceans have an amazing adaptation uniquely suited to the conditions of a vernal pool. A vernal pool may only last a couple weeks after the snow melt and the rains. It might dry up by summer, it might dry up by the end of summer. In response, fairy shrimp have evolved to lay eggs that are resistant to desiccation. The adults breed, lay eggs, and die off. The eggs wait for another season. When the right conditions come along, they hatch - but not all of them. Some eggs wait longer. In this way, if ever a vernal pool should dry up before the life cycle of the adult completes, eggs are still waiting, there in the soil, for the rains to come again.
In some ways, they are like thoughts and feelings: the way some of them lie in wait, yanked back to life when the conditions are right.
Greg stretched out in his bed, the light in the room slowly increasing as he turned his head into the pillow and smiled. He could smell Mycroft on the pillow and on the sheets. He should wash them, but honestly, he wanted the scent again when he went to bed that night.
Scratch made himself known from the bottom of the stairs, his cries like the call of a small child. Greg groaned and made himself get up, shaking his head to rid himself of the drowsiness. His ass didn’t hurt or ache, but it definitely felt different after the fucking he’d received the day before.
Wonder if he’s vers. He yawned. He did say any way. Scratch yowled. “I’m coming, you ridiculous cat.” He grabbed his robe and headed down the stairs.
After feeding Scratch, he headed for the shower - and that was an idea. With a joyful urgency in his steps, he ran up the stairs and dug into the back of his closet. There, in a plastic ziploc bag, was one of his favorite toys: a fleshlight with a wall mount.
He brought it and the bottle of lube into the bathroom. After running the water and getting the room good and steamy, he warmed the fleshlight up by holding it in the stream of water and allowing it to fill. Once enough time had passed, he added lube, and stuck it to the tile wall.
Shower wanks were the best kind, especially when he could put his arms up on the wall, fill the fleshlight with his dick, and pretend he was pounding another man under the stream of heated water. And today, that imaginary man was none other than Mycroft, warm, slick skin beneath Greg's, tight ass around his cock. Greg's orgasm was explosive.
He washed it carefully, and put it away in his closet, though he didn't push it far to the back. He intended on revisiting that fantasy again.
“It was nice. Really nice.” Greg adjusted the phone at his ear as he took his leftovers from the microwave. Scratch watched him from the doorway with inquisitive eyes.
“Uh-huh. What was nice?” Jo asked, her tone deep and suggestive.
“Well, we are very compatible in bed…”
She squealed so loud that Greg flinched. “Oh-em-gee! Well, that’s good, because I didn’t want to say anything, but man, did you need to get laid.”
Greg chortled, handling the hot plate of beans, rice, and broccoli with his fingertips. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. So, you slept together. And it was good.”
“Very good.”
“I don’t need explicit deets. Anything else?”
“Well, we spent the day together.”
“In bed?”
“Hey, we got out and about, I’ll have you know. A visit to the owl nest, and then dinner.”
“Classy. Bed first, dinner second. Cute, fluffy owls in-between. Classic first date.”
“Among some gays I know, it’s practically a vow to commit,” Greg said.
Jo snorted with laughter.
“Unfortunately, the owlets didn’t make an appearance. So, I have a reason to see him again.”
“That’s key. So, now what? You’re back in the saddle. Get on grindr? Try match.com?”
“Uh, I don’t know. We didn’t really talk…”
“About what? This wasn’t supposed to be serious, was it?”
“Well, I don’t know what the expectation is here.”
“I thought he’s going back to England at the end of the summer?”
“Yeah. I just mean...maybe we’re doing the summer fling...I don’t know how he’d feel about me seeing other people.”
“Oh, come on, Greg. He can’t stop you from seeing other people if the long term intention here is to have a short-term fling.”
“Yeah,” he said as he set his plate on the table. “You’re right. I just haven't really thought about it. I guess I’ve...sort of given up on finding a lifetime partner. I think I’d rather just keep it simple, and see Mycroft for the summer. When he leaves, I’ll check out the dating apps.”
“And just wait for someone else to drop into your lap?”
Greg groaned as he sank into the kitchen chair. “Listen, you know I’ve begun thinking there isn’t anyone out there for me. I’m getting old, and I don’t want the drama of dating. I like this thing with Mycroft, and I think it’ll be good for me in the end. And if someone else comes along, after” - his stomach clenched at the thought of after - “then great. If not, I’ll learn to live with myself.”
Jo was silent for a moment.
“Jo?”
She sighed. “Isn’t this a little...fast? And, with a guy that’s going to leave? It’s just…”
“Just what?” Greg tapped his fingers against the table surface with an impatient impulse.
“You know what? Nothing.”
Greg almost exhaled with relief. He didn’t want to examine this too closely, and while he could recognize that the feeling wasn’t ideal, he still wasn’t ready to put it under a microscope.
“Dad, that’s like the third time you’ve looked at your phone and started smiling like that. It’s creepy.”
“Hm?” Greg glanced up at his daughter. They were watching Parks & Rec, but really, Peregrine was playing a game on her phone and Greg was texting with Mycroft.
Her brown eyes, so like his, watched him with a look of suspicion. “Are you dating someone?”
Greg sucked his lips between his teeth. He hadn’t expected Peri to catch on this quick. And he hadn’t talked it over with Jo. “Just talking with a friend.”
He’d been texting with Mycroft all week. When a visitor arrived with a box of baby bunnies she’d taken from her herb garden, he’d spent an hour trying to convince her to put them back - what she’d effectively done was kidnapped them. The experience led him to embark on a tirade to Mycroft about how the public not only didn’t know what they were doing when it came to wildlife, but they also didn’t like to listen to an expert when faced with one. In the end, he managed to convince her to put them back. Molly told him that she’d had three phone calls already with people talking about "abandoned" fawns and baby bunnies - called kits - and she was thinking of just leaving “Put the baby back” on a voicemail message for future callers.
They’d also shared photos of food they were eating - silly, artistic photos with dumb filters and hokey set-ups. Greg reheated soup for his lunch and added a sprig of basil on top “to make it fancy” and set it outside among the gold blossoms of Zizea aurea “for atmosphere.” Mycroft returned it with a photo of a granola bar sitting in a flower pot on a windowsill. The plant was dead.
Mycroft turned out to be knowledgeable on a number of subjects - world politics, environmental issues, theoretical physics, and American geography all seemed under his purview. Greg was beginning to suspect the man was an actual genius - and that appealed to him more than he thought. He mentioned one of his favorite podcasts was Neil DeGrasse Tyson’s StarTalk, and Mycroft was off discussing something called “Disc Accretion” and Greg didn't understand anything he said, but he was hot for it anyway.
He should have known, though, since he worked with Sherlock, who as awkward and abrasive as he could be, was a genius who could deduce everything about your morning from the state of your shoelaces, it seemed. Yet, he’d found Sherlock off-putting before he realized Sherlock’s genius, so it wasn’t the same. Mycroft, though reserved, could actually socialize, and then his genius crept up on you. It was matter of fact, instead of peacocking.
“Dad?”
Greg snapped his attention to Peri, who laughed. “Oh my god, you are seeing someone!”
“I am not.” He crossed one leg over the other and sent a message to Jo.
Sent
Peri’s asked if i’m seeing anyone. What do?
Received
She’s old enough to know that her dad goes on dates.
Sent
But...how much do I tell her?
Received
Well, not about the sex obvs
Sent
OMG JO DONT EVEN JOKE
Received
X-DDDDDDD
Sent
I just mean...if it’s a casual thing…
Received
Listen, just tell her you have a friend, and you go on dates,
you don’t have to mention that he’s leaving for England eventually
When he does, just say it didn’t work out
“Dad? You’re ridiculous.” She flopped on the pillows on her end of the sofa. “I thought you’re always trying to talk, or whatever.”
“Just give me a sec, honey.”
Sent
Ok. I’m telling her that I may have started seeing someone.
Received
It’ll be fine.
“Ok, now we can talk.”
“I’m all ears,” Peri said in a monotone, her eyes glued to the television.
“Hey, give me a break. I’m trying here.”
She turned her face to his. “Okay.”
“I have started seeing someone. It’s still very new, and we haven’t exactly figured everything out. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“What’s to figure out?”
“Well, we’ve only been on one date. We haven’t...committed to each other, or anything.”
“But you text a lot.”
Greg couldn’t stop a smile from lighting up his face. “Yeah. It’s...new and exciting. I really like texting with him.”
“Am I going to meet him?”
Greg’s stomach flipped. “Uh, would you want to?”
“Yeah. I gotta make sure he’s good enough for my dad.” Her mouth quirked up in the corners.
Greg laughed, his stomach easing from its somersaults. “I get that. Um, but let’s hold off. Nothing’s guaranteed just yet.”
She pouted. “Okay, fine. But as soon as you make it official? Though, really, you should be checking with me before you make it official.”
Greg snuggled further into the cushions as he huffed a laugh. “You got it. He’ll need the Peregrine Lestrade stamp of approval before we make it official.”
She smiled at him and said in a prim voice, “I’m so glad you see things my way.”
“Okay, now, your turn. Who’s this Markus D’amico?”
Peri’s eyes rolled to the back of her head. “Dad.”
“What? I thought we were talking here? I have to tell you all my secrets but you don’t tell me yours? What kind of arrangement is this?”
“Markus D’amico isn’t anyone but some guy with a pool. It’s the pool that matters.”
Greg grinned. “Well, if that’s all, then I approve.”
Peregrine hit him with a couch cushion. He grabbed his pillow and retaliated. It erupted into a flurry of pillow fighting, screeching, mock threats, and breathless laughter.
“You got plans this weekend?” Molly asked as she adjusted her ponytail. They were sitting together in the lunchroom of the nature center. Potted plants lined the windows. The table they ate at was an old, scuffed and scratched conference table littered with pen and pencil marks.
“Mm, yeah.” He was trying to make out a word almost completely rubbed out on the wooden surface. Sammy walked in just as he spoke. “Mycroft and I are going to do some birding on Sunday morning, and then head to Splash for brunch.”
“Ooo, Splash? Fancy.” Molly was picking at a plate of veggies and tofu.
“You have the nerdiest dates, man,” Sammy said as he opened the fridge.
“Hey, brunch isn’t nerdy.”
Sammy snickered. “Birding?”
“It’s something we both enjoy. It doesn’t have to be movies, clubs and sneaking around having public sex in parks.” Greg was never going to let Sammy down for the time he told him that he and Andy once did it in a park.
Sammy grinned. “No one saw us. And the thrill of getting caught? Sublime.”
Greg’s stomach turned as he chewed on Sammy’s statement. An old anger burbled up in him like something out of a garbage disposal. Before he could stop himself, the question was out of his mouth. “Is that why you go for other people’s men?”
Molly’s jaw dropped, and Sammy’s usually dark walnut skin might have paled a shade or two.
Shame washed through him. “Oh Jesus. I’m sorry. Sammy, it just hit a nerve, and I-”
“Yeah. Okay. Whatever.” He slammed the fridge door shut and left the room.
“Oh my god,” Molly said. “Greg?”
Greg put his head in his hands, his whole body thrumming with the synapse blasting sensation of mortification. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I’m fine with him, and then it’s like he says one thing, and I’m thrown right back there when it all went to shit.”
“It was two years ago.” A note of anger laced her voice.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, and I’ve had to work with him as a reminder for two years now. It...Jesus, I need to apologize to him.” Greg dropped his head over crossed arms. “It kind of drives me nuts that he’s having an affair with a married man.”
“He says Andy is dealing with a lot...just, you know… He’s not out and he needs to leave his wife and they have small kids- “
“I know all that, but it’s his wife I feel sorry for. Like, bad enough when she finds out her husband is gay, but when she discovers he’s been cheating on her?”
“Maybe he’s hoping she will. That way he doesn’t have to actually sit down and have the conversation. Maybe he’s not a very brave guy.”
“In which case, what the fuck does Sammy see in him?”
“Well, he told me he’s in love.”
Greg lifted his head and looked at her. He knew Molly and Sammy were friendly - working in close quarters for so long necessitated some familiarity and camaraderie, but for Sammy to admit something so emotional? They were closer than Greg thought.
“Don’t give me that look. What he did with Jack was wrong, but I’m not going to punish him for it forever.” Her lips pulled into a grimace.
Greg held her stare a moment longer, and then nodded, slowly. “Yeah. You’re right. I’ll do better.”
Molly gave him a worried look. “I hope so. I’m not sure Sammy will last much longer here if he thinks you two will never get along again. I think he really used to look up to you, and still does. He just...made a mistake, and even you said Jack manipulated him.”
“Yeah,” he said in a rush of breath. “I’ll do better. I wouldn't want him to leave.”
“He’s probably hit the trails, you know,” she said. “Probably went over by the overlook on the river. He told me that’s his favorite place to go and think.”
Greg pursed his lips, and pushed himself up from his seat. “Okay.”
Greg rounded the swerve of the trail and walked uphill, picking his way over tree roots. The canopy opened to a rocky overhang. Sammy sat on one of the boulders, his face looking out over the river below. The surface shone in the bright sun like snow in the wintertime; a beautiful and placid sight.
Sammy, on the other hand, looked angry.
“Sammy?”
Sammy shoved away from the boulder and stalked toward Greg. “What gives you the right, man? Why do you have to be such a dick?”
Greg held up both hands. “I’m sorry, okay? I came to tell you that I’m sorry.”
“You can’t keep doing this. You pretend like things between us are fine - I thought they were fine! And then you turn on me and it isn’t fair!” Sammy threw his hands up and whirled around from Greg to face the view. “It fucks me up.”
“I’m sorry.” Greg tried to summon together something that would help Sammy understand. “It’s like...sometimes I’m fine, and then something hits me the wrong way -”
Sammy spun about and growled, “It happened almost two years ago. Two years. When are you going to grow up and get over it?” His teeth were bared. “Or at the very least, stop punishing me for it. I’m not Jack.”
The air left Greg’s lungs. He stood, his mouth agape and his arms hanging at his sides.
“Don’t follow me.” Sammy directed at him and pushed past him, heading back down the path and back toward the Preserve building.
Greg watched him go.
Oh fuck. I have been treating him like he’s Jack.
He drew in air, sucked it in deep, and blew it out through his lips.
The only person within reach that he could punish for the whole five years, for the downward spiral he experienced and his subsequent grief over the disaster of a relationship, had been Sammy. Who spent one night with Jack.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he breathed.
You can’t go on punishing him forever.
They used to be friends.
But that was it, wasn’t it? Even if he and Jack had really been broken up like Jack had told Sammy, Sammy moved in pretty fast on tapping that ass. Greg expected more of him. Yeah, maybe it was a bit petty and needy, but he’d needed someone on his side then. Jo and Molly were there for him, but Sammy was like him - gay and enmeshed in the local community. And instead, Sammy had believed the venom from Jack’s mouth and turned his back on Greg.
Just like the rest of them.
Not long after the break up, Sammy had apologized. Had told him he realized Jack was a liar, that Greg had been wronged, that their friends and acquaintances were being manipulated by Jack. Sammy tried to be his ally.
And Greg kept shoving it back in his face.
“Goddamnit, I’m an ass.” He shuffled over to the boulder where Sammy had sat and lowered himself down onto the hard surface. The ledge looked over the trees below, standing on either side of the river like sentries in the afternoon sun. His eyes caught the shape of a bald eagle taking off from a tall pine and soaring through the sky. He averted his eyes and looked again to the river.
“'And here is the serpent again, dragging himself out from his nest of darkness, his cave under the black rocks...his winter-death.'” The eagle cried out and dragged Greg from his thoughts. Their call reminded Greg of gulls along the shore.
Summer was coming. Fourth of July weekend approached. Last year, he took the entire week of the fourth of July off and spent it in a drunken haze on Cape Cod, partying with Damien. They hit every gay club, bar, drag show, and the hidden nude beach. Mornings were spent laying out on sand, recovering, letting the sun bathe all their parts (after a good lather of sunscreen), and then a lunch of sandwiches and beer. Nighttime they did all the partying again. They both got and gave handjobs in bathrooms and flirted with one another - but that was a line they hadn’t crossed since their twenties.
Last summer, Greg had been a complete mess and ignored Sammy any time he saw him. He spoke to him only when he had to for professional reasons.
Sammy was young. Twelve years younger than Greg. Jack was closer to Sammy in age, and the fucker knew how to capitalize on the weakness of others. Sammy’s weakness was tied into his vanity and desirability. Greg could just hear in his head the lines Jack would have used to convince Sammy into bed with him. Things were already shit in their relationship but Greg had still been...what? Hopeful? A sad sack of shit still hoping his cheating and lying boyfriend would stop what he was doing and realize Greg was his one and only?
Now summer approached, and Greg was wearing down as the memories associated with the season came upon him. It had been the middle of summer when everything between him and Jack exploded. When the extent of the lies and the cheating was uncovered, when the rumors crashed like waves through their friend group, and when the backlash against Greg daring to leave Jack smacked him over the top of his head and sent him headlong and spinning, excommunicated from a group that was a large part of his identity.
And here he was, impotent against a man who haunted him still, and taking out his anger on someone who wanted to be his friend. His ally.
“Jesus fuck.” The river wound its way out of sight around a copse of trees. The eagle flew out of sight.
Sometimes nature reminded a person of just how fucking small they really are. How unimportant. And sometimes, there was a lot of fucking relief in that. Because it made their problems that much smaller.
And, sometimes, the person is buoyed by a sense of being part of something larger.
It was time for Greg to grow up and get over it.
|
There’s a snow day about two weeks or so since Peter’s met the Rogues, and he’s praising all known entities that he doesn’t have to go in and do the Spanish quiz. He’s been staying with Tony more often than usual since the arrival of the rest of the team, and May’s even given in and slept there a few times. The Rogues are still blissfully unaware of his and Tony’s true relationship (at least, that he knows) and they’re happy to keep it that way.
After a (mostly) not awkward conversation about feelings and titles, Peter had admitted to wanting to call Tony ‘Dad’ for a while, but thought it would be weird. He swore Tony was about to cry when he told him, and was dragged in for the biggest hug he’d ever received from the man. Safe to say that Tony didn’t mind being called Dad.
“Dad! Look at the snow!” Peter bursts into his father’s room without hesitation, already knowing Pepper had left for work and Tony had actually slept at a reasonable time the night before. “The balcony is completely untainted. Not a single footprint, but perhaps some bird poo.”
The man groans, rolling over in his bed. “Five more minutes, kid. Let me sleep.”
Peter rolls his eyes at the dramatics, but sighs exaggeratedly anyway. “Fine, I’ll go see if Uncle Rhodey will play with me instead, ‘cause he’s cooler.”
That causes Tony to sit up in alarm, bedhead almost as bad as Peter’s. “I’m cool. I’m the coolest person here. Cooler than ice.”
“That was the most un-cool thing I’ve heard you say.” Peter points out and is hit smack in the face with a soft pillow.
“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute to get ready.” Tony grumbles, softening when he spots his son’s excited grin.
“We have to build snowmen, Dad, it’s like… illegal not to build one on a snow day.” The team hears Peter’s voice as footsteps echo down the hallway. “Don’t you wanna build a snowmaaan?” He sings, skipping around Tony as they enter the room.
“It doesn’t have to be a snowmaaan.” Chorus Sam and Clint, and even Wanda, to the surprise of the others.
“What? Disney is good.” Wanda mutters, blushing.
Peter beams at them while Tony chuckles. “Well, with that terrific ensemble, how could I refuse? But we’re not doing anything until you get food into your belly.”
His son groans but complies, practically sprinting to the kitchen to get himself a bowl of cereal. It’s mildly alarming how fast Peter is shovelling the Cinnamon Toast Crunch into his mouth, and Steve is half a second away from slapping the bowl off the kitchen island to save themselves a trip to the medbay from the inevitable choking session.
“You’re practically snorting the little squares, Pete, slow down or you’ll choke.” Tony barely looks up from his StarkPad as he gets his coffee. Steve is slightly impressed with Tony’s Dad-senses.
“How do you feel about French toast, Peter?” Steve asks, polite as ever. “If you’re going out you’d best be filled.” Call him old fashioned, but he’d always preferred a home-cooked breakfast.
“Yes, please!” Peter excitedly replies. “And for Dad too, please, he never eats enough.”
“False information, I eat all the time.” Tony interrupts, holding up his pack of blueberries and cup of coffee to prove a point.
“Oh, sorry—he never eats enough
actual
food.” That earns him a blueberry to the face, but Peter just opens his mouth and catches it without hesitation. “Thanks for the blueberry.”
Steve freezes in his place of plopping a piece of bread into the egg and milk mixture, astounded. Peter wasn’t even looking at Tony when he let loose the blueberry, and at that speed too? Peter’s got quick reflexes that rival even Natasha’s. Again, he becomes a little more suspicious that Tony isn’t telling them the full story of Peter, but chooses to let it go for the moment.
“By the way, Vision’s finally finished with the overseas stuff in Wakanda, and should be back soon.” Tony informs the team when everyone gathers around for Steve’s cooking, but he’s mainly aiming the PSA at Wanda. “Princess Shuri’s been working on reprogramming him to make the synapsis work collectively, which is something Brucie and I didn’t think of.”
The mention of the still-missing scientist puts a little damper on their moods, but Peter’s cheeriness breaks that somber atmosphere. “Princess Shuri is so cool! I’ve seen her work with the remotely controlled vehicle technology, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. No offence, Dad, your stuff is also cool. But
vibranium,
man—”
“Alright, alright, you can talk about how cool Wakandan technology is
after
you eat your food.” Then Tony promptly stuffs a spoonful of cereal into Peter’s open mouth, causing Peter to jerk in surprise, making a muffled noise before swallowing. His whole face is red in embarrassment, and now it’s Peter that flicks a blueberry at his father, causing the older man to laugh.
The team laughs good-naturedly at them as they dig into their own breakfasts. Peter is the first one done, to no one’s surprise, and pokes at Tony’s arm to urge him to go faster. Steve knew at one point, someone being so enthusiastic to a still-half-asleep Tony would have gotten a glare and a snarky remark. Clint once almost got himself locked in the vents for being ‘an ugly irritating pigeon’ after he just woke up.
But Tony just smiles at Peter, charmed by this boy’s eagerness to just go outside and have a snow day, and speeds up with his coffee. Steve is hit yet again with the realization of how much he’d missed in the time he’d been gone, and looking around the table, he sees many similar emotions on their faces. Natasha in particular seems to be the most regretful, and Steve knew it was because she was the closest to Tony. She hadn’t even known Tony had a kid.
Tony finishes his coffee and plops it down in the sink. “Go get your coat on, kid, we’re going to make the biggest snowman in New York. We’ll make it big and buff like old Captain here.”
Steve smiles. “I’d be able to make a bigger one.”
The other man raises an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”
The team grins; before the Civil War, they’d always made challenges out of the simplest things. Who could train the longest (Steve, but it was Natasha if they were just counting normal humans), who could escape a meeting the fastest (Tony), how far could someone throw Steve’s shield like a frisbee (Thor, much to Steve’s annoyance), and so much more. In the short amount of time they’d been in the Tower, they’d managed to make more progress than in the months it took to get the pardons.
“Did you know the tallest snowman ever built was over 37 meters tall? That’s 122 feet!” Peter’s even more excited now that more people are joining in, rattling off more facts about snowmen as they all get ready to brave the cold air outside.
They don’t leave the Tower, but go to the courtyard that juts out the side of the building. The area is big enough and piled with enough snow to make plenty of snowmen.
“Ready to beat these losers with our superior snowman?” Tony asks Peter, but instead of getting a reply, the boy takes a running start and flips over so he flops backwards onto the snow. Then he promptly starts moving his arms up and down. “Uh, kid, what are you doing?”
“We gotta make a snow angel first! Or else the snow is too nice to destroy!” Peter chirps up from the ground. “Everyone should do one.”
Tony huffs a laugh, but doesn’t put up a fight. He just picks a spot next to his son and falls backwards. The team looks at each other, shrugs, and goes to pick their own spots. “Yo, get out of my snow angel space, man! You’re gonna merge them into a weird looking mutants this close to me.” Sam yells at Clint, picking up a pile of snow and flinging it at him.
Clint dodges, and instead it hits Wanda on the back of the head. Wanda shrieks and turns around to find the culprit, and Sam pales and takes off in the other direction. “Wilson!” Wanda yells after him, and when he doesn’t slow down, she uses her powers to throw a ball of snow at him.
“Oh, shit!” Sam’s close cropped hair does nothing to stop the cold of the snowball from covering his scalp.
“Language!” Steve calls out, laughing.
“Shut your ass up!” Sam calls back, this time throwing a snowball in Steve’s direction. Steve moves out of the way and it soars through the air in slow-motion. The team watches, horrified, as it hits Tony right in the face.
Everyone freezes, and Tony just stands there, impassive as the ice drips down his face. Then Peter is laughing hysterically, breaking the tense atmosphere yet again. “Oh my god, Dad! He got you good!”
Tony’s face morphs into a grin. “I can’t let that slide, now, can I? What do you say, Pete? Ready to teach them how a
real
snowball is thrown?”
Peter grins back, and hurls a snowball at Steve.
And that’s how a snowball fight starts.
It unofficially became Tony and Peter against the rest of the team, and they were holding pretty well. Peter’s youth and spidery stamina came in handy, and Tony wasn’t Iron Man for no reason; even in his old age, Tony’s able to maintain his hefty physique, and his snowballs hit
hard.
Wanda’s using her magic to rain down snowballs, and Natasha is zipping by. Sam and Clint are yelling and tripping over each other (“Birdbrains.” Natasha rolls her eyes), and were using Steve as a shield (“The irony!” Tony laughs).
After a while, Tony yells at the rest of them after he’s hit with yet another snowball to the face. “This is unfair! Two against five?!”
“It’s totally fair! It’s Team Stark against Team Not Stark.” Clint tries to hit Peter but the boy ducks just in time, sending a ball of his own at the archer.
Team Stark, huh.
Tony thinks, and he and Peter share a look. Tony feels the familiar warmth spread across his chest that he always gets when Peter calls him Dad, and he’s come to identify it as parental affection.
“Still, two against five is a little unfair.” Steve admits, still being used as the main barrier between Team Not Stark and Team Stark. “We should even out the playing field more.”
“How about I join Team Stark?” Rhodey emerges from the building, dressed warmly and wearing his new leg braces that Tony and Peter designed for him that would be more comfortable in snow. “I’d say I have enough experience with the two be be part of the team.”
“Uncle Rhodey!” Peter cheers, distracted enough that he gets nailed with snow from behind him by Wanda.
“Honeybear, you’re officially in Team Stark. It’s still three against five, though.”
“No need to worry, Tones, Vision’s just arrived. He’ll automatically be on Team Stark.”
Wanda perks up at that. “Vision’s here?” Peter uses this distraction to hit Wanda in the back. “Hey!”
“Karma’s a bitch!” Peter gleefully replies.
“Language, kid!” His father reprimands, and Steve looks slightly offended that Tony would mock him for it and yet do it himself.
“Indeed, I am, Wanda. It’s nice to see you again.” Vision’s red body floats through the wall, smiling at everyone. “Apparently, I am on Mr. Stark’s side of this snowball fight?”
“You’re damn right you are, Vision.” Tony calls out, and Peter whoops beside him. “Hey, if we really think about it, isn’t Vision like kinda my kid too? Since I created JARVIS and helped create you.”
Everyone knows just how much Tony cares for his creations, and for most of his life he preferred the company of machines rather than humans. He loves DUM-E, and U, and even Butterfingers, even if they all make a mess and he’s insulted them enough to warrant concern (he does apologize to them off-screen, and sometimes just lets them make messes because they seem to be having fun. Plus, Peter’s company has made Tony a little softer on the inside, and sometimes he’ll even catch himself consoling DUM-E like he would Peter). FRIDAY was one of the newest to the family, if they weren’t going to include Peter, and he loves her as well. But JARVIS had been his companion for decades, and even if JARVIS was gone, he could see the remnants of him in Vision.
Vision pauses, thinking, then nods. “It would be a bit of a stretch, but yes, I could be considered a child of yours.”
“Woah, does that make Vision my brother?” Peter grins at the android. For a second, Tony remembers that Vision wasn’t formally informed about their charade against the Rogues and fears that Vision was going to sell them out, but Vision barely pauses in his reply.
“It would seem so.” Peter cheers, reaching up to give Vision a high five.
Tony spares a second to look at his kid and his sort of android kid interact, the parental affection rising up again, before looking back at Team Not Stark. “You’re all going down.”
They grin back at him. “Bring it.”
|
Being mated to Castiel is….indescribable.
No, literally. Dean has no idea how to describe it. Not that anyone is asking (thank you Sammy for respecting the invisible lines of privacy).
If he had to try though, he’d say it was like growing a second subconscious. Always there, even though you weren’t aware of it directing your actions.
Except this one was horny as hell and seemed to be able to override the rest of his brain. Which is how Dean found himself in some situations he never thought he would be in (thank you Sammy and Kevin for not mentioning what they heard during odd hours of the day).
Not that Dean was complaining! Hell, he had never been happier in his life. He hunted better, ate better, and was having the best sex EVER. His contentment and newfound “feelings” had even led him to hashing out some old shit with Sam, which led to both of them screaming and then violently hugging it out. Kevin had been mortified, trapped in the corner of the library when the discussion began.
So yeah, Dean was feeling pretty awesome pretty much all of the time.
He just couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something.
------------------
Being mated to his beloved is better than all the gardens of heaven combined.
Castiel should know, he’s been to a great many of them.
None compare to the feeling of being one with Dean Winchester. Castiel finds that he is insatiable when it comes to his lover, and he takes full advantage of the bond to make sure Dean is ready to accept him whenever Castiel desires. Which is quite often, as it turns out (Kevin and Sam were wise to be silent- he would not abide with any teasing).
Castiel makes sure that he dotes on his beloved in every manner possible. Dean is getting plenty of exercise thanks to their rigorous sex life, and as such his hunter is sharper than ever. Dean is also more open to sharing his feelings, thanks to Castiel’s insistence that Dean be as expressive as possible. In everything he does.
Castiel also insisted on feeding Dean as often as he could, wanting to prove that he could provide for his mate. Dean’s already perfect ass had swelled a bit since, much to Castiel’s delight.
So if Castiel took advantage of Dean’s ignorance about certain…advantages the bond gave him, well then surely he had repaid Dean in full?
“Yes,” Castiel thought to himself, as he allowed Dean to hold his cock in his warm and wet mouth while they watched “Dr. Sexy-something”, “After all, he has never been happier.”
-----------------
It had started in the kitchen.
Dean had been trying to help Cas make a cherry pie, one of his many baking specialties. Cas usually indulged him about helping around the kitchen, but that day he seemed determined to do all the work. Dean probably should have known better than to push, but-
“C’mon Cas, at least let me mix the bowl. You’re doing it wrong anyway, everyone knows it’s clockwise.”
Castiel froze his actions, and Dean swallowed as he felt a rush of annoyancefrustrationidea go through the bond. As usual Castiel’s thoughts were too quick for him to fully interpret, but he got the general idea. He was in trouble.
Fuck, his hole was throbbing already.
“You think you know better than me, Dean Winchester? I, who was there at the creation of this particular pastry?”
“Well, excuuuuuse me then.” Dammit, back down Dean. Danger danger Will Robinson!
“I think not, Dean.”
Dean felt a flash through the bond, one that told him to bend over the counter immediately. Since it was a public space in the house, Dean had issues with this. He would willingly submit to Cas in private- he relished it, in fact. There was the opportunity to let go of all his burdens and responsibility, only needing to feel and react in that space. But here- for fuck’s sake, anyone could walk in on them!
So he grit his teeth and stayed exactly where he was: propped up against the fridge, to the left of Castiel’s increasingly agitated form.
As Dean was busy fighting the call inside his brain telling him to submitsubmitmatesubmit, he missed the change of expression that flashed across Castiel’s face. While still agitated, his features become unquestionably thoughtful.
“You are…embarrassed by our conduct. By the nature of our bond.”
Dean shakes his head but can’t quite voice his rejection of the notion. He’s more than fine with their bond! He’s their bond’s number one fan!
Just not in public. Dean has a certain reputation to uphold, and being known as a greedy, noisy bottom would do him no favors.
“I see. I think it is time to instigate a new part of your trainings.”
And Dean quivers at this, because the daily yoga rituals that have made him super flexible are fine and dandy, but he has a feeling this training will be less to his liking.
“Cas, wait-”
But Castiel silences him with an angel mojo-touch, two fingers pressed to the side of his temple. Dean is out in blissful unconsciousness before he is even aware that Castiel has caught him in his arms.
----------------
As Dean wakes up, he feels a familiar sensation of hazy, warm and horny. It’s how he usually awakes after a night of fantastic love making with his mate, which has been every night since their bonding. He frowns though, because he is in the kitchen of the bunker this time and everything seems almost dreamlike. He doesn’t remember getting there, doesn’t remember what he was doing beforehand. He is only vaguely aware that Cas is annoyed at him for some reason, and he whines high in his throat at this.
“Casssss”
“I am here, beloved. This is an almost-dream, I have entered your subconscious so I might better discipline you.”
Dean sighs. This is good, but he can’t remember why being in the privacy of his mind is preferable.
“Now, do you want to show me how sorry you are?”
Dean nods dumbly, scrambling to turn around and shoves his jeans down to mid-thigh, ass bent over the counter and held high proudly. He can be such a-
“Good boy, Dean. My beautiful mate, your submission is a gift I treasure. You’ll let me use you anyway I want, won’t you? Well, soon enough.”
Before Dean can properly question this, a sharp sting explodes from his left butt cheek. Dean lets out a high pitched, breathy yelp at the surprise spanking, then grins and pushes his ass out for more. A wooden spoon, his Cas is one kinky motherfucker.
“Y-yeah that’s it Cas fucking use me I’m your bitch-“
Dean is rewarded with a continuous spanking of varying intensity. His ass is paddled red while his hole, balls and nipples are caressed and pinched by Cas’ grace. Cas’ grace, which is the most teasing and merciless part about him, always seeks to both punish and reward Dean for his pleasure. He moans and screams through it all, louder and more desperate than he normally is but here- here he is safe, free from all judgment and he wants to show Castiel what a good boy he is, how well he can take it.
Castiel seems to agree, because in between hard paddlings and soft caresses his grace zeroes in on Dean’s hole, viciously assaulting Dean’s prostate as Dean thrashes and twitches, drooling on the counter and begging to come.
“Who’s good bottom boy are you, Dean?”
“YOURS! Fuck Castiel, all yours I fucking love taking your cock I love yo-”
Dean’s confessions are cut off by his orgasm, which blindsides him into silence with it's intensity. As usual, he can feel the renewed forgery of the bond, an interweaving of beings drawn tighter with every intimacy. He feels the hum in the back of his skull that tells him Cas has come too, all over his cherry red ass and he relishes the marking. He pants and grins as he comes down, savoring the sparks of electricity still tingling across his skin as Castiel becomes his usual intense and cuddly post-coitus self.
Then the room sharpens, and Dean is suddenly aware of the fact that they are in the real bunker kitchen, with a very real and terrified looking Kevin.
Dean wants to voice his outrage, but he is pinned in place both by Castiel’s cuddling form and his own post-orgasm exhaustion.
Castiel smiles and strokes Dean’s hair, letting a message whisper across Dean’s second “sub-conscious”.
“You will not remember this last part, beloved, but you will remember this lesson: you are my proud mate, and NOTHING gets you off like submitting to me. Anywhere I please.”
Then Castiel presses his lips to Dean’s temple, and Dean is thrown into unconsciousness again.
-------------------
When he comes to, he is stirring the bowl of cherry pie filling. Castiel is by his side, rolling the dough and humming happily. Dean’s heart swells at the domestic scene, and he grins at Kevin, who is clutching a bag of Cocoa Puffs in the corner of the kitchen.
A voice in his head tells him to ignore this odd behavior, so he turns back to his pie filling and misses the hard look of warning Castiel gives to Kevin. Kevin, ever the smart AP student, realizes when he is out of his depth and exits the kitchen as quickly as possible.
Dean thinks the pie turns out better because he and Cas worked together on it, and Cas smiles into his slice, enjoying his lover’s blissful ignorance.
--------------------
They capture Crowley.
Shove him in a room in the bunker to deal with later.
It puts Dean on edge though, having him there. In the bigger picture, the fact that Castiel was somehow able to retain his powers after the Fall and heal Sam is the big miracle that he should be celebrating. But having Crowley there just reminds him even more that no matter how fearsome a foe he may seem to some, so much of his personal life has changed that he cannot rectify the old him with the new. He worries that he’s losing his touch, despite being a better hunter than ever (even Sam comments on it). He worries that Crowley and then everyone will see him as what he really is- Castiel’s good little boy, the role he loves to play most but cannot bear to let anyone see.
Although the idea of someone even accidentally seeing him like that has started to get him a little hot. But hell no, that’s a fantasy that is NOT happening.
Crowley, being the smug yet brainy demon that he is, picks up on Dean’s over-compensation right away. He wheedles him about it mercilessly, and the effects begin to have their toll on Castiel and Dean’s private time. Dean is embarrassed by his submission, tends to fight it and the bond. He opens up soon enough after Castiel both praises and punishes him, but there is a marked difference in behavior.
Castiel simply will not abide by that at all. No one trains his beloved but him.
------------------
Dean is in that almost-dream again.
Except this time he is walking through the bunker, happily plodding along barefoot in his Led Zepplin t-shirt and jeans. He is confused by the end destination, but as he steps into the room where Crawley is being kept he smiles wide, taking in the sight of Castiel.
Castiel smiles back, leaning against the wall in his old, ill-fitting suit. He is alone in the room, which Dean knows should be important but he can’t remember why.
“My pretty mate.”
Dean preens at this, and his smile turns embarrassed. They’ve played this game before. He loves it and hates it in equal measure. It’s one of his favorites, and he never fails to get a mind-bending orgasm out of it.
“Show me those little tits, my love. I want to see your form.”
Dean blushes and plays coy, leaning back against the closed door and slowwwwly working his shirt above his head. He lets the fabric brush his nipples on the way up and lets out a little giggle, pleased by the approval that flashes through the bond. Then he delicately drops the fabric on the floor, looks up at Cas through his eyelashes and bites his lower lip. He knows if he waits he’ll get further instructions, and he can already feel Cas’ grace working his hole open. It’s rough and clinical today, a sure sign that Dean is in for something spectacular.
“You are gorgeous, beloved. Your pants next, I know my little slut doesn’t like to be confined for long.”
Dean laughs again, higher than he normally does and shakes his head bashfully. Then he does a slow body roll out of his jeans, letting Cas set the pace with his gaze. When Cas eyes the zipper hungrily, Dean undoes it. When Cas glares at his thighs and the bulge at his groin, he slips his pants down to his ankles and steps out of them.
Castiel hums his approval.
“Such a good boy for me. Do you like your present?”
Dean looks at the floor and flushes further, but he nods eagerly. He’s in a pair of simple, white cotton panties. His ass has gotten even more bounce to it lately, and he fills out the string bikini nicely. He’s also more than half-hard, a small wet-patch formed at the top front of his underwear.
“Breath taking as always, beloved. What a naughty thing you are, getting your new panties dirty. I thought you liked my presents?”
“I do Cas, ‘m sorry.”
Castiel hums, low and soft. Dean begins to fidget where he stands, but he knows better than to cover himself. Castiel will tell him how to be good when he’s ready. Dean just needs to hang on until then.
“Turn around, beloved.”
Dean does quickly, planting his feet shoulder-width apart. He curves his back a little as well, tilting his ass up up up for Castiel’s approval.
“Place your left hand on the door.”
Dean grins anew. He knows where this is going and leans forward, resting his weight on his left arm as his right dangles by his side, unmoving for now.
“Only seven, I think. But you don’t get to cum. When do you get to cum, Dean?”
“O-on your cock or g-grace or not at all, sir.”
Castiel sends another wave of approval and pleasure through the bond, just to see Dean shudder and moan. He also starts to hump back a little on the grace that is stretching him, but Castiel will not allow Dean any prostate stimulation yet. That is for later.
“Excellent, beloved. You take to your training so well. Begin.”
Dean keens high at Castiel’s praise, then goes to work. He slaps his own ass, and hard. He doesn’t dare hold back, and even at the awkward angle he can feel his cheeks jiggle. He knows how obscene it looks, and he relishes the feeling. He wants to be Castiel’s whore, now and always. Castiel praises his submissive mate the entire way through, lauding and cajoling him into a frenzy.
“So well-behaved, beloved. I’m going to get you a nice collar one day, a reward for how good you are to me.”
“Your ass is obscene, Dean Winchester. A miracle of my father’s creations, I am sure of it.”
“You took it so well, darling. Would my good little boy like his treat? I spoil you I know, but with those cock-sucker lips how can’t I? Your holes beg to be filled.”
Dean’s left arm is shaking now, and he pants out a quiet “Cas, please fill me up.”
His mate is by his side in a flash, turning Dean around and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. It makes Dean sob, tears beginning to flow down his cheeks as the intimate nature of the touch sets him aflame in shame and arousal.
Cas smiles at him, kisses his tear-streaked cheeks and tells him he loves him. Then he repositions them so that Castiel is against the door, and Dean is kneeling at his feet. The grace that is still inside him seems to be done stretching him and has now formed a dildo in his ass that presses right up against his prostate, sending magical vibrations all through Dean’s body.
“You come when I do, Dean. Perhaps having both your holes filled will satisfy you for a bit. Now get to work, my perfect little slut.”
Dean groans and tears open Castiel’s trousers, frantically working himself on the grace-dildo in his ass yet somehow under his panties. He swallows as much of Castiel as he can, choking on his mate’s cock and reveling in the quiet moans his lover makes. Castiel is stillness and patience, stroking Dean’s hair while Dean humps and writhes like a feral thing on the ground before him, desperation come to life.
Some of Dean’s desperation must rub off on Castiel, because he is coming down Dean’s throat in less time than normal, eyes glaring at the empty chair behind Dean.
Dean cries out around Castiel’s cock as he comes, spasming and still trying to force Castiel further down his throat as his orgasm overtakes him. As Dean’s vision fades to black, he blearily looks up at Castiel and smiles as he slips to the floor, unconscious.
Castiel sighs, tucks his impressive girth back into his trousers and addresses a gagged and furious Crowley for the first time since entering the room.
“There is nothing you can do to him that I cannot make him do willingly to himself. If you do not cease these childish mind games with my mate, I shall invoke my right as his protector and kill you where you are bound.”
Crowley leans back against his chair, flushed yet defeated, a cheeky glint in his eye as he looks at Castiel with a new and appraising air. He nods his acceptance, and Castiel picks Dean up into his arms.
“Freeing, is it not, beloved? To be oneself even amongst ones enemies. If you have accepted that which others would use to harm you, then you have no weakness.”
In his slumber, Dean murmurs his assent and gets back to his sexy dreams.
-----------------------
Castiel’s final lesson for this particular training is not just for Dean’s benefit. His newly found brothers and sisters, rebelling against Metatron and everyone else, have cast an un-favoring eye upon what he and his beloved share. Castiel knows this is in part due to jealousy, and if that were the only emotion behind the threat he thinks he would have reacted better.
However, he is not a perfect being.
Dean awakens to find himself naked, open, and dripping, fully cognizant and staring down at his horny and commanding mate. He glances around, then curses as he realizes that they are on a bed in the middle of fucking nowhere, yet he can feel the presence of other angels around him. They are keeping themselves concealed for now, but he and Cas are not safe here. No matter what his little soldier says.
“They think our union flawed, beloved. That an angel cannot successfully mate a human, that they will never balance each other properly.”
Dean’s eyes snap back to Castiel’s, and he sees the fury in his mates gaze at this accusation. He feels through their bond the possession and desire Cas has for him, and he returns it in equal measure.
“Show them how wrong they are.”
Dean laughs, bends down and kisses his lover. His wonderful mate, who has freed him in so many ways. He has even given him this, something Dean would never have known how to ask for.
Still laughing against Castiel’s mouth, Dean raises his hips and impales himself on Cas’ cock.
Dean sets a brutal pace, riding Castiel hard and fast as he claws at the angel underneath him. He bites and kisses at Castiels shoulders, his lips, his neck. He wrestles with Castiel in fun, playing at pinning him down only to choke in ecstasy as Castiel emits a growl and closes a hand over his throat.
Dean looks up then, tilting his head back so Castiel can hold him by his neck as he fucks into him. He feels a gentle breeze, he sees the many stars above. He knows that there are others watching, and he fucking loves it. Loves his mate, loves being fucked, loves submitting to Cas and Cas alone. His wonderful angel.
Dean comes with his back bowed, untouched and crying out as Castiel explodes underneath him, unleashing his grace in a claiming and protective manner on Dean. Dean feels like his skin has been scrubbed raw in ecstasy yet all he wants is more, and his orgasm takes minutes to end.
And through it all, Castiel holds him up. After all, he has his heart in his hands.
|
Harry's eyes stung from crying so much. The skin surrounding them had been rubbed raw and red from his constant wiping away of tears.
He had been kneeling on the floor of the common room for almost twenty minutes now, bawling. Even though he was Captain, he skipped Quidditch practice. Not even flying could mend his broken heart.
Hermione had found him after dinner. Appalled, she forced him up and he, Hermione, and Ginny were now sitting in their hidden room behind the tapestry.
"I'm going to rip his face off," Ginny snarled once Harry had finished telling the story.
Tentatively, Hermione reached out a hand to lower Ginny's raised arm. "I don't think Molly would like us very much if we let you go to Azkaban mid way through your final year at school."
"I don't care," snapped Ginny. "He can't just do this to Harry and get away with it! That slimy little son of a bitch!"
"We aren't going to do anything to him," said Hermione. "Calm down, please, Ginny. You're going to make Harry even more distressed," she added in a whisper.
The two girls glanced over at Harry. Fortunately, he had stopped crying. Unfortunately, his face quivered like the waterworks might start up again at any given moment.
"Sorry," Ginny whispered back. She scooted closer to Harry and gently placed her hand on his arm.
"Hey," she said to him, her voice low, "sorry about all the yelling just now. I know this is hard for you."
Harry sniffed. "I...I just don't understand. He was being so...clingy and loving right before he left." He wiped his nose on his sleeve, Hermione conjured and passed him a handkerchief, and he continued:
"It's just so...strange. Something must have happened to him while he was gone. He-he wouldn't do this to me."
Ginny's eyes flicked up to meet Hermione's.
"Harry," said Hermione. "You know what...he's like. How can you be sure he wasn't lying about...using you?"
"You don't know him like I do!" Harry shouted hotly. "After everything he told me, everything we did together, everything I've done for him, he wouldn't do this to me!"
"Harry, all I'm saying is," said Hermione, "are you sure your love for him hasn't blinded you to the truth? That he really did only used you for protection?"
"You're wrong, Hermione!" Harry jumped to his feet, facing Hermione.
"Harry-" Ginny tried to intervene, but Harry put his hand up to stop her.
"I know you agree with her, Ginny. But you're both wrong about...about him." Harry's voice wavered; he had almost said his name. "Something happened when he went to Azkaban; he was different when he came back, I could tell. I didn't ask for your criticism and ridicule; I asked you two for help! So will you stop fucking telling me I'm wrong!"
If Harry wasn't so angry and confused, he would have apologized to Hermione. Her eyebrows knitted together, her expression wounded.
A distraction arrived in the shape of Ronald Weasley. Pulling back the talestry, he paused when he saw them.
"Hey," he said. "Why are you all down here?"
"Just having a chat," responded Ginny.
"Why weren't you at practice, mate?" He asked Harry. "Were you with Malfoy?"
Hermione signaled for Ron to shut his mouth. Ron, puzzled, asked, "What? Did they have a row or something? A lover's quarrel?"
Harry sat down, trembling, as Ginny pulled Ron outside by his arm to give him a brief explanation.
•••
Harry was sprinting, breatheless, jumping over rocks and tree roots and anything else he might trip over...somewhere behind him and to his right, he heard Hermione casting curses behind him...he couldn't see Ron, but he heard him yell out a hex...the trio caught up with each other and so did the Snatchers...Hermione pointed her wand at Harry's face...The dream shifted, and Harry tried waking himself up but failed...
He was at Hogwarts now, but something was wrong...students and teachers and Order members where running or duelling or falling to the ground, dead...there was fire and rubble everywhere he turned...Harry's heart rate increased dangerously both in the dream and in real life...he ran, his bestfriends beside him, and almost tripped over a body that was too young and too small to die so soon...a shock of cold went through him as he saw Dementors somewhere to his far left...he heard a bloodcurdling scream but he couldn't look back, no he had to keep running...and the dream changed again...
Harry was in the Forbbiden Forrest now, Voldemort and his black clad followers facing him eagerly...Harry closed his eyes, his parents and Sirius and Remus's faces fresh in his mind as he faced death...Voldemort had raised his wand, but he was Draco Malfoy now, and he shouted "Avada Kedavra!"...Harey saw nothing but lime green light...
Stiffling a scream, Harry sat up in bed. His shirt and hair clung to his skin thanks to sweat. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down, but the images replayed in his mind. He clung to the bedposts, his lungs feeling as if somebody was squeezing them in their fist.
Desperate, Harry looked over at Draco's empty bed. He swallowed hard and blinked rapidly to force back his tears.
His first panic attack/nightmare since the break up six days ago. He had only had three during the school year, but not as bad as this one. He always had somebody to help him. Recently, that person had become Draco Malfoy. He would cradle his head and pull his body against him, enveloping him in his warmth. Sometimes he would talk to him, other times he simply stroked his hair untill Harry fell back asleep.
As Harry laid back down, silent tears running down his hot face, his heart hurt as he realised he didn't have Draco to calm him down this time.
Or possibly ever again.
•••
Draco's cloak flapped around his snow caked shoes as he made his way to the small clearing where he had met Astoria weeks earlier. He was on another Hogsmeade visit, and he had asked Astoria to meet with him for another talk. She happily agreed.
He sat down on the giant boulder and only had to wait a short amount of time before he heard footsteps behind him. He whipped his head around. Astoria stood behind him, snowflakes standing out against her dark curls, her lavendar coat bundled around her tight.
"Draco." She smiled fondly at him. Draco reached out a hand and she took it in hers and squeezed before taking a seat beside him.
"I heard you and your mother visited your father a couple weeks ago," she said. "How was it?"
"We didn't talk much," said Draco. As he spoke, he inched his hand closer to her thigh. "It was mostly him and mum talking. But I don't want to talk about my father right now."
"You don't have to if it makes you uncomfortable, Draco." Astoria stiffened just a smidge when Draco rested his hand on her thigh, but she kept the conversation going. "You haven't mentioned Harry Potter in your most recent letters. I want to know more about what's happening with you two."
Draco had scooted closer to Astoria. She didn't think anything of this; after all, they had been friends for almost a decade now.
"Potter isn't important right now," Draco said. "I want to talk about me and you."
"Is everything all right, Draco?" Astoria shifted uncomfortably. "You seem different today."
"Everything is fine, Astoria," Draco said.
"Okay," Astoria said uncertaintly. "So, tell me about you and Har- Draco, what the hell are you doing?"
Draco and Astoria were now sitting so close together that they looked as if they were glued together at the hip and shoulders. Astoria slid off the rock to stand. Draco followed suit. He stepped closer to her, and Astoria walked backwards.
"Draco," she said. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
"Of course I'm feeling okay," Draco responded, slightly irritated. This was taking too long; he needed to change his approach.
"I think I should head back home now," Astoria said. "It was...nice talking to you, Draco."
Draco didn't say anything. He just kept following Astoria.
Astoria had backed up into a tree. Scared, she turned her head to the side and Draco took this as an opportunity. He surged forward, hands out-stretched, and held Astoria by her hips against the tree and began kissing her fiercely.
Astoria whimpered in protest and tried to shove Draco's weight off of her, but Draco planted his feet and kept kissing her. Astoria stepped on his foot, and he stopped kissing her.
"Draco, what the hell are you doing?" Astoria was moving around, her desperate eyes searching for an exit. "Get off of me."
"I want you, Astoria," Draco said. "We should get married, just like you've always wanted. We can have a son, an heir to the Malfoy name."
"You never wanted all that, Draco," Astoria said. "That's what your father always wanted, not you."
"Well, I saw he was right." Draco had started kissing her neck. "I want you, Astoria, right now."
"Stop this. Draco, you're gay." Astoria was still squirming beneath him. She pushed his face back off of hers. "You like men, and you're dating Harry."
"I broke up with Harry for you."
"You-what?"
Draco had paused to catch his breath, and Astoria seized her chance. She stomped on Draco's foot, hard, pushed him onto his ass, and pulled her wand on him.
"Astoria-"
"No, Draco, shut the hell up!" Astoria advanced on him. Draco crawled backwards.
"Something is wrong with you," she said. "You tried to force yourself onto me, when you're fucking gay, and you never gave a shit about what your father wanted for your future."
Draco tried to stand up, but Astoria jabbed her wand at his face forcefully. The tip of her wand glowed bright orange. Draco's head felt like it was filled with static electricity.
"What are you doing to me, Astoria?" Draco asked. "Please, just let me stand up. Let me convince you that I'm right. We can-gah!" He clutched his head with his hands. His brain felt like somebody was picking it apart with a fork and knife.
"I knew it," Astoria said, completely ignoring his pain. "I knew you had been hexed. You're under the Imperius Curse."
"You don't know what you're talking about," spat Draco. "Who would Imperius me and why?"
"That's what I'm going to find out," Asroria said. "I would say I'm sorry about this, Draco, but you did sexually assualt me five minutes ago. Just...be warned." She flicked her wand. The numbness in Draco's head intensified; it felt like his thoughts were fighting themselves and flinging each other against the walls of his skull. His eyes felt like they were going to melt and dribble out of his eye sockets. Draco thrashed and fell onto his back, all the while Astoria stepped closer to him, wand aimed at his forehead.
"This is bloody strong," Astoria muttered. Her wand tip glowed brighter. The sensation in Draco's head grew more and more intense.
Draco squeezed his eyes shut. As quickly as it began, it stopped. When he opened his eyes again, it felt as if a hot spike had been removed from his forehead. He gave a great sigh of relief.
Memories began flooding back to him: Harry's tear-stained face looking up at him, walking from class to class to meal to class to Common Room robotically, forcing himself onto his best friend.
Astoria's wand arm was at her side. She peered at him cautiously. Quickly, Draco stood up and immediately wrapped Astoria in a fierce hug. She tensed up at first, but eventually relaxed and hugged him back.
"I am so sorry, Astoria," Draco said. He rested his head on her shoulder, ashamed of himself. "Please forgive me. Please."
"Of course I forgive you," Astoria said. She pulled back and looked up at Draco's face. "You were Imperiused. Do you remember who did it? And when?"
Draco gulped. "It was my father. I went to visit him in Azkaban with mother. He...he saw the Mark on my arm and became angry. I told him I was gay and that I was dating Harry. He stole my wand from my pocket and Imperiused me."
"Your Mark?" Astoria asked. "Do you mean...?"
Draco rolled up his sleeve and showed her the vibrant cursive H on his wrist. As Astoria gaped at it, something dawned on him.
"Harry," he said. "Oh, Merlin. Astoria, I fucked up. I fucked up so bad." He placed his head in his hands, guilt beating his insides to a bloody pulp.
"You said you broke up with Harry," Astoria said. "I thought you were lying, but you really-"
"-Not just that. I told him he meant nothing to me. I told him...I told him that I didn't love him."
Astoria, pity written all over her face, placed a hand on Draco's arm. "Merlin. I'm so sorry, Draco. What are you going to do to fix it?"
"Fix it?" Draco asked incredulously. "Astoria, I don't think I can.”
"Of course you can, Draco. He forgave you after the war and the trials, so why not now?”
But Draco shook his head firmly. "I yelled at him and shoved him onto the floor. I told him some shitty things after he told me he loved me. Would you forgive me if I did that to you?"
"No, but you were under the Imperius curse," Astoria said. "Explain that to him. Tell him it was all your father. He knows who your father is, what he's capable of. I'm sure he will understand."
"And what if he doesn't?"
Astoria gathered both of his hands in hers. "Draco, I know he cares about you immensely."
"Probably not anymore," Draco muttered.
"Don't interrupt me. As I was saying, he's a good man. He will understand. Just promise me you'll at least try and talk to him."
Draco sighed and said, "Okay. I promise."
“If you don’t, I will hex you stupid and tell him myself.”
“Merlin, Astoria. I promise.”
•••
"Harry! Harry, please turn around! Please look at me!”
Harry could hear Draco shouting his name down the hallway, but he didn't care. He kelt his head down and surged forward through the crowd, Hermione and Ron on his heels.
"Malfoy's calling you," Ron, ever observant, said.
"I know," Harry said bitterly.
"He's literally right behind us," Ron said.
"I know," Harry repeated.
“He’s here.”
"Harry!" Draco grabbed Harry's sleeve and tugged. Harry whirled around, annoyed. He shook his former lover’s hand off his robes.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" He spat.
Draco, who was thrown off at being addressed as Malfoy rather than Draco, stuttered: "I...can-can we talk? Please? In private?"
"Why? Come to yell at me and push me again?"
"What? No, I just want to talk. I want to explain some of the stuff I said to you. I want...to apologize to you."
"Harry doesn't want to talk to you right now," Ron jumped in.
"Or ever again," muttered Hermione.
Students had begun to stare at the four of them, nosily. Hermione flashed her Prefect badge and told them to move along.
"Please, Harry," Draco pleaded, "just give me five minutes. After that, if you want to, you can leave and never talk to me again. Just hear me out."
Harry stared at Draco for a while. Draco's hands fidgeted nervously before Harry finally said, "Fine, Malfoy. Five minutes. Hermione and Ron come with me, though."
"Of course."
Harry and Ron and Hermione started walking, and Draco scrambled to catch up to them. They led him to a ripped tapestry. Draco was surprised when Hermione pushed it aside and held it open for the other three. Behind it there was a comfortablely sized room and a staircase that only led up.
"Secret passageway to Gryffindor Tower," Hermione explained. She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at Draco. "Your five minutes start now. Start explaining."
Draco exhaled hard. "Harry, I am so, so, so, so sorry for what I said two weeks ago when I...when I broke up with you. I didn't mean any of it. It-it wasn't me speaking."
"It wasn't you?" Harry repeated sarcastically. He raised his eyebrows coolly.
Draco nodded.
"Because it looked like you. It sounded like you. But since you say it wasn't you, I guess it really wasn't you." Harry raised his eyebrows. "So who was it then? Was it your identical twin? Or did you give somebody Polyjuice Potion to look just like you?"
Draco winced. Harry's words stung him like knife wounds.
"It was me, but it wasn't me talking. I was Imperiused by my father."
The trio simply stared at him.
"You have four minutes left," Ron deadpanned.
"You have to believe me," Draco begged. Suddenly, an idea came to him. He pulled his wand out of his trouser pocket. Ron and Harry and Hermione drew their wands immediately. Draco held his hands up like a fugitive cornered by police.
"Here." He placed his wand on the floor and slid it over to them with his foot. "Check it with Priori Incantatem. My father used it when he Imperiused me during our visit."
While the boys kept their wands pointed at Draco, Hermione picked up his wand with her thumb and index finger and pointed her own wand at it. A variety of spells played out in smoke coming from the tip of Draco's wand: Accio (Draco had gotten too lazy to get his books from the Common Room while he studied in the library), he had repared one of his quills, and had used the shield charm many times (Harry was not around to protect him from oncoming attacks anymore). The rest were spells learned in class or practiced as homework.
Finally, the Imperius Curse showed up. Hermione waved her hand through the smoke to end the spell.
"How do we know that you didn't cast that spell on somebody else?" Ron asked him. "Or cast that spell yesterday so that we would believe you?"
Draco opened and closed his mouth, trying to come up with an explanation. But, to his surprise, Hermione Granger vouched for him.
"He can't have done it this morning or even yesterday," she said.
"Why not?" inquired Harry.
"The order of the spells is consistent with what we've been learning in class," Hermione explained. "There's also so many spells after Imperio that it adds up to at least the amount of spells one would cast in roughly two weeks."
Draco could have kissed her if he wasn't a homosexual.
“So, he isn’t lying?” Rob asked.
Hermione shook her head.
Harry looked at Draco hopefully. "Can you give us a moment alone?" He said to Ron and Hermione.
"Mate, are you sure?" Ron raised his eyebrows at Draco.
Harry nodded. "You two can go study or have sex or whatever."
Hermione rolled her eyes, but she grabbed her boyfriend's hand and exited the room.
As soon as they were gone, Harry slowly walked over to Draco.
"What you said that day in the common room. You didn't mean any of it? At all?" He asked quietly.
Draco shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Harry."
"Harry," repeated Harry. "I knew something was wrong with you. You called me Potter."
"I did. And I insulted you. And I pushed you. Merlin, Harry, I am so sorry."
Harry chuckled. He opened his mouth, but Draco interrupted him.
"There's something else, too," he said. "I...I want to show you something."
"Go ahead."
Draco swallowed, nervousness boiling in his stomach, and before he could change his mind, he rolled up his right sleeve and showed Harry his right wrist. He waited for a reaction.
Harry stared at it, eyes wide, for a few moments. Then he traced the Letter with his finger, as if making sure it was indeed very real.
"You...you love me?" He asked, his voice small.
Draco nodded. "As soon as Astoria lifted the Imperius Curse, I realised what I had said, and I felt horrible. I knew I had to apologise and tell you that...that I love you."
Harry instantly grabbed Draco's face with his hands and pulled his lips down to his. Draco kissed back immediately. He had missed the sensation of Harry lips against his. He opened his mouth, and Harry slid his tongue in for a bit before pulling back. Draco chased his lips and managed to steal one last kiss before he rested his forehead on the other man's.
"I love you, too," Harry whispered. Draco could feel his warm breath against his lips everytime he spoke and exhaled.
"You don't have to say it if you don't mean it," Draco said quickly. "Just because I showed you my Mark doesn't mean-"
"-Wait, hang on," Harry interrupted. "Why wouldn't you think I love you?"
"Why would you love me?" Draco asked in a small voice. He felt Harry grab his chin and lifted it slightly until he could look up into his grey eyes.
Draco was surprised when instead of pity or sorrow there was adoration in Harry's eyes.
"Why wouldn't I love you?"
Draco shrugged. He didn’t want to meet Harry’s eyes. "I was a dick to you and your friends for the past seven years. Shit, I was a Death Eater for a year. I held you hostage at my house last spring. I did terrible things in the Battle. Why would you love somebody like...like me?"
"Draco, you've been through so much shit in your life. But you don't let that define you. Most people would be bitter assholes if they went through a quarter of what you did. Yes, you were a dick these past few years, but I know how good of a person you are."
"I'm not a good person," Draco insisted.
"No?" Harry asked. "Draco, look at me.”
When Draco looked him in the eyes, Harry said, “You calmed me down and still loved me after seeing me during my late night panic attacks. I haven't heard you say anything snarky about Hermione and Ron in weeks. You even helped me with my homework and didn't jinx me even before we were friends."
"That doesn't undo all the harm I've done."
"It doesn't, true, but you've changed, Draco. You're a good person, always were, and I love you." Harry pushed back his sleeve to show Draco his first initial etched on his wrist.
"I'm not just saying it because you did. I truly love you."
Draco's eyes were suddenly wetter than normal. He blinked rapidly and asked, "Can you say that again?"
"Say what?"
"You love me."
Harry chuckled. He stood on his tiptoes and kissed Draco. "Draco Malfoy, I love you."
As they exited the room, hand in hand, to make their way to the kitchens, Draco said something he thought he would never say in his life: "Harry Potter, I love you, too."
•••
|
If someone was to see Mycroft Holmes leaving the Yard on that particular evening, no one would even suspect the inner turmoil he’s experiencing.
This, of course, is a matter of great pride for Mycroft, who detests sentiment on principle and considers showing any kind of emotion something only fools do. Of course not even him is totally immune to sentintement; there have been times, moments of weakness if you will, when his perfect blank mask slips, but only the people closest to him get to witness such moments.
So when he finally climbs into the car waiting for him, he promptly breaks down into a fit of nervous giggles. Anthea arches an eyebrow, amusement radiating from her and Mycroft would glare, if he wasn’t so busy having a minor crisis.
What the hell was he thinking, accepting Gregory’s invitation like that? Although technically Gregory wasn’t the one who invited him, in fact he didn’t seem that thrilled by the idea of taking Mycroft with him and why would he? If someone wants to flaunt their newest conquest in front of their ex, they’d never, not in a million years, pick Mycroft Holmes.
God, he’s screwed up, hasn’t he?
And then, to make matters worse, he had escaped, not giving Gregory the chance to turn him down, to say he’d rather go alone after all. It hadn’t been his idea after all, but
Sherlock’s
and now that that he thinks about it, his brother must have some ulterior motives and what can he be planning? Nothing good, that’s for certain, but--
“Has our good Inspector finally made his move?” Anthea asks suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Or why are we panicking after visiting him?”
Mycroft manages to glare this time, but of course his troublesome assistant is immune to his glares by now. She simply smirks, leaning back on her seat, watching him like a hawk.
“If you must know,” Mycroft says finally because if not with her, who is he going to share this
burden
with? For whose advice is he going to ask? “I’m going with him to his school reunion.”
Anthea smiles like the cat that got the cream and leans forward, conspiratorially. “That’s good, isn’t it? Not my ideal first date, of course, but--”
“It’s not like that,” Mycroft interrupts sharply. “It was Sherlock’s idea.” Anthea arches an eyebrow and he sighs, proceeding to recount what has just happened in Gregory’s office. He can tell his tale amuses his assistant to no end; evidently she’s failing to catch the magnitude of his plight. “It’s not funny!” he snaps finally, when Anthea can no longer hold back her laughter and breaks down in giggles.
“It sort of is,” she argues, ignoring his mighty glare with practised ease. “You deal with world leaders on daily basis, no doubting yourself once, but when Inspector Lestrade asks you out--”
“He did not! Weren’t you listening?”
“Oh,
tomayto, tomahto
,” she replies with a wave of her hand. “This is actually a good thing, I assure you,” she says, leaning forward once more, resting a hand over Mycroft’s. “I promise.”
He normally trusts Anthea to help him navigate social situations. He might not be as bad as Sherlock when it comes to
dealing
with people but he wouldn’t say he’s an expert either. And when it comes to
emotional
matters…
And yet-- “So you’re not covering for me and telling him I’m actually busy on that day?” he asks, already knowing what she’s going to answer and Anthea doesn’t disappoint, rolling her eyes.
“I’ll clear up your schedule,” she declares calmly, ignoring Mycroft’s dejected sigh.
Well, nothing for it now, he supposes.
Somehow, Mycroft manages to forget all about his
date,
or at least push it to the back of his mind for the next two weeks. He is, after all, a very busy person and he really can’t afford to get distracted by thoughts of romance, particularly when all the given evidence signals that Gregory doesn’t like him like that and so when the day of the dreaded date finally rolls around, it takes him completely by surprise.
“Trust me, you’re overdoing it with the tuxedo,” Anthea tells him, not looking up from her phone as Mycroft considers his options while standing in front of his closet. He does have an awful lot of clothes and yet, nothing seems appropriate for tonight.
“I should have bought something,” he murmurs softly, placing the tuxedo back with the rest of his clothes, biting his lip nervously. “Why didn’t you remind me this was tonight? I could--”
“You would have had another meltdown,” Anthea replies easily. “And we couldn’t afford that while dealing with the americans, could we?”
Mycroft makes a face, displeased. God, for a moment it had seemed like that meeting would never end. “Fair enough,” he agrees, pulling another one of his suits. “Except of course now I have nothing to wear!” he says, well aware he’s behaving like a dramatic teenager going on their first date, although to be fair he didn’t get to be a dramatic teenager, let alone go on his first date as a teen so he’s entitled to behave as he wishes, isn’t he?
Anthea rolls her eyes dramatically, standing up. “Sit down,” she orders very seriously, passing him her phone. “You answer the mail, I’ll find you something,” she carries on and throws a mighty glare in his direction when he attempts to argue.
Damn, he has trained her entirely too well.
But answering emails does make him relax somewhat. Dealing with troublesome world leaders’ problems is nothing compared to going on a date with the man he’s been admiring from afar since forever, even if it’s not a date-date.
“Here,” Anthea says, throwing some clothes to him, startling him. “Now go take a shower and get ready. Just one more hour to go.”
Mycroft gulps, bracing himself as he proceeds to do as he’s told.
What a night awaits him.
“What’s that?” Mycroft asks as Anthea places what looks like a cigarette case in the pocket inside his suit jacket. He’s trying to quit smoking and he knows Gregory is trying too, so really…
“Just a few essentials,” she replies, winking. “A little packet of lube, a condom, mints. You know, the basics.”
Mycroft goes bright red at that. “That’s-- that’s not-- I told you it’s not like that!”
She rolls her eyes once more. “Well, at the very least you’re going to use the mints. You want a fresh breath when you kiss the Inspector, don’t you?”
Kiss? Who-- why-- when? “What?! We’re not-- that’s not-- I said--”
“Well, you’re pretending to be his boyfriend, are you not? You’re going to have to kiss him at some point.”
Oh god. He failed to consider that. He completely failed to consider that. “I don’t think I can.”
“Sure you can,” Anthea argues goodnaturedly. “It’s easy. Just… follow his lead, I’m sure he’ll be happy to show you the ropes.”
That’s-- that’s not something he wants to consider, not right now. “I do know how to kiss, you know?”
“You could have fooled me,” Anthea teases, earning herself a glare. “Mycroft, it’ll be fine. Just… go with whatever feels natural. It’ll be fine.”
Oh, how he wishes he had her confidence. “Alright,” he murmurs, more to convince himself than his companion. Anthea however smiles, patting his arm reassuringly. “Let’s do this,” he murmurs, exiting his house and heading for the car, all the while telling himself he can do totally do this, there’s nothing to fear and he’ll be fine.
He spends the fifteen minutes it takes to arrive to pick Gregory up repeating the same thing over and over, like a mantra and by the time the car’s door open, he’s somewhat managed to convince himself that it’ll all be fine.
And then he takes a look at his companion.
Dear god, it’s not going to be alright.
|
Scruffing his foot against the stoop is just a sign of nerves.
Because he’s standing outside Dick’s apartment.
Dick’s apartment.
Not N’s safehouse.
Dick’s. Fucking. Apartment.
His face is getting warm even though it’s cold as hell in Gotham this time of year. At least his battered hoodie and worn DC’s make it a little more bearable than scrubs, and it really helps that he might be wearing an old Gotham Knights t-shirt since some possessive assholes like to see him in their things.
(He wore Jay’s jacket once--the last thing he remembers is coming so hard he literally blacked out for ten hours. Best. Cosplay. Ever. Ten out of ten would do again--and again and again...)
But this is different. World’s apart from where they were a few months ago, and the vertigo of the changes is a heady thing to take in.
You know, because he’s a total fanboy in love and shit. Sigh. At least he has Steph to moan to.
But this... is the first time he’s been to Dick’s apartment (and it’s an invite, a step into his real life outside the mask--all of that makes the pressure in his stomach wind tighter whenever they came through his window or showed up to walk him home in their real skins).
A rushed apology in the break between the usual catastrophes, a moment for him to crack his neck in the corridor of the old Pediatrics wing when the smell finally gets to him all at once and his wonderful boyfriends have been gone for over a week.
Dick’s soft, clipped voice when he’s working a hard assignment with the Titans because scary terrorist organizations want to genetically engineer frogs to infiltrate public offices. Frogs, Tim. You can’t make this stuff up.
It has the desired effect and leaves him laughing like he’s slightly insane and in the third pair of scrubs of the shift because things like blood and spit and tears and he saved me, he’s real or oh shit, he beat the crap out of me, he’s real wept into his chest.
But Dick’s voice got more soothing and fond, more warm the longer he talks about Steph and Ives and his visit to Drake Industries (ick) because the same shit every year. Dick’s all sincere about it when he says the first thing he wants is cuddles when he gets back.
And they would do that.
At Dick’s apartment.
Drop the mic.
Because at the time, he had the next immediate ten steps plotted out. To run a check on all his patients before the next batch came in after the witching hour, so it didn’t really sink in. But when it fucking does, he caught a breath on, “oh. Yeah, that’s--that sounds good.”
“It won’t be much longer, baby. Promise,” and when the serious pet names come out, it’s really Dick instead of Nightwing. “I’m going to give you all the cuddles.”
He leans his head back against the cold wall, an arm wrapped around himself, and scruffing his tired feet against the too-shiny floor.
“Looking forward to it. Be careful saving the world.”
It’s not until he hung up, going back to tackle the next one coming through on a gurney, that the realization smacks him.
This is...keeping him.
And that aforementioned pressure get that much more prevalent when the door opens to Dick grinning wide and white, immediately gripping him in an all-encompassing octopus hold (one that no one, no one, is getting away from--and why didn’t Jay at least warn him?) to fit them together.
Dick ducks his head to bring their mouths together, catching his little eep of surprise, excited and energetic, adjusting an arm down under his ass to lift him completely off his feet (and this? Will never not be totally hot--). He manages to wriggle an arm out enough to slide a hand into soft, wavy hair and kiss back while Dick is seemingly trying to overwhelm him with so much happiness. He might get a breath while his back is propped up against the doorframe for long moment while Dick eats at his mouth, slow fucking him with his tongue.
“So glad,” between presses of lips and the exchanged heat, “you came over.”
He’s pretty much carried inside by his vigilante boyfriend and the door closes while Dick finally gives him a little bit of a reprieve and hoists him higher, nuzzling into his face affectionately.
He’s completely fine with being held like he weighs practically nothing in the middle of Dick’s living room and wraps his legs around Dick’s hips to help hold himself up--not that he really needs to.
“I made you coffee,” Dick is still grinning while moving lower to nuzzle into his neck and nudge the hood out of his way, “and I’ve got Netflixs ready, and there’s stuff for sandwiches because you probably need to eat real food Timmy, and--”
And it’s so much for him to see this side, to get to have it now that Tim can’t help but grin at the genuine happy radiating even when he’s finally set down on his feet. The three of them hadn’t been at this long enough for everything to lose the quickening of the heart and churning arousal at barely a look. Hell, he’d only told them a few weeks ago he’d always known their secret idents and how much that shit didn’t even matter.
Since then, the shop talk hadn’t been nearly as muted, on the proverbial down-low (because, you know, civilian here). Like some agreement had been made between Dick and Jay that they could talk about the Joker’s next breakout or the strategies to take down the emerging gang showing up in the warehouse district with drugs and weapons.
(“Someone’s been supplyin’ Mask alla those new AKs, Dickie,” Jason had taken off the helmet and dominio while Tim treated the minor lacerations by rote and Dick paced as he thought--the moment had given Tim a hard pause because they didn’t usually do into finite details around him, and this...this means it’s okay for them to now.)
It’s a step further into his world, one that scares the holy bejesus out of him at the same time it makes him absurdly pleased.
And this? Accepting Dick’s invitation to his apartment on a rare night off while Jay is out of town looking into a rash of jewel heists with Red Arrow (Roy)? This is just another step even further in, a variable panic when he realizes how far he is, how much further he would have to be before there’s no way to come back.
But looking up into those blue, blue eyes, the wide, white smile, and his heart gives a thump, the calculations falling to the wayside in the presence of such affection and want (and maybe...maybe once he’s there he might not want to go back anyway. He can keep running the gauntlet at Mercy while making sure his Robins are good enough to keep moving. He’s a spectacular multi-tasker, really).
Broad hands, powerful hands on his face, tilting him up a little more, and oops, he might have got lost there for a second, “hey. Are you all sleep-deprived again? I can cuddle you while you take a nap?”
But the smile is still there, soft and fond, and Tim just-- he just--
He pulls Dick down enough to reach, to bite over the lower lip a little and soothe it with his tongue, to get a low noise out of Dick, to take that necessary step closer so he’s pressing up against the soft t-shirt and sweatpants and can bunch his hands in the worn fabrics.
“No nap,” he manages between sucking on Dick’s mouth, “don’t think that is in the immediate future. But hey,” another quick, chaste one, “hi there big guy,” and another, “missed the shit out of you,” another for just because, “glad the megalomaniacs of the world tremble at your ass in that suit--”
The chuckle is raspy as hands slide the hood back from his hair and pull the zipper down to get him that much closer to naked.
Dick pulls back a little and sees what shirt he’s wearing, and without looking away, Dick licks his lips in a tantalizingly hot motion.
“So,” and his voice is rougher, more growly like N’s voice, “we’re going to skip most of the tour until later.”
Those eyes roll up from the Gotham Knight’s shirt to his face, and he knows he’s probably blushing like crazy because damn. Those eyes? No one has the kind of will power to resist.
“But, I will give you a first look at the bedroom if you’re interested, Doctor Drake.”
“I’m not-surprisingly good with that,” and he’s a little breathless, letting go long enough to drop his hoodie so it’s the shirt and his fists go back to tightening in the soft cotton over Dick’s hip and ribs.
He doesn’t make a squeak this time when he swept off his feet, and his mouth is devoured. He might whimper, he might even yell a little when Dick’s fingers thread in his hair and direct him to the side so the tendon in his neck can be sucked and bitten.
His thighs twitch at the sensitive spot being abused so thoroughly, at the sharp edge of teeth, and all he can do it bite down on his lip to try not to sound like he’s falling apart completely.
He gets brief flashes while Dick just walks him down a long hallway without raising his head from sucking on Tim’s throat. Pictures of good times and good friends, a room with a whiteboard and computer at an old desk, bathroom with the suit hanging up over the shower rod.
The bedroom, however, is extremely comfortable before Dick ever lays him out on the messy sheets and palms his lower abdomen under the shirt. It’s an easy blue (naturally) with thick carpeting and a television in the corner, a small stand, overstuffed chair, and lamp niched in another. The center of the room is completely open, he realizes, dazed with Dick’s hands sliding the shirt up and thumbs circling his nipples and saying such nice things against his skin. When he manages to open his eyes to look up at the ceiling, welp, he gets an answer to why the fuck that it.
Tim gasps in a breath because he sure as shit didn’t expect to see the spiderweb of straps against the high ceiling of Dick’s bedroom (though looking back on it later, the real question is why he didn’t expect it). A complicated array of straps the width of his wrist is secured by rings embedded in the walls in a complicated array. Straps with glinting silver rings of different sizes dispersed throughout in some kind of pattern he’s going to get later when his brain isn’t turning to mush under that mouth and--
“What--what is that,” he manages to get his hands on the hem of Dick’s t-shirt and start to pull it up, eyes for this--this--whatever that is?
Dick makes an inquiring noise against his ribs and sucks, almost making him forget, but he keeps pulling enough to get Dick to lean up so the shirt can come off and the soft light can bathe his body and scars softly, can highlight the dips and grooves, the muscle born of fighting the good fight.
It’s so much and not enough that Tim surges to his knees and grips, running his mouth and tongue over collarbone and shoulder, throat and lower. He gets a hand on the back of Dick’s neck to tilt his head back in answer and--
“Oh,” is shaky because he’s made it to a vulnerable scar on Dick’s chest and moans while he sucks. “That’s for playtime. When we want a workout while we make love.”
He pulls off and looks up at Dick’s hot gaze, giving the vigilante enough time to get the shirt up and off of him in a swift move.
His brain stutters. “It’s what now?” And now his eyes are huge, darting back up at the configuration high on the ceiling while his face gets very, very pink.
The smile cutting across Dick’s face is utterly dirty, just sinful as hell.
“Y-You mean you and Jay climb around that and--and have sex?” His heart is beating in the back of his mouth, his half-interested cock now straining against his fly because just the mental picture of his boyfriends bare and muscles taunt to climb, balance, wrap and hold while they are literally suspended in mid-air is just--
A noise spills out of him without even being touched because God, that is so unbearably hot.
“Mmhm,” Dick breathes against his throat, and yes Dick, he can feel you smiling like an asshole (because excuse him, it’s not like most people had crazy sex straps dangling from the ceiling or anything). “I’m an acrobat, Tim, and we swing from buildings most nights. You know that.”
“Yup,” he agrees immediately, unable to look away now, “but this is just-- I mean, the mechanics alone...” and now he’s whimpering because just the mental picture of what Dick and Jay could do and the straining muscles while his boyfriends contort themselves, hold themselves while they take each other, and--
Dick’s hand slides down to cup him through his jeans, press against his throbbing erection, making his hips jerk automatically.
“Oh,” Dick says again, purring this time right against his neck while he’s helplessly looking up. “Tim-my, does that make you hot? Thinking about us making love to each other like that?”
His hands have found purchase on Dick’s biceps at some point and tighten. “I want to watch sometime,” he pants out, suddenly breathless. “I want to watch so bad, Dick you have no idea.”
The laugh from the vigilante is low and dirty, full of promise when Dick leans back up, eyes now calculating, “watch? I think we can do better than that.”
Moving so Tim can see every move he makes, Dick leans to the side and opens the top drawer of his nightstand, rifles for less than a second before he pulls out--
A wide leather cuff. One with a silver D-ring attached.
At just the sight, his trapped cock gives a spurt of wetness to soak into his boxers, and his knees tremble just enough for Dick to know.
“Oh my God, you--you--”
But, Dick just grins, quick and wide, tapping a finger on his nose before he’s off the bed and moving across the room, his obvious erection bobbing in his sweats while his hips roll with a very pointed stalk that means so, so many things.
Behind the door, Tim hadn’t even noticed the compact pulley system with the main straps secured. With a touch of a button, the straps slowly start lowering down from the tight tension keeping it out of the way of daily routines.
He’s panting again, braced over on his hands, watching as the black straps get closer to reachable height, noticing now the web is made up of three layers of straps, a bottom layer, a middle layer, and a top layer with rings attached on the inside of the straps, and--
Tim’s eyes go briefly to the cuff Dick left idly on the nightstand (because the cuffs could attach in a few different places and could secure someone to be hanging helpless against whatever they wanted to do). His stomach simultaneously drops with dread and clenches with anticipatory heat.
When Dick steps away from the pulley system, Tim’s eyes go immediately to the motion, of Dick expertly walking, moving, jumping, ducking, dip and spinning, grab and pulling, around and over and through the system of straps, watches him idly run his fingers over them, over the larger rings meant to be hand holds, watches his body move with grace and power without even making it look hard.
He doesn’t swallow his tongue, but it’s a stretch.
Dick moves like water, how he moves when he’s giving a show, his muscles work in a terribly beautiful sync, and it’s incredibly, unbearably hot to feel like he’s being stalked by a very, very dangerous man.
When Dick reaches the center, he pulls at a specific strap and a series of six rise to mid-thigh. It’s at the apex, a set of straps that could support a body, the rings on the cuffs attaching at strategic points to make sure his legs would be kept spread open, and God, he’s throbbing right now just thinking about it.
Like he knows, Dick is smiling as he winds one arm in a strap over his head and pulls himself up effortlessly, abs bunching when his legs lift perfectly straight to fit himself down in the cradle of straps as a very informative preview.
And Tim can’t tear his eyes away while the straps support the perfect curve where thigh meets ass, the lower back and shoulders. He literally stops breathing when Dick shimmies his hips, undulates for him, mock fucking the air right above him and moves both hands to flick at the rings where the cuffs would connect and--
“Both wrists and ankles,” his boyfriend explains while arching his back, “so you don’t fall. There’s other safety measures in case a strap breaks.”
Of course there are because it’s Dick. Dick who had nightmares about people he cares about falling--
Which explains why the bottom layer of straps closest to the floor is under the middle layer with a series of straps meant to cradle, you know, a person. It’s to use to maneuver...and act like a net.
He has to lick his lips, try to get enough air to say something instead of being a proverbial puddle of please fuck me.
“And just what are you going to do while I’m all damsel-in-distress helpless?” And sure he already knows, but he needs to hear Dick say it.
Very calmly, methodically, the vigilante lays it out, “I’m going to fuck you in every conceivable position I can think of. And, believe me Timmy, I have an extensive repertoire, so we might be at this for a while.”
And oh God, this is his life right now.
“I’m going to ruin you if you let me have you like this.”
With a twist of his hips, an arch of that powerful body, Dick is suspended above the cradle, right in the v-ee of the lower thigh straps, and none of it, none of it is helping him do anything but fist his hands in the messy sheets and want.
“Oh fuck, Dick, the two of you doing this is the hottest thing I could ever think of, are, I mean, are you sure--?”
“You have no idea,” and those eyes have him locked in, sucking any doubts he might have had, “how much I want to do this to you. Timmy, baby, I’ll make you feel so good. So good you’ll be screaming for me.”
He leans back, hands on the bed, unconsciously baring his upper body, offering himself up. “Wow, wow that is...holy shit, Dick. If you tell me I’m on Candid Camera or this is some Bat rite of passage where you leave me suspended for a few hours until I crack--”
It gets him a low chuckle while his muscles trembled minutely and his cock is quickly becoming a point of pain here.
“Nothing like that. You safeword out and I’m getting you down immediately.” With another agile move, spreading his legs for momentum, Dick flips around the straps and lands it just outside the complex configuration.
He’s already leaping on the bed to take Tim down to his back and surge up to take his mouth, so much so fast that Tim’s hips twitch up hard with Dick between his legs and some kinky fun times just waiting to be a perfect distraction for the next few hours.
Barely leaving his mouth, Dick licks over the line of his jaw, and a hand is working the button and fly to get access, “wanna play first, Timmy. Missed you, wanna touch you. If we make it there, we do--”
“We totally are,” because who in their right mind would pass this up. “If you don’t fuck me soon in that thing I might turn into a supervillain and try to take over the world. Don’t try me, I’m very serious.”
It’s with a the sensuous slide between his legs, gripping him, feeling how fucking wet he already is so Dick can palm him and groan against his neck. Tim catches a breath because his brain is misfiring to his synapsis, his body taking over in the decision-making process. He’s at least with it enough to start shoving at Dick’s sweats because he needs skin, he needs to touch, and be opened up, and be strapped down, and all of it. He needs all of it.
And just be the feel of his boyfriend’s dirty laugh, he’s going to get exactly what he wants.
**
He just doesn’t count on Dick being such an asshole and make him almost crazy before they ever get there.
Excuses like, “I need to make sure you’re nice and open for me, baby,” really means “I’m going to suck you and finger you until you can’t form words, but no, no, you can’t come until I let you.”
He is literally going to die.
The single most arousing thing: Dick licking over his thundering pulse before fitting a cuff on each wrist; then swirling his tongue and sucking on the bone before each ankle is cuffed next. Pink from his cheeks down to his chest, his boyfriend takes a necessary moment to lean up and stare at him with that predatory glint, finally, finally getting to the main event.
Dick picks him up effortless, sliding their bare bodies together, the friction making his thighs lock down, stutter to get more. And just like the badass he is, Dick maneuvers them through the web without pulling away from his mouth or getting tangled up even once.
The vigilante throws a leg over the cradle of straps, slowly lowering him down to sit in the cradle; the first strap supports the back of his thighs, the next series of three up his back to his shoulders, and Dick makes minute adjustments to each without letting him go. His hips twitch when Dick eases his weight down fully, allowing him to test the suspension and stares down, hungry, at him again, laid out and panting, muscles tight with anticipation, slowly relaxing once he realizes how stabilized he actually is.
The first cuff is attached to an embedded hoop by the D ring, Dick fingers running down his forearm as he tests the give.
The second one makes a noise work up from his chest, making his wet hole clench.
And yes, Dick is already well fucking aware this is a thing. To be perfectly frank, they’re really the ones that made him realize he had a kink for it--in giving up control, to let the decisions be made for him sometimes. Not while he’s in the field, not while there’s someone hurt and in need--never while he’s the doctor with people depending on him, when he has to plan out his moves with every contingency his brain could spit out at any random change in vital functions.
When he’s that guy with someone on his table, he can’t give in.
The first time Jason zip tied him to the headboard and the two of them started to work, he came closer and closer to the realization of how much he could crave something.
He didn’t even realize what it was that made him fuzzy and half-aware until the ensuing talk when his two boyfriends figured it out for him.
(“Timmy? Hey Sugar, you were so good for us, but s’time ta’ come back.”
“He’s really deep isn’t he?” Fingers in his hair and fuzzy warmth.
“Blacked out pretty hard, Big Wing. But howz ‘bout we throw downa bet, yeah? I call it, you bring home donuts.”
“Done and done,” nails against his scalp and lazy massage of his hips, gentle, easy touches.
“He one that’s gotta give in sometimes, Baby Boy. Gotta give it up, you feel me? S’why the ties were a nice lil’ surprise.”)
Sure, he was slightly mortifying, but he picked the color system as his safeword just so he could leave that convo with an array of excuses before his face caught fire.
But, well. Vigilantes and such.
Dick blocked the bedroom door casually while Jay gripped the back of his neck and said in no uncertain terms how not a problem that is for them, something they can play with if he wanted. It isn’t something they have to do all the time, but when it’s been a hard row of nights, when mortality is just that much closer than the peripheral, when any of them get itchy in their own skin, it’s perfect for all three of them. Dick and Jason have the need to protect, to have absolutely control instead of contingencies while Tim can be pliant, let the responsibilities go to just be.
This is their first time without Jay’s smooth baritone, but he’s already such a fucking mess, he might literally explode with both of them.
“What color, baby?” Dick hums at him, working his hands down Tim’s arms, to his chest, leans down to flick his tongue over one pink nipple, working it taunt.
“Green,” wheezed out, “so green. Like Christmas over here. Please, please, you loveable, sadistic, pain-in-my-ass--”
“I have gags, Tim. I’m not afraid to use them.”
Oh...God. How is he not coming right now?!
He jerks to slide his cock against Dick’s, bucks up helplessly.
“Really? Tim, baby, we really need to explore so much more, but another time, okay? I want to be able to hear you when I can’t see your face.” And yes, he whimpers when Dick leans up and away, leaving him to rut up in the air with trembling thighs and pre-come painting his stomach.
One leg is raised up and the D-ring attached, his calf petted affectionately.
“The whole apartment is sound-proof by the way,” as the next leg is lifted and attached. The cradle is more taunt than the upper and lower layers, obviously with almost no give, keep him spread obscenely wide.
Tim lets his head fall back, panting with it.
Dick maneuvers effortlessly, gorgeous naked, to grab onto a ring over his head and reach into a hidden pouch to pull a two buttoned remote (what no Nightwing symbol?). “I’m right here, baby. Look at me the whole time, okay? It’s going to get...intense your first time, but I’m right here with you,” the hand with the remote smoothes over his thigh, and Tim manages to tilt his head back up to look, and see the easy smile. A tiny beep and he forces himself to keep watching while his stomach drops and they rise.
His brain knows they’re in a condensed space, knows he’s not that high off the ground that a fall could kill him. The lower layer of straps is only a few feet from the carpet and taunt enough to catch him if something breaks, but his body only gets tighter with the anticipation and the distance seems like miles. The sheer weightlessness, the thin points of support, the slight pull to his wrists and ankles has his head falling back, panting.
Dick just rubs his thigh again with his free hand, supported only by his one-handed grip on a single ring. He slides the remote away, and like he demonstrated before, just an easy twist of hips and the vigilante’s legs rise over his head in an upside-down split with perfectly straight lines to loops his ankles in the top layer of straps over them, arching his spine in an incredibly flexible move to put his face right over the secured doctor.
“Talk to me, baby. Tell me where you’re at,” and because Dick can do that, he’s only holding himself up with his calves and knees easily, palming the side of Tim’s face to look closer at his pink cheeks and blown pupils.
It’s not that far, it’s not that far, it’s not that far-- don’t think about the possible fractures and contusions.
“You could always distract me,” he rasps out, trying to get enough purchase to lift his hips, trying to find friction for his painfully hard cock. “That sounds nice right about now, I mean, it would be a shame to waste all the time well-spent torturing me--”
But he’s only babbling because Dick’s smile is downright sinful (even upside down), and he moves with that careless power, like he could do this all day, flipping around Tim’s inert body, grabbing other straps to set them swaying lazily and slot himself right against Tim’s back, pressing the front of his body against his smaller lover, grips the restraining cradle above bound wrists, and slides his cock wetly in the cleft of Tim’s ass with a groan, lining up so the head catches at the place where it needs to be. Now, right fucking now.
“You’re killing me, killing me,” he moans out, his body swaying gently as he tries to work his hips, lets his head fall back against Dick’s shoulder. And pressed so close to Tim, with this incredible trust making his chest tight, only the thin bands between them, only held up by his own strength and the straps, he presses his mouth gently to the spot right between shoulder and neck, biting just slightly. So he can give the deep, hard thrusts Tim needs, Dick threads his legs into the straps right alongside Tim’s, arching a little so he can work. Tim’s mouth drops open automatically with the feel of all that strength, the tight muscles against his back and ass and thighs; he’s helpless to do anything but work his hips as best he can, try to get the angle right, try to get what his body is desperate for.
Wet and sharp against the nape of his neck, a laugh followed by a lick. Dick uses his leverage, pulling to create a terribly tight tension, holding Tim’s body still against movement, to finally start sliding inside him, filling him up until his body just fucking unlocks and he sinks further into the supporting straps and Dick’s unending strength.
It’s too much and not enough, helpless and weightless, his body on fire with it, and he bites down hard enough on his lower lip that doesn’t come just from the feel of Dick filling him up, but his thighs shake with the effort.
“Oh God, oh God, you feel so big inside me,” a stupid thing babbled out, his fingers, always precise, always steady, fumbling at the strap so he can just hold on. “Dick! Dick--fuck.”
“I’m right here, Tim. Right here with you,” breathed gently across his neck, ending on a groan.
But it’s just so Dick, slow and easy, making his body open, Dick taking his time no matter how desperate the noises are starting to sound. It’s with leverage and gentle swaying, lazy short thrusts until Dick is buried inside him to the root.
The only thing grounding him is the precarious skin and scars below him, held by a few straps, his eyes wet with the intensity of it all. His moan is helplessly aroused when he feels just the right kind of full.
“So good, baby. Damn, you’re so tight for me. Oh, God, I wanna fill you up so bad, but not yet, okay?” and it’s that lower register, the cock throbbing inside his body, doing this makes him bite down hard on his lower lip so he doesn’t start begging. Just a little shifting, giving Tim time to adjust to the rush to his senses, his vertigo, to let him ease down enough to move.
“I think you’ll have to take a week off and just stay here with me. Oh, Jay is going to love this.”
...a week? He bites down on his lip harder (but the noises spill out anyway--he can’t hold it in).
And with his incredible strength, Dick adjusts to grip another strap for a strategic pull, the strap holding him under his thighs releases enough for gravity to take over and pound Tim down hard to grind perfectly on the vigilante’s thick, hard cock. A surprised noise and his body undulates as the momentum starts-- a sweet drag out, with just the tip keeping the panting doctor open, Dick pulls easily on the straps to move Tim’s body so he can push back in.
When he gets a low, shaky groan, he gets validation he has Timmy in the perfect place, right where he needs his ridiculously smart, hot little boyfriend to be. He has to make Tim mindless to completely let go of his rigid control, the doctor always ready for the next emergency, to let Dick take him without holding back.
From the arch of that spine against his chest, the abrupt cry, he’d say he’s succeeding, and isn’t Jay going to be so fricking jealous.
The rhythm is slow and erotic, the glide getting wetter, and Dick flexes his thighs to bury himself as deep as he can, to open Tim up even more. He only needs one hand (not really, he could keep fucking Tim just with his thighs in the right place, but yes, soon) so the other can turn his baby’s face enough to see the open-mouthed panting, the glazed eyes hazy with pleasure. Dick groans and takes his mouth hard and wet, speeds up his thrusts because perfect, their boy is absolutely perfect.
In between thrusting tongues and the slick, quickening motions, he’s moaning after every thrust, a minute shift here and there until the tip of Dick’s cock hits his spot on the rolling glide back in, and he almost screams with it. His cock is throbbing and pleasure shoots up his spine, he’s weightless and helpless, and it’s Dick, so it’s so fucking good, his brain is frying because he can’t take anymore--he just needs to come.
“P-Please Dick, please.”
Fuck, here he is begging anyway.
Nuzzling below his ear to place absurdly gentle kisses while the rolling rhythm fills him up until the straps tremble in time with his thighs.
“Not yet, baby. Oh...oh, not yet. Ah, you’re so tight and hot around me, feels so good. I need more, just--ah, damn!--just a little more. You can hold out for me, can’t you Timmy? Just a little bit more?”
He’s turning into a keening mess, almost sobbing, but still, “fuck...fuck, yes. I’ll try, but, oh, oh God--”
Something evil, the sound of a smirk against his jugular, “oh baby, I know, it feels so good, doesn’t it? Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, I’ll help you,” with a hard, deep, seating thrust making him see stars, and just breathing? Who really needs to anyway?
The glide out is slow and complete, making him literally keen when the heavy, hot tip pulls out of him wetly, leaving him unfathomably empty when the only thing he needs right the fuck now--
Strategic pulls on straps and incredible feats of flexibility--Dick grinning wide, suddenly climbing between his restrained legs to share the cradle with him. One of those hands kneads his inner thigh, grounding him, bringing him back from the brink.
Tim’s too dazed, his brain a syrupy mess to put together the physics how Dick’s manages to get their hips aligned by bracing his feet on the shoulder strap much less get enough control to pull on another above his head and get Tim’s hips to tilt up. But the tip slides over him, wet and teasing, making his head fall back on his shoulders, and the rest is all about need.
He grips the straps he’s chained to, with it enough to shove his hips down on the next pass, earning a noise from both of them.
They move in some psychic agreement and meet on the next thrust. Dick is gripping his hip with a free hand to rub soothing circles while things like gravity and kinky vigilante sex configurations literally make him insane.
He knows there is soothing words during the easy, rolling rhythm, knows Dick is asking if he’s okay (and really, how do you expect him to answer that while this is a THING?), but his brain is taken up with the feel of his body being filled over and over, of moving his hips to try and keep Dick buried deep enough that he forgets where he ends and Dick begins.
When the glide becomes too much again, and he’s going to come or break down and fucking cry or some shit, his chest is a shaking enough with panting breath that the straps at his back move, and he’s almost bitten a hole in his lip. Dick’s hand slides down his hip and leg without a hitch in the fluid, driving rhythm, fingers slide across the inside of his thigh to hold him, ground him.
“I can’t-- I can’t--” and fuck his eyes are wet, but Dick buries himself deep right against Tim’s spot and he rears back to scream.
“Doing so well, Timmy, fuck you’re being so good, so good for me.”
A hard draw back, almost completely out, making Tim wail because please, please, so close--
“Now, baby. Now.”
And on the slide back in, so fucking full, he comes with his head back and his synapsis exploding. He’s a shaking, sweaty mess of a man, taking a series of slow, deep thrusts with tears running down his face, and meaningless noises spilling out of his chest until Dick buries himself deep a final time and fills him to the brim.
Dick’s ceiling fuzzes out and his eyes flutter, his pulse throbbing in the back of his throat, and the trembles of pleasure keep shooting up his spine, keeping him under where things are soft and fuzzy and warm. He’s not with it enough to feel the shift, the gentle sway of his body, Dick wet, thick cock slowly easing out. Everything sounds far away while his body comes down and he’s a mass of useless as fuck.
It’s fine though because Dick’s maneuvered to be literally hanging over him by his calf wrapped around a strap overhead. Warm hand on his face, tinny sound and moving lips, those blue eyes sparkling and happy, sated.
“Oh baby, I wore you out, didn’t I? Poor thing. I’m sorry, that was a lot so fast, wasn’t it?” And the furrow between Dick’s brows is a signal that mother-henning is about to start. “How about we get down and have cuddles for a while, hm?”
He thinks he probably hummed and didn’t even twitch at the clench of his stomach as they started to lower and Dick hangs over him, palming his face and cooing stupidly cute things about how brave he is for trying this, how much Dick enjoyed making love to him, how good he felt and how beautiful he was when he came so hard.
He stares up at those eyes, dazed and pliant and about as fucked out as you could possibly get. Which is why he completely lets Dick unclip the cuffs, pick him up like a fainting damsel, and take them both to the big inviting bed in the corner so he can just stay under and let himself float.
He briefly remembers drinking cool water from a straw and something tasty being fed to him so all he had to do was open and chew. There’s a warm wet cleaning him up at some point, but he finally goes completely under to the soft noise of the television, and the steady rhythm of Dick’s heart under his ear.
The only time he wakes up is when another warm body slides into bed with them, and the familiar scent of cigarettes and brimstone makes him sigh in contentment and tolerate the low, amused chuckle against his forehead, deciding on retribution for another night. Because now he’s bracketed between two large vigilantes and nothing short of an emergency is going to make him move an inch.
|
"Look who's here!" Mandy called out as she walked into Mickey and Ian's house with her one-year-old daughter in her arms. "Say hi to Uncle Mickey and Uncle Ian, Ari!"
"Hi!" Arya exclaimed, waving her tiny hands at her uncles and cousins, all seated at the table having breakfast.
"Hey!" Ian said, standing up to hug his sister-in-law and niece. "What're you guys doin' here?"
"Lip's doin' something in Dolton and decided to drop me and Ari off, here, to see you guys." Mandy explained, passing Arya off to Ian. "Okay, I have free arms, gimme the Mouse!" Mandy demanded, rushing over to Mickey and gently taking Cian and his bottle into her arms. "Look at you, baby boy! You look just like Daddy and big brother!"
"Only got one little Ian look-a-like." Mickey commented, cutting up Harlow's waffle for her. "You want syrup, Ladybug?"
"No, Daddy." Harlow said with a shake of her head, popping a bite of her waffle into her mouth.
"You guys ate, yet?" Ian asked, taking his seat at the table next to Max with Arya in his lap.
"Yeah; Lip made everyone breakfast, this morning. I'm tellin' you, he's up to something." Mandy said, sitting down between Mickey and Ian.
"Your anniversary coming up or something?" Ian asked, passing the syrup bottle to Max.
"Thank you." Max said, pouring a small amount of the thick, sticky liquid onto his waffles.
"I don't think so... I can't even tell you when we got together, it sorta just... Happened." Mandy said, looking back down at Cian. "If it wasn't for those green eyes he'd look just like you, Mick."
"If Max had black hair and a few less freckles he'd look just like Mickey." Ian pointed out, looking at his son lovingly. "Your birthday's not until September, so it's not that." Ian said, passing Max a clean napkin.
"Valentine's day." Max chimed in, looking around at the adults. "Valentine's day is Friday; you're supposed to get people you love a present."
"How'd you get so smart?" Mickey asked the boy, amazed that he'd figured out what none of them could.
"School." Max said with a shrug, making Mandy, Ian, and Mickey all laugh.
"Okay, so maybe he's getting you something for Valentine's days." Ian supplied, wondering what his brother was planning.
"Come on, Aunt Mandy, it's a race; you gotta run faster!" Max shouted, running around the backyard as fast as his short legs would carry him.
"You're too fast, Max!" Mandy exclaimed, pretending she was running at full-speed.
"Hey, Pipsqueak! You gotta let Aunt Mandy win, sometimes!" Lip yelled, sauntering out the back door. "The Hell aren't they playin' inside?"
"Harlow gets stir-crazy if she don't get to play outside for a little while everyday." Ian explained, fixing the hood on Cian's green hoodie so that the little bear ears where back on top of his head. "You're gonna be walkin' and playing in the yard with big brother and sister, soon, aren't you, mouse?"
"Hard to believe he's already six months old." Lip stated, looking out at his own daughter as she crawled around behind Mandy. "We're all grown up, man."
"Gonna tell me what you were doing?" Ian asked, turning Cian in his lap so he could watch his siblings and Aunt running around as his cousin sat in the grass laughing.
"I've got a plan. You just gotta trust that I'm not going to hurt her. Not again." Lip promised, glancing up at the door as Mickey walked out with Liam at his side. "Hey, Mick."
"Fuck off." Mickey replied coldly, walking onto the grass and scooping a giggling Harlow up, making the girl howl in hysterical laughter.
"It's been over a year! Is he seriously still pissed at me?" Lip asked, looking at his brother for some sort of answer.
"You know, it took me days to get him to explain what he was talking about that night. But after he did? I would understand if he never forgave you." Ian said, looking down at his infant son, who had become very interested in Ian's long fingers.
"Tell me." Lip said once Liam-still as quiet as ever-walked off the porch and placed Arya-who had crawled her way over to the swing set-in the baby swing to push her. Ian sighed, but didn't seem like he was going to withhold information from Lip.
"After Mandy moved to Indiana with Kenyatta, she broke up with the asshole. Mick said he was so fuckin' relieved when she called to tell him, but then she mentioned a new boyfriend-some asshole frat guy named Chad-and he started to worry she was just moving from one abusive prick to another, but Mandy said she was happy, so he let it go. About three months later, he got worried when she didn't call him for a few days, so he kept texting her for a whole day sayin' shit like "where the fuck are you?" and "fuckin' call me, Mandy, I'm worried about you" and then the last one was "I love you, Mandy. Just call me, okay?" I guess Chad saw 'em and spent the better part of the day beating the living shit outta her; guess he thought she was cheating or some shit. He got a call from some hospital just outside Indianapolis saying Mandy had him down as an emergency contact and that he needed to get there... He was four months pregnant with Max, but he still drove all the way to Indiana to make sure his sister was okay; she wasn't.
"She was unconscious, they'd stitched her head closed, four of her ribs, her left arm, and three fingers on her right hand were all broken, and they were checking her out to make sure one of her broken ribs didn't penetrate a lung. When Mandy was conscious, again, she told Mickey what happened and said she was gonna save up and move back home. He tried to convince her to just come stay with him, but she said she'd be fine for a few months. She moved back four days after Max was born, and refused to ever talk about it, again." Ian relayed, making Lip feel about two inches Tall.
"I'd never hit her, Ian." Lip promised his younger brother, glancing at the strong, beautiful woman he loved as she picked up their daughter and kissed her tiny cheek.
"No; you hurt her emotionally, not physically. Mickey's been worried about her ending up with another guy like that for eight years." Ian said, standing up with a yawning Cian in his arms. "Gotta lay him down." Lip fallowed Ian inside, needing a little privacy to tell Ian his plan in secret.
"I'm gonna ask Mandy to marry me on Friday... I need you and Mickey to help." Lip confided in the redheaded man. "I have no idea how to do it."
"Not exactly the best person to ask about that, man; I asked Mickey when we found out Terry was out of prison. As much as I love my husband, we got married when we did to protect him and to keep Terry from finding him or Max." Ian admitted quietly as he changed Cian's diaper and laid him in his crib-which had finally been moved to the bedroom he was sharing with Max-trying not to startle the baby who had already fallen asleep.
"I have a plan-sort of-but I need some help from the family." Lip said before launching into the details he had planned out and what parts each member of their family would need to play.
|
The next day Virgil went back to the bookstore, but this time he was completely alone. It was a Wednesday morning and since Mari was only 16 she didn’t have a relaxed college schedule that only had 3 days of school, like Virgil did. Virgil was only following one course at the moment so he only had school at Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. Virgil knew that coming to the store in the morning was the best way to avoid a crowd and maybe avoid Mari too. He didn’t expect Roman to be there either and nobody else in town really knew who he was or cared about him. Virgil was sure of it, this was the best time to go to the store and hopefully sign a contract, so he could start giving his creative writing classes to whoever was interested. He was hoping he could target it towards kids, but he’ll have to talk about that with Logan... oh... yeah he had almost forgotten... this contract he had to sign was made up by Logan. He was kind of going to work in the close proximity of both Logan and Patton. If Virgil wasn’t nervous before he was now, but who are we kidding here Virgil is always nervous.
He was surprised to find Logan standing inside the store reading a story to a little girl. Logan had definitely gotten better at telling stories and actually seemed to enjoy it, but it was still an odd sight, seeing the man that Virgil only knew as logical and serious, like he wears a necktie everyday, that’s like the epitome of seriousness, read a story with so much enthusiasm. Virgil could only guess that a lot can change in 10 years.
Patton beckoned him over from behind the register and told Virgil he had to wait a little before he could sign the contract, because Logan was better at dealing with that kind of thing and he was obviously busy at the moment.
Apparently the young girl’s mother had forgotten to bring her bag from the car so she couldn’t pay for the book the girl wanted. Patton had offered to watch the girl, but the little angel had wanted him to read to her. And for some reason he couldn’t do that, so Logan had stepped in.
That struck Virgil as odd, until he realized the last book reading he had been to, where Patton had started crying. He didn’t remember why though... what was the book he was reading from again? And was it even important to remember that book? maybe it didn’t have anything to do with it? Patton crying wasn’t a rare sight after all. But those were definitely sad tears... at least he thought they were... Virgil didn’t really remember much of his last few months before he left to Italy. Everything had been a blur back then. And now he should probably be thankful for that.
When the woman came back from the parking lot she thanked Logan and went to the register to pay for the book. Logan noticed Virgil and asked him to follow him to the back. Virgil had always been curious about the mysterious blue door that lead to a room hidden from the general public.
The room was filled with papers, some needly organized, others scattered over a small wooden desk. There was another door to the right of the room which Virgil guessed was a bathroom. The room had a TL-light on the ceiling, but that one was switched of and instead a standing lamp near the entrance and a desk lamp on the desk lit the room up. There were also a few more bookcases with extra copies of books in the store and some books that probably weren’t for sale. The desk chair was old and worn down from the long hours Logan sitting there, but it was still functional.
Logan sat down on the chair and handed Virgil the contract. He gave Virgil the time to read it and they discussed it together. Then came the difficult part. Virgil had to sign the contract and had to write his full name down. Well not his full, full name, but his first and last. Angelo V. Davide, it really wasn’t that difficult, but what if Logan recognized the name? The Davide family never really got along with the Sanders family... mainly because they were against Patton and Logan being together. Patton and Logan must have been happy when Virgil’s family left to live in Italy...
“Are you alright Angelo?” Logan asked making an effort to show a small amount of concern on his face. “Is there something within the contract that is not satisfactory for you?”
Virgil quickly shook his head and wrote down his name and signature. Davide was one of the most popular Italian last names... he tried to reason with himself.
But how many of those Italians live in a small town in Florida? His anxiety bounced back.
Logan however seemed unfazed by the name, which made Virgil relax a little more in some small talk with the man. For the first time since Virgil had come to the store, Virgil dared to look Logan straight in the eyes. His eyes were an icy blue, that matched with the fact that most people saw him as cold hearted. Virgil knew he wasn’t cold hearted though. Logan’s interaction with the little girl earlier was enough to prove that. Logan just had some difficulty showing emotions, his face mostly perfectly calm, collected and maybe sometimes a bit angry, in a sort of resting bitch face. Logan was wearing a blue tie and black button-up shirt as usual in combination with a pair of jeans and some dress shoes.
After chatting for about fifteen minutes Virgil left the store knowing that his first creative writing class would be next Saturday and that it was targeted towards teens. Virgil was nervous about it, but a good kind of nervous, butterflies and stuff. Kind of how Roman made him feel... shit! Virgil seriously had a crush for that overdramatic idiot!
Announcement signs for the creative writing class were made that afternoon by Patton, but Logan had the final say in the design, because otherwise it would just be littered with pictures of cats and dogs, that have nothing to do with writing. Well unless you are writing about cats and dogs...
When Saturday arrived and Virgil got out of bed at 2 PM after a very restless night, he was absolutely terrified.
|
Thursday loomed unexpectedly fast and Draco was panicking. He had no plan whatsoever, aside from taking Neville’s remembrall and taunting Harry. Though he suspected that wouldn’t work this time, mainly because Harry didn’t have a deep-seated dislike of him anymore.
“If only I wasn’t so charming and personable.” He lamented, leaning heavily against the outer stonewall of the castle.
A distinct snort came from beside him as Hermione joined him in leaning against the wall.
“Draco Malfoy, being charming? Call the press, I have an exclusive.” She deadpanned.
“Oh how witty you are, Minister.” He sighed.
“You okay?” She nudged his shoulder. “You seem,” she struggled for a word, “Distracted?”
He shrugged noncommittally, “I guess.”
“Flying class?”
“Bloody Potter.” He murmured.
Hermione chuckled and smiled at him, smacking his arm lightly.
“Thinks he’s so special.” He whined, just to hear her laugh again, which she did, loudly. Draco grinned at her cheekily. “With his broomstick.” His impression of his younger self was spot on and he was finding it hard no to laugh himself. “And his scar.”
“Oh shut up you twit!” Hermione laughed, pushing his head away from where he was leaning towards her. “You really are incorrigible.”
“One on my many, many redeeming qualities I’m sure.” He smirked at her, before letting it drop and staring blankly back towards the broomshed.
“Don’t worry too much about it,” Hermione smiled gently at him, “just…” she tapered off quietly.
“I know, I know.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t even think I could pick on Neville even if I were so inclined. Blaise would kill me.”
“Yes, they really get on well don’t they?” She mused happily.
“It’s amazing how a love of Quidditch teams can bring people together.” He chuckled.
“Truly wondrous.”
She was smiling at him brightly now, leaning against him as the cold September wind blew at them. Her face was pink, eyes watering and every few seconds she sniffed trying –and failing- to stop the flow of snot coming from her nose. Adorable.
“Come on Hermione,” He began steering her to the door, “let’s get back in where it’s warm. You’ve got snot dripping from your face and I don’t want you wiping it on me.”
She cackled at that, allowing him to guide them into the hallway. “Fair point,” reaching into her school bag, she pulled out a pack of muggle tissues, removing one before passing it over to him.
Her gaze flicked over his face, lingering on his nose. “You’ve you something” she inclined her head slightly; stifling a laugh as she viciously blew her nose.
Draco’s face contorted in revulsion, he quickly pulled a tissue from the small plastic packet and wiped at his own snot trail. “This is so undignified.” He muttered, vanishing the tissue.
“We’re children Draco, all children are covered in various mucus.”
He let out a groan of despair, letting Hermione drag him along as they headed back towards the classrooms.
Their first period had been free and Draco had hoped to use it to find inspiration for the upcoming flying lesson. Hermione joined him shortly after, using her nifty little map to find him no doubt. She seemed happier today, a bit of a bounce in her step. She hadn’t stopped smiling and it was infectious.
After reaching the first floor, she shooed him up the stairs and headed off to History of magic, promising to see him at flying lessons.
“Wait Hermione!” he quickly called after her dashing down the corridor, “I forgot to ask, is there any chance I can borrow a quill? Theo broke mine this morning and I forgot to get a new one out the… why are you looking at me like that?”
She had sucked her lips into her mouth and was looking apologetic. “It’s just I haven’t got any quills.”
“No quills? What have you been writing with?”
Sheepishly she reached into her bag and pulled out, a quill…
“That’s definitely a quill Hermione.” He said slowly, eyeing her worriedly.
She huffed at him before twisting the feather to show the nib, which wasn’t a nib. It was some sort of metal point with a tiny ball at the tip.
“It’s a ballpoint pen, I was sick of ending up with ink everywhere so I just combined them? It’s not perfect,” she hurriedly explained. “It’s just until I can work on a better design, the plastic doesn’t mesh so well with the quill, but it saves all the dipping and spilled inkpots for now.”
“A type of muggle pen?” He hedged cautiously.
“Yes”
“That doesn’t require getting ink all over oneself?”
“Not unless you smash it, no.”
“Hermione, you are a genius.”
Despite her already pink face, from being outside, Draco saw her turn a few shades darker.
“Oh um, thank you.” She smiled happily, “If you’re alright with it, then I guess you can borrow one.” She handed him the one in her hand, “you can be my tester and, um, if you like it you can keep it?”
The bell suddenly echoed through the halls jarring them both. The doors flew open down the corridor and students began streaming from them.
Quickly Draco hugged her giving her a quick peck on the cheek as thanks, pelted along the corridor and up the stairs waving his quill as a goodbye. He could just about hear her laugh through the din.
He made it just in time to enter the classroom before the door closed; glancing about he spotted Blaise sitting alone and proceeded to plonk down next to him.
“Where’d you go?” Blaise asked, eyebrow raised, giving him an unimpressed once over. “You look like you’ve been thrown from one of the towers,” the boy’s lip curled “and you’re dripping snot.”
“Ah, thanks,” Draco pulled Hermione’s pack of tissues from his pocket, “went for a bit of fresh air, invigorates the soul and all that.” He blew his nose noisily, grinning at Blaise’s shudder.
Blaise chose to ignore his lack of decorum, instead turning and pulling out his new black folder. Smugly he gazed around the room as he placed it on his desk. His name glinted in silver embossed writing. Hermione had really outdone herself with Blaise and Theo’s folders. She even added a little Slytherin crest in shimmering silver in the corner.
Draco rolled his eyes; Blaise had been doing this all week, as soon as Hermione had presented him with it in fact. Theo was hardly any better, but at least he had stopped gloatingly flashing it about.
Pursing his lips, Draco removed his own folder; he had a sneaking suspicion that Hermione had done it on purpose to annoy him. He didn’t mind that his one didn’t have the Slytherin crest, really he didn’t. He supposed his one looked more elegant and adult.
He saw Blaise watching him out of the corner of his eye, so he laid his new ballpoint quill atop his folder with a flourish. He was not being petty.
“What’s that?” Came Blaise’s immediate response.
“What? Oh this?” He said picking up the feather and holding the pen tip towards Blaise, “Hermione gave it to me, it’s a muggle thing. Don’t have to dip it into ink or anything.” He said with feigned nonchalance.
“Let me see.” Blaise grabbed for it, but Draco was quicker.
“No time for that now Blaise, it’s learning time, shame on you.” Draco dutifully opened his folder and began writing down the notes on the board. So he occasionally flicked his quill too much, didn’t make him petty.
“Favouritism, that’s what this is.” Blaise grumbled from beside him.
“Absolutely” Draco flashed his teeth at Blaise, and the boy chuckled at him.
Draco spent the rest of the day showing off his new muggle quill in every class he was in. Flashing it about and making no attempt to hide his glee, it was a nice distraction from his task later on. He had several Ravenclaw’s show interest in his new curiosity and agreed to see if he could get some for them too. Perhaps Hermione would be willing to do a little bit of a side business with him.
------------------------
Flying class came about with much excitement from all his classmates, and they headed out to the grounds with much exuberance. Chucking their school bags into a massive pile by the broomshed, they followed Madame Hooch’s instructions and lined up for her speech about safety.
Draco’s eyes wandered and settled on Hermione, she was shuffling along the crowd and kept looking up at the castle, then down to the ground as though calculating something. Moving quickly he ducked down and approached her. He grabbed her arm just as she was about to cast a cushioning charm on the grass.
“You can’t Hermione.” He whispered softly.
Madame Hooch’s gaze turned sharply towards them and they straightened as though paying attention.
“Why not?” she muttered, barely moving her lips.
“Because if he doesn’t need to go to the hospital wing, then we won’t be left unsupervised.” He squeezed her arm, before letting go. “I’m sorry. I don’t want him to get hurt either.”
“I know.”
She let him draw her away from the offending spot of grass, as the class began to line up alongside their brooms. Hermione kept glancing at Neville and chewing on the inside of her mouth. Draco felt his stomach drop as they were instructed to mount their brooms.
Shit, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t knowingly let a child be injured.
Neville’s broom shot into the air, and so did Draco’s.
------------------
Hermione gasped as Neville left the ground beside her, shooting into the sky like a rocket. Her wand was in her hand before she knew it, but Draco rendered her unnecessary. He zoomed into the sky, quickly approaching Neville.
The next few moments happened so fast Hermione wasn’t sure she witnessed it correctly.
Neville’s grip loosened and he slid from his broom like a sack of potatoes. Her heart lurched into her throat and she let out a cry that was taken up by those around her. Then Draco was hanging by one arm and leg, gripping Neville’s forearm with his hand.
The next thing she knew there was a blast of air next to her, as Harry also shot into the sky. He grabbed Neville’s other arm and between them the boys dragged poor Neville onto Draco’s broom.
Everyone clapped, cheered and yelled, Hermione laughed slightly hysterically, gripping her wand to her chest.
A scream broke out as Harry suddenly dived at an incredible speed towards the ground, spinning in place and pulling up just inches from impact. His face was red and he was clutching a small glinting object in his fingers.
“Got it Neville!” He screeched, waving his arm enthusiastically, the small remembrall shining in the light.
Draco slowly lowered his broom to the ground, and Hermione could see that Neville was shaking and had a death grip around Draco’s waist. Both Harry and Draco landed their brooms unsteadily before sliding heavily to the floor. Harry tried to hand Neville back his remembrall, but he wouldn’t let go of Draco and was blinking back tears.
Poor boy needed a bit of calming draught, which she mentioned to Madame Hooch before offering to take Neville to the hospital wing.
Madame Hooch looked like she didn’t know whether to praise or punish the boys for their actions, she settled on giving them a lecture on recklessness as well as five points a piece for quick thinking.
Hermione gave Draco a soft smile as she pried Neville loose from him; Draco grimaced back as he took a deep breath. Neville had been practically crushing his ribcage.
As she moved Neville gently away from the training ground, the rest of the class began heaping praise on Harry and Draco. Both boys shakily got up from the floor. She looked back one last time, making eye contact with Draco, who had been watching her leave; he smiled sheepishly, face flushed and eyes bright.
Professor McGonagall rushed past her and Neville as they made their way up to the Hospital wing, quickly stopping to check that ‘the poor boy’ was all right, before vanishing down the stairs faster than Hermione had ever seen her move before. Hermione was finding it difficult not to grin as she murmured soft encouragements to Neville.
A couple of sips of calming draught and Neville was feeling much better, his eyes still had a slightly wide look to them, but other than that, all good. Hermione sat with him and they chatted about random things; food, holidays, school, anything to keep Neville’s mind off the fact he had nearly dropped an undisclosed height –as Hermione wasn’t going to tell him- from a broomstick.
Not even half an hour later, Dean, Seamus and Ron ran into the Hospital wing. They were carrying Neville and Hermione’s bags all chattering excitedly, arms waving as they relayed the event from their point of view.
“How… how high?” Neville squeaked, face turning pale as Ron began a dramatic retelling of Neville flying through clouds.
“Not that high.” Hermione patted his arm reassuringly, taking that as her cue to leave.
She quietly slipped out the door, whipping out her book and asking it courteously where she might find Draco Lucius Malfoy. It didn’t take long to find him, because he was right where she left him. Most of the class had stayed behind, sitting about in the grass laughing and talking raucously. Draco had a small crowd round him all trying to slap him on the back and tell him ‘how awesome’ he had been.
She glanced round and didn’t see Harry, so McGonagall had taken him to meet Oliver after all. Excellent, everything seemed to have worked out quite well, one less thing to worry about now anyway.
Draco spotted her through the limbs flailing at him, and ducked away citing a need to go to the loo. “All that excitement has gone straight through me, if you’ll please excuse me.”
He frantically motioned for her to turn around and go back inside, laughing quietly she quickly ran back into the castle and waited for him.
“Like bloody piranhas, I have never been so accosted in all my life.” He exclaimed as he fell into step beside her. He was adjusting his collar, which was half up, and trying to fix his tie at the same time. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his shirt had become un-tucked.
“Why do they have an incessant need to smack my head? What does that accomplish? Ruffling their fingers through my hair, personal space be damned.” He was complaining loudly, but his face was red and he couldn’t stop smiling. Rambling out of embarrassment most likely.
“I thought you were amazing.” Hermione stated, linking her arm through his.
Draco slammed his mouth shut and looked at her sharply.
“Very brave.” She said looking straight ahead, a small smile on her face.
“Yeah.” He said softly, then more confidently “yeah I guess I was, wasn’t I?”
“Very much so,” she nodded firmly.
“Of course anyone would have done the same.” He said, puffing out his chest slightly.
“Of course.”
“Just doing my duty.”
“My hero.” She purred at him, grinning.
He laughed delightedly, practically skipping along, before stopping dead still. Hermione looked at him curiously, he was chewing on his inner cheek slightly, gaze flitting to her.
“Um Hermione?”
“Yes?”
“It was supposed to be a surprise, I mean I didn’t want you too think that I’d... And then you didn’t mention it, so I didn’t want to push…”
Hermione waited patiently for Draco to stop rambling.
He turned to her smiling, “Happy Birthday!” he breathed.
Hermione blinked owlishly at him, it wasn’t as though she’d forgotten the date, and she’d written it at the top of her parchments all day. She just, hadn’t told anyone it was her birthday. Realising she was standing there gaping at him, Hermione sharply closed her mouth and smiled at him.
“How did you…?”
“Please.” He waved his hand at her, “It’s practically a national holiday, Granger day or something.”
“Nobody calls it that.” She laughed.
“Well I remembered, okay? And I, well we,” he inclined his head slightly as though motioning to other people, “have organised a little celebration for you.”
Hermione could feel her throat tightening and her vision getting blurry. With a squeal of happiness she threw her arms round Draco crushing him tightly to her.
“Easy Minister!” Draco gasped “still not over Neville’s death grip!”
She released him with a wet chuckle, wiping her eyes on her sleeves.
“So you’ll go? And pretend to be surprised so the others don’t kill me?” He added in a rush.
Hermione was filled with such warmth, managing just a soggy nod and a weepy smile.
“Save it for the reaction later,” Draco patted her head. “Come on Hermione lets go hide you until dinner.”
“Okay” she weakly muttered, slipping her hand into his as he led her through the castle.
*********
“Do you think it’s too much?” Fred asked tilting his head and gazing around the small classroom he was standing in. They’d chosen one on the second floor, just off the stairs. Fred knew for a fact that it hadn’t been used in all the years they’d been at Hogwarts, which made it perfect.
“Nonsense!” cried George swinging his legs wildly. George was currently dangling under a broom one handed. The other hand was busily stuffing a wodge of banner into the ceiling. Over his arm was a vast array of ribbons, paper streamers, glowing lanterns and baubles.
He continued to haphazardly float around the ceiling, cheerfully smacking the collection into the stone as he went.
“I think it’s just the right amount of celebratory pizazz!” he yelled, viciously throwing more ribbons everywhere.
“True, true. I do concede Georgie my boy it’s certainly party-esque.”
“Thanks,” George huffed, twisting about in the air to shoot his twin a smirk. “I got this, you go hit up the kitchen.”
“Any requests?”
“Edible stuffs.”
“Plan.”
Fred skipped out the old classroom, chuckling as he went, and proceeded to head down the stairs to the dungeons.
About half way down he heard a loud whooping screech, followed by a vast array of swearing and yelling.
Pausing and snapping his head in the direction of the commotion, Fred had a split second to register the sound of the steps clunking down, before his feet were whipped from beneath him and he slid down the now smooth stone.
He let out a surprised yelp, arms bracing either side of his body as he flew down the marble slide.
Glancing back he could make out about ten other students sliding haphazardly behind him, some were head first, a couple were rolling as they went and one young girl was smiling like a loon waving her hands in the air letting out a whoop as they bounced across the landing onto the next set of stairs.
“I’m gonna kill you Kellah!” One particularly green looking firstie girl was screeching. Her hand flew too her mouth as she rocketed past him, blonde hair twisting in all directions.
Kellah seemed unbothered by this, he assumed the super happy one was Kellah, she just laughed louder.
Fred joined in her laughter, and raised his hands allowing his body to pick up speed. They barrelled down the main staircase at a dangerous pace, before skidding across the main hall in a mass of flailing limbs and screeching.
They hit the wall with a loud thud and much groaning.
“What is going on?” McGonagall’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs.
Fred could hear her boots thudding along the upper corridor; he reckoned he has a few seconds, before the stairs reformed, in which to escape. No way was he getting a detention tonight, especially when it wasn’t his prank.
He rolled sharply from the pile of students, using the surrounding onlookers as a shield. Moving quickly he slid down a small side corridor, before standing up and pelting it down a tiny spiral staircase.
He slammed into the wall outside the kitchens panting heavily. Man that was close! Moving urgently he tickled the pear and when it turned into a doorknob he grabbed it quickly and flung himself into the kitchens.
He sat heavily on the nearest bench and began cackling. That Kellah girl was a genius! He definitely needed to find out how she did that! Oh George was going to be pissed he missed it! Still laughing, Fred wiped away some tears and accepted a glass of orange juice from a nearby elf.
He explained to them that he needed food for a surprise party, and that they were holding it on the second floor in the first classroom. In a flurry the elves set to work, dashing around in all directions food flying past on enchanted platters.
There was a sudden slam noise and every head turned towards the portrait door.
Fred was surprised to see Kellah standing at the entrance, her dark eyes wide and mouth gaping. She let out a small unintelligible shriek, flapping her hands. She must have followed him in an effort to escape McGonagall.
Within seconds she was inundated with elves offering her drinks and snacks, each clambering over the other in their eagerness.
“Back off guys, it’s her first time.” Fred shouted, getting up to gently push the eager elves away from the shell-shocked girl. “Alright?” He said gently, “Kellah was it?”
Kellah nodded, her eyes still focused on the busy elves.
“First time seeing a house elf is it?”
“Oh. My. God!” She screeched, and began bouncing on her feet.
Fred recoiled from the loud shout, backing into the wall.
“Christmas elves! I knew it! I knew it!” She jumped forward pointing dramatically at a small elf hovering near her. “Where is Santa?”
Fred could only watch in bemusement as the Girl proceeded to accuse the elves of working for some muggle present deliverer. All while the elves assured her in their high-pitched voices that they ‘only works for Hogwarts miss’ and ‘we does not know a Mr Santa miss’.
A sharp tug on his sleeve drew Fred’s attention down to a pair of large brown eyes watching him imploringly.
“Yous food is readys sir. We has taken it to the party room.” The elf glanced meaningfully towards the shouting Gryffindor in the middle of the kitchen. “We must prepare for dinner now sir.”
“Of course! Right you are, just let me…” He dodged round the tables and firmly grabbed the back of Kellah’s jacket, “Thank you all so much for the assistance, we really appreciate it! Have a fine evening ladies and gents.”
Kellah was wriggling against his hold and pointing indignantly towards the elves, “But…”
“Would you rather they throw us out themselves?” She stopped fighting him and allowed herself to be pulled into the corridor, grumbling the whole time.
Once they were in the hall, Fred turned to her and held out his hand, “Fred, at your service, Kellah.”
She took his hand cautiously and he shook it firmly.
“Love what you did with the staircase Kellah, big fan! My brother and I will want to know how you did that by the way.” He shot her a wink, and gestured for her to follow him. He wanted to avoid the main hall entirely so he headed down to the lower level and up a spiral staircase that would plonk them out on the seventh floor.
“Oh, well that’s easy. I just threw myself down them.”
“You just…?”
“Yep!” She shot her hand out like a rocket and made plummeting sounds. “They have safety features of course, to protect the students. It’s all in Hogwarts a history.”
“Wow, who knew reading was actually useful?”
“Well I didn’t read it myself, but I was panicking about going up the staircase to the Owlery. You know cause it’s exposed to the elements and the steps are tiny and slippery. What happens if you fall? How long would it take for someone to find you? You could easily crack your head open and bleed out in moments!”
She was barely stopping to breathe, speaking a mile a minute. Fred didn’t know how she was doing it, he was panting from all the steps.
“Right, was there a point?”
“Hmm? Oh right, anyway Hermione said that I couldn’t possibly hurt myself because the stairs would catch me. Well no she didn’t, she damn near gave me a heart attack that’s what she did, but it’s one less thing to worry about you know?”
“Granger?”
“Oh yes you know her?”
“Friends with me and my brother.”
“Oh how wonderful! Now we can all be friends. This is so great!”
“Yeah.” He distractedly stuck his head into the seventh floor corridor, before pulling Kellah quickly along the corridor and behind a tapestry. “This is the most direct route to the Gryffindor corridor.”
“Wow you know loads of secret passageways!” Kellah was following very close to his heels, as they moved down the small passage. “Bit dark in here isn’t it?” She stage whispered, her voice a little shaky.
Sighing Fred grabbed his wand and whispered “lumos”. He almost heard the tension leave Kellah’s body as the light enveloped them.
“It’s a tunnel.”
“The ceiling won’t come down will it?” She glanced up worriedly.
He shot her an incredulous look; “It’s lasted for hundreds of years, so I think we’re okay.”
She opened her mouth to say something else, so he quickly cut across her, “So about Hermione, It’s her birthday today.”
“It is? She didn’t say anything! Oh no!”
“Don’t worry, we’re planning a little surprise party.”
“You are? How brilliant!”
“Yeah, so anyway I was gonna go common room and grab some of Hermione’s mates, seeing as you’re here already, wanna help?”
“Oh I’d love too!” She suddenly looked really sad, “But I haven’t got her a present or anything.”
“Don’t worry about that, the party is the present! I’ve got George decorating a classroom off the second corridor; the elves have delivered the grub we just have to fetch the guests! Draco is gonna bring her when we have all arrived.”
They quickly made their way into the common room, Fred saluted the fat lady as they passed, and Kellah quickly ran across the room and pelted it up the stairs to her dorm room.
Fred spotted Ron and Harry sitting in a corner by the fire, frowning at what appeared to be a horrid mess of parchment and books.
“Alright lads, how’s it going?”
Ron squinted at him for a sec, “Hey Fred, think it’s time to give up on this shit, don’t you Harry?” he said gesturing to their homework pile.
“I can’t remember what subject this is supposed to be anymore.” The spectacled boy moaned slamming his head into the table.
“Is it due tomorrow?”
“Na, but we thought we’d get it done cause Wood wants Harry to….” Ron suddenly went red and stopped speaking.
“Told you he’d shove a broom up your arse if you told anyone about our new secret weapon did he?”
Fred chuckled, shoving his brother playfully, “Relax I already know, me and George are beaters on the team Harry.” He winked, “So we’ll make sure you don’t get bloodied up too bad.”
“Thanks?” Harry whispered; looking altogether horrified at the thought of being bloodied up even a little bit.
“Oh I wouldn’t worry about it, nobody’s died in years.”
Both younger boys weakly chuckled at that, Ron eyeing Harry worriedly.
“Anyway listen, it’s Hermione’s birthday today and me an George are throwing a little surprise for her. Second floor corridor, first classroom, they’ll be cake and fizzy stuff, you lads in?”
“It’s her birthday?” Harry said quietly.
“Yeah sounds good, when?” Ron spoke over Harry.
“Bout half an hour, gonna start during dinner.” Fred patted Harry’s shoulder gently, the lad looked a little pained. “Don’t worry Harry, she kept it quiet from everyone. We only knew because of dear Draco.”
“Oh, okay…” He still looked a little worried and was fiddling with some parchment absently.
“Look, mate, how about you and Ron go get your other pals and make sure you get down to the party room ay? Then you can make sure Hermione has a great Birthday.” He smiled encouragingly at the bespectacled boy.
Ron rolled his eyes letting out a huff, “Come on Harry, let’s go, before Fred gets any sappier.”
They both trundled off to their dorm as Fred and Ron waved their middle fingers at each other. “Twat” Fred shouted gleefully after his brother.
“Wanker.”
Fred sat waiting on the sofa for about three minutes before deciding that the kids could make their own way down, he’d go see if George needed any help.
Turns out George already had help.
Fred strolled into the ‘party headquarters’ to find a group of Slytherin first years moving with purpose and organisation. A small pale girl with a severe black bob was loudly directing her ‘minions’, waving her wand in short stabbing motions with an air of authority.
Fred watched in bemusement as they scurried around her, rearranging the tables, food platters and decorations. She spotted him quickly and, turning her stubby nose in the air, scathingly inquired as to why he had returned without bringing the wireless or at least a gramophone.
“I’m Fred, I assume you mean George?” he said with a smile.
“Oh Morgana, there’s two of you?” She sighed before indicating that he assist a young black boy with hanging a large banner that had the flashing words ‘Happy Birthday Hermione’ on them.
Blaise, for that was the lad’s name, said they’d got some older students to help them make it when he enquired about the charm work.
“Impressive, Slytherins got skills.”
“Of course.” Blaise was looking quite smug.
George stumbled into the room suddenly, disrupting the organisation, his legs buckling under the weight of a very large gramophone. “Where’d ya want it Parkinson?” He yelled, wobbling in place.
A couple of big beefy Slytherin boys ran forward to help him support the base, and Parkinson directed them into a corner where she’d left a space.
A few minutes later and the gramophone had been synced up to the WWN, music by Spellbound blasting into the room.
The Gryffindor girls and boys arrived shortly after, Ron immediately grabbing some snacks and shovelling them into his face, and Harry approached Fred smiling happily.
“Hey Fred, Blaise.” He glanced around eyes wide. “It looks like someone let off a super explosive party popper in here. I like it.”
Fred wasn’t really sure what a party popper was, but if it made mess and exploded he was all for it, “Thanks Harry, I let George decorate. He has quite the creative flair. Although It looks like Parkinson took over in the organising after I left.”
“That’s really nice of her.”
“Loves a party, does Pansy.” Blaise chuckled, “Any excuse to boss people around.”
They all laughed, grinning and watching as the others bounced around.
“She’s coming! Hide!” Kellah screeched running into the room waving her arms.
“There is nowhere to hide you dope!” The blonde girl from earlier yelled back, she looked a little less green now.
“Oh yeah.”
The room fell into silence as George held up the needle on the gramophone; they fidgeted restlessly as they waited for Hermione to come in.
“You sure you saw her?” Daphne drawled when nothing happened for a minute.
“Yes, now shush! I hear them!” Kellah smushed her hand into Daphne’s mouth and the blonde girl let out a muted sound of disgust.
The door creaked open slowly.
As soon as Hermione was visible in the doorway the room exploded into sound. George dropped the needle and music came blasting into the room as people yelled happy birthday and jumped up and down in excitement.
Hermione’s face was one of total shock before she began laughing and hugging everyone, her eyes shining.
They had a bunch of party games organised, including; pin the tail on the Hippogriff, knock down gnome, giant snakes and ladders (with moving snakes), flying seahorse fishing and an old muggle game called Twister.
Neville was setting up the gnome skittles in the corner with Blaise whilst everyone was excitedly moving around the party room. Making eye contact with Draco, Fred gave him a ‘thumbs up’ and a wink. The boy responded with a wide grin.
He checked his watch; they had hours of fun until they’d have to run back to the dorms.
“Right!” piped up George, “Who wants to play knock down gnome?”
|
“Mr. Stark, what an inspiring story. Might I add how wonderful it is to see you again? It has been so dull without you.” A woman, heir to a mining corporation, smiled as Tony greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. The diamonds on her neck sparkled beneath the chandeliers.
“Jemma, the pleasure’s all mine.” Tony flashed his signature showman grin. “It’s good to be back. I missed the attention.” His company laughed politely.
At the gala, men and women mingled in tailored suits and bejewelled gowns. Tony had recently given a speech, repeating for what seemed like the hundredth time his tale of suffering in Afghanistan, escaping captivity with Mark I, subsequent palladium poisoning, and finally triumph in synthesising a new element. Most of which were old news, but the world did love a sob story.
Tony stayed and chatted with the guests until he had an excuse to hit the bar. If he had been younger, he would’ve hit the road instead, but in light of recent events, his literal second rise from the ashes needed to look promising. So far, everything had been going according to plan. If creating the arc reactor in a cave from missile scraps wasn’t enough, synthesising a brand-new element while he was dying cemented his genius. All that was expected of him for the remainder of the evening was to mingle until the charity art auction. Tony had zero interest in the intangible squiggles, but Pepper seemed to like them. He’d spent more for less before.
Following Tony's confession, the two of them had settled back into the old rhythm of Tony laying down the grand scheme of things, and Pepper making them happen. It was comfortable, familiar. She was doing a remarkable job as CEO. Stark Industries stock had plummeted in the wake of Tony’s absence, only to skyrocket again after his return. She had less and less time for Tony. In return, Tony had realised he was needing it less and less too.
Whether Pepper knew it or not, they had been through hell and back together. Their break in his past life helped Tony see that they were never meant for each other in a romantic way. There were qualities people would adore in a friend but would never approve of in a lover. Pepper needed stability in a relationship, someone to be there for her when she needed them. Tony was Iron Man. He threw himself at danger more on a daily basis than some men would their entire lives. In return, Tony needed loyalty, companionship, and excitement. Tony based his achievements on devising a goal, then tunnel visioning until he reached it. Some people turned back when they hit a dead end, but not Tony. He would throw himself at it again and again until he either attained the impossible or shattered into a million pieces. When Tony believed in something, he powered through, rain or shine.
While Pepper was coming to terms with her new-found independence from Tony, Tony was also coming to terms with the fact that he liked Pepper more as a friend. What they had was an understanding, a mutual fondness built on decades of rapport, something too precious to risk. Maybe Tony would repurchase the modern art collection he had donated to the Boy Scouts of America, with additional pieces to make up for getting rid of it in the first place.
Tony’s thoughts raced off on a tangent while he waited for his drink. He leaned against the bar and surveyed the crowd with an air of blasé boredom. A tuxedo-clad figure caught his attention. Was that…? Tony disregarded his order and snatched two cocktails as another bartender placed them down. He ignored the indignant stares on his back and marched across the dance floor. “Dr…Strange?”
The man in question turned to face him. “Well, if it isn’t Dr. Stark, the man of the century.” Strange quirked an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected to be approached.
“Please, don’t tell me you buy into tabloid journalism. My friends call me Tony.” Tony handed Strange one of the drinks. The doctor took it. Tony had never been introduced to Strange before, nor had their paths crossed on any occasion. Strange had clientele from Tony’s circle, but so does dozens of others attending the party. They exchanged pleasantries. Tony was taken with the other man’s quick wit and sharp thinking.
“I’m surprised both our egos fit in this room.” Tony smirked. He took a sip of his drink and winced in disgust. He should’ve waited for his order. “Your paper on stimulation neurogenesis is fascinating. I heard you have extensive experience with spinal cord injuries and a perfect track record. What do you think about a side job as medical consultant of Stark Industries? Nothing too committing. Won’t take up much time. All that’s required is a visit to my lab every now and then. We’ll eat canapes, sip champagne and draw up some wobbly lines.”
Strange subtly glanced over his surroundings. Half the hall was eavesdropping on their conversation. “Would you prefer somewhere more private,” Strange lowered his voice, “if this is about…” He gestured toward the faint glow beneath Tony’s dress shirt.
“This old thing? No, it’s fixed. I wanted your opinion on something else. Stark Industries is planning to launch a line of cutting-edge, but affordable prosthesis, literally at manufacturing price.” It was an old project Tony had trouble vaulting. He had upgraded the War Machine armour with a parachute, a backup generator, state-of-the-art shock absorption technology and reinforced spinal cord support. Tony was confident Rhodey was well-protected this time around, but he already had the schematics, all they needed was some extra push.
“I figured that while I still could, I better do something nice for the world. I wasn’t kidding when I said I shut down the weapons sector for the greater good.” Tony tapped on the arc reactor. He still wasn’t comfortable with putting himself out there. A part of him still screamed he didn’t deserve to be a better man, but he was getting better at blocking it. He refused to let a mumbling voice take over his life.
“That’s…most admirable,” Strange said hesitantly. Tony had a feeling he was turning out to be nothing Strange had expected. “It’s an idea I could support, I’ll see about clearing my schedule for a consultation.” According to the rumour mill, Strange hadn’t cared about the ‘greater good’ all that much, but he’d be mad to pass up a chance to collaborate with Stark Industries. Revolutionising the medical industry would look good on anyone’s portfolio.
“Like I said, it won’t take up too much time. Call me when you’re free.” Tony passed Strange his card. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another figure approaching.
“Stephen, you were gone for some time, so I came to—Dr. Stark!” The woman gasped as she realised whom her date was talking to.
“Christine, I’d like you to meet Tony. Tony, this is Dr. Christine Palmer, my colleague at Metro-General Hospital.” Strange placed a hand on her waist; possessive types are the worst. Tony mentally rolled his eyes. He would know.
“Dr. Palmer.” Taking the hint, Tony’s kiss on her hand didn’t linger. “Lovely to meet you.” In his adolescent years, Tony wouldn’t have thought twice before starting drama, but he needed Strange on his good side. The man made for interesting conversation, but more importantly, Tony could use his opinion on the new line of prosthesis. If they could cut down enough cost, they could improve thousands of lives. “Listen, I gotta run, you two have fun.” Tony downed his drink and placed the empty glass on the tray of a passing waitress.
“You won’t stay for the auction?” Christine asked.
“I spoke with the curator beforehand. She’ll keep a piece or two for me.” Tony winked. “Call me whenever,” Tony said to Strange. He called Happy to head home. It was barely eleven and he was yawning already? Blasphemous.
“I didn’t know you knew Tony Stark…?” Christine marvelled after Tony was out of earshot.
“I didn’t.” Strange studied the business card. It was lightweight, crafted from metal. It didn’t have a name, only a number etched onto the surface. “He’s confident. Not entirely unpleasant, I’ll give him that.”
“What did you guys talk about?”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality, Christine.” Strange sighed and slipped the card into his tuxedo pocket. He guided Christine toward the gallery. The auction was beginning. “Even if it didn’t have to do with his health.”
“Yes, what was I thinking? You live and breathe the rules.” Christine rolled her eyes. “I can’t count the number of times you’ve asked about Nick’s patients. You guys look like you had a good chat.”
“Like minds attract.” Strange smirked.
“Oh please.”
----------
“Head home Happ’, I’m beat,” Tony said as he slipped into the car.
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Stark.”
The masculine grunt Tony had been expecting was replaced by a sultry tease. The doors locked, trapping Tony inside. Tony’s mask solidified within seconds. He would recognise that voice anywhere. He had known her for over a decade. Thought he knew. Tony mentally corrected. There was a difference between the two.
“What have you done to Happy?” Tony asked.
“Relax, he’s in the boot.”
The vehicle pulled away from the estate. Agent Natasha Romanov of S.H.I.E.L.D. kept her eyes on the road. “Did you miss me?” She flipped her red locks to one side, casually exposing a length of neck. Tony surveyed her with a look so cold, Natasha had to convince herself this was the same man she had spent the better half of a month spying. Nothing Stark had done since his birthday matched the behaviour recorded in her report. Even taking his second near-death experience into consideration, the change had been too drastic.
When S.H.I.E.L.D. first realised Stark had gone off the grid, they had been prepared to lose him. Regardless of his value as a potential asset, they couldn’t risk Howard’s notes falling into the wrong hands. It had been too risky too contact Stark when his mansion had been surrounded by military. However, instead of succumbing to illness, Stark had escaped unscathed. Mending his public image, strengthening his ties with the government, synthesising a brand-new element without his father’s notes…It was almost as if someone has been telling him what to do.
“No. I fired you. Now get out of my car.” There was no warmth in his answer, nothing that suggested he was once attracted to her. Natasha was well-versed with the art of seduction. Stark had once been so keen to play into her hands, but then he cut her off without warning.
“We need to talk,” she said calmly.
Tony felt a spike of annoyance rise inside him. That had always been the case, hadn’t it? Him stating what he wanted and them ignoring it completely. Two could play that game. “My consultation hours are booked fully until July next year. Tell your director to get in line.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow at the information exchanged in those words. “You know who I work for.” Her expression was one of schooled indifference.
“You only hacked twenty odd terminals. Word of advice, bugs are a two-way street.” Tony rubbed his watch that concealed the gauntlet. “I already told him I don’t want to be a part of his super-secret boy band.”
“Stark, this is a serious matter.” She handed him a folder with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s logo on the front cover. The Avengers Initiative. Preliminary Report. “You don’t come recommended, but considering your recent development, the director has decided to give you a second—” Tony smoothly rolled down the window. He tossed the folder and its content into the wind. A trail of pages fluttered behind them.
Once upon a time, Tony had jumped at the chance to prove himself. He had handed over his time, his home, his technology, and his bank account in exchange for nothing more than being told he was doing the right thing. Following the events of Afghanistan, he had thought so little of himself. He downplayed his efforts, went as far as hiding the resources he had pooled into disaster relief after every Avengers mission. He had thought, foolishly, that if he could give just a little more, punish himself just a little more, then the team would finally see him as redeemable, accept him as morally equal.
For all his struggles, he died alone in a bunker in Siberia. No one came back for him. They wouldn’t get to toy with his insecurities, not this time.
“Oops, better go after that, top secret and all.”
“You—” The Black Widow’s passive façade cracked. She reported their location into her earpiece. Where Tony might have once felt guilty, he felt only cold contempt.
Natasha stared disbelievingly. Something was off. This was not how a civilian was supposed to respond. Despite Howard’s involvement with S.H.I.E.L.D, his son should have no experience with shadow organisations. A flash of red and gold caught her attention. Before she could retrieve her gun, she was confronted by a gauntlet beaming hotly against her face.
“I will only repeat this one more time: get out of my car.” The repulsor hummed in the confined space. Natasha assessed the situation, she was under strict orders not to maim Stark; they were still in the dark regarding his health. Both her hands were visible. At this distance, the beam would hit her even if she managed to avoid her head. New York’s traffic was by no means light at this hour. She pulled over at the side of the road.
“I will inform Director Fury of your actions,” Natasha said.
Actions, Tony contemplated, not decisions. Just as Natasha made her exit, Tony spoke. “This warning is the only one you’ll get, so listen carefully. While you so kindly granted me access to S.H.I.E.L.D’s system, I came across some interesting information. Come near me, or anyone around me unwanted again and one of your agents gets burned, starting with Barton.”
Natasha froze in her tracks. “If I were you, I’d watch my back.”
The Black Widow’s menacing glare would’ve unnerved a lesser man. Tony flashed his signature showman smile. “You should heed your own advice. Speaking from experience, lying and spying takes its toll.”
|
To witness the dissipation of mist from a corpse's eyes for the first time in known history is unsettling on its own. Having watched Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji be the two to pull off the abominable miracle has settled something sour and growing in the pit of Xichen's conscience. The whet of possession in Wen Ruohan's crimson eyes when he had looked from Wen Ning to Wei Wuxian to Lan Wangji only to be left alone with them causes that pit to sprout jagged stems of agitation.
Even after a day, Xichen absolutely cannot meditate – rather, he gives himself to wicked pacing and bouts of nausea driven by incessant thoughts. Before, Lan Wangji was but a tool to use against Xichen, and to a smaller degree Wei Wuxian. After all, the demonic cultivator’s true weak spot is his family. But now, Wen Ruohan must see all the potential coiled up in Lan Wangji. He will want to unravel him for his own purposes.
And all because of Meng Yao. Although the Lan Clan’s ability to work with spirits is well known, there is undeniably an intimacy to Meng Yao knowing the details. Xichen told him tales in close comfort about he and his brother’s particularly unique talent, and Meng Yao has used that as a weapon to gain favor. He wants Wen Ruohan’s approval, and is exploiting Xichen’s family to get it.
Xichen feels sicker than he did even the first time his body was flayed nearly to the bone. He is on the edge of hyperventilating, and it is only when his breathing becomes so sporadic that he suffers white blitzes in his vision that he finally forces himself to kneel down. He places his palms squarely on his lap, spine straight, and traces his breathing pattern to pick off inconsistencies.
At some point, the guarded door to his room opens quietly, just enough for a single person to step through before it shuts again. Xichen's brow twitches – the door never opens like that. It is always virtually flung open with brazen announcement of entry, and a promise of pain.
He doesn't turn around, aware that he will be manhandled into paying attention anyways. He won't give whoever it is the satisfaction. What he doesn't expect is the sound of a voice that he has been dreaming about in high esteem for days, months, all until a day ago when it became the last thing he wants to hear.
“Zewu-Jun,” Meng Yao says with subdued conviction, “Please turn around. I'm not here to hurt you.”
His stomach freezes in its crazed swirl, the hunk of ice slipping down even as his temper rises. Xichen is at least grateful that Meng Yao uses his title – he has lost the right to use his courtesy name.
“You,” Xichen spits out, lilt poised in unbalance, “After all this time, you talk to me now?”
“I could not get to you before! At least let me explain,” Meng Yao as good as begs, the tremor in his voice sending a ripple through Xichen’s sore mind.
The conflict of having seen Meng Yao sway his master to use Lan Wangji to create a humane atrocity while still wanting so very much to listen to the individual whose mere thought has given Xichen so much hope mixes into white-hot confusion. His spine slumps, body falling so his palms hit the ground. He feels more than hears Meng Yao move in his direction, and he lifts a hand to stop him. He draws in a breath that perhaps sounds like a sob, but he doesn't turn.
“Then tell me.”
Meng Yao takes a deliberate breath, “Thank you, Sect Leader Lan.”
The formality of it does nothing to ease Xichen's temper; if anything it just sounds wrong in Meng Yao's tone.
“It’s best to start at the beginning. When so many of us were gathered in Yunping and told we were going to the Nightless City, I didn't dare dream that I would see you. There's rumors about what happened to the Sect Leaders, with only one commonality. You're alive in humiliation. For now.”
Xichen is fully aware of the rumors that must be abounding about them. Not to mention their effect on what remains of their Sects – though of course that is part of the Wen's plan. The Sects are leaderless in application, but their leaders being alive keeps them subdued until the Wen Clan makes their next move.
They could aim for complete absorption, or a new existence under a truce – no matter which, it will be slavery. Wen Ruohan has talked of his vision of the Gusu Lan Clan plenty before, and it is always surrender of identity.
“When I saw you there in the throne room, I wanted nothing more than to talk to you. I thought, maybe, we would be given to the Sect Leaders. I had hoped...”
Even if Xichen lived with Meng Yao for only a short while, one consistent trait of his is that he rarely leads off to silence. He doesn't usually stutter either, seemingly always knowing what to say. He has decided to speak without saying a word, and his meaning is quite obvious.
'I had hoped I would be given to you'.
The chunk of ice in Xichen's stomach cracks and drifts.
“It was the only way to speak to you,” Meng Yao clarifies, tone doused with feather-weight guilt, gone in a wisp, “But then Wen Ruohan chose me. We were warned of his temper, and his penchant for violence. I was careful. SiSi and I helped each other. What was supposed to be one night turned into another, then another. He liked us, and offered us a place here.”
His lilt appears smooth and collected, but there's a buzz of turmoil brushing close to those unspoken truths in the innocuous 'liked us'. What goes unsaid sparks the dry kindle of Xichen's imagination, the implications setting in. It's not at all like seeing Meng Yao next to Wen Ruohan, knowing what was going to happen, what has happened – in those moments, he does not need to think about the details.
Truly lecherous contemplation is not in Xichen’s nature; his upbringing ensured his instincts are against it. He also does not have personal examples to draw from, except perhaps his closeness to Nie Mingjue, never acted upon, and that chaste night he spent in Meng Yao's bed. Beyond that, his closest experience is unfortunately Wen Xu and Wen Ruohan's exploration of his sore and bloody skin, a reality that he refrains from thinking about as often as possible.
But here, now, with Meng Yao hovering behind him - his very breath audible - Xichen's mind wanders into otherwise untraversed territory. What exactly did Meng Yao do that swayed Wen Ruohan's attentions so much that he wanted to keep him? The Wen Clan Leader has particular tastes, and from what he has shown to the Sect leaders, and the attitude of his son, one would think only blood and tears would satisfy him. But of course the side that Meng Yao and SiSi have seen is one that Xichen cannot truly ruminate on. He can only hopes Wen Ruohan is less vicious.
Considering how unlikely that is, Xichen wonders how many injuries Meng Yao is nursing. If there are finger-shaped bruises pressed into his arms, legs, and hips or bite marks lining his neck. If he aches inside and out. If there’s a part of him that likes it.
Xichen immediately feels burned by his own maliciousness – Meng Yao didn’t want to be touched before, why would he want to be touched now? And by that animal of a man? He is glad for Meng Yao's continued explanation lest his mind continue to elaborate, though the heat in his vision belies his anger.
“SiSi stayed because I did. And I stayed because I knew if I left, I may never see you again. And I want to help you,” Meng Yao says, the remarkable sincerity jerking Xichen right out of his stupor, “You, your brother, and your friends. I know how much Hanguang-jun and Chifeng-zun mean to you.”
Help him.
Xichen blinks.
And his brother?
He turns around then, matching stormy eyes with sky.
“Help my brother?! You gave him up!” Xichen seethes with a ferocity that’s been building, “You gave Wen Ruohan another reason to look at Lan Wangji. To use him.”
Meng Yao's brown eyes dart down and back up, “Yes. You're right. But it was not without a plan. Hanguang-Jun will be allowed to speak to Wei Wuxian now. To work with him. Wen Ruohan will think them both tamed by threats against their loved ones.”
Even if the idea sounds ridiculous, it bears some merit. Wei Wuxian is one of their only ways out of this – his strength may be tethered, but he is the maker of the Stygian Tiger Seal. If he can manage to regain his wits and leverage, he can free them all with minor assistance.
Lan Wangji spent months during the Sunshot Campaign learning melodies to soothe resentful energy – surely he could turn his music on Wen Ruohan and his corpse army. The Wen Disciples, barring Wen Xu and Wen Zhuliu, could be overcome without the Yin Metal or Stygian Tiger Seal.
With Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian able to work together, albeit supervised, who knows what chinks in the armor they could find.
“It was also for you, Zewu-Jun,” Meng Yao explains further, “You need to be in comparative good health for Hanguang-Jun to cooperate. No more will Wen Xu see you as personal entertainment. Wen Ruohan will still call upon you, but he won't be as brutal.”
Lan Xichen flinches at the mention, wondering how much Meng Yao knows. How much he saw. Admittedly, Xichen does not recall seeing Meng Yao during his last session in the throne room, but he was not really in any state to notice much beyond the weapons bearing down on him and the Wen's razor toothed smiles. Though, now that he thinks about it, he recalls Wen Ruohan talking to someone. Soothing them. It must have been Meng Yao, and he must have been upset about Xichen’s treatment.
A burble of pride and thin hope surges alive, but reality chains it back down.
“My brother will not cater to evil,” Xichen says, noting the sharp jolt of Meng Yao's expression; he must not have factored in Lan Wangji's strict moral code, “You are wrong about his safety, and mine. I imagine I will be brought to Wen Ruohan all the more after this. Whose ill-advised plan is this?”
Meng Yao schools his features, offering a sedate hum, “Someone who has as much to lose as you do. As all of your allies do. It would be wrong of me to say, so early on. It may seem ill-advised as you say, but there is more to it than you can know. You will be told of everything, I promise, but for now I am asking you to trust me.”
“Why?” Xichen replies with more of a snap than he intends, “You are risking so much, and for a plan that puts yourself in harm’s way, and my brother in greater danger. You said you wanted to explain, and all I hear are more questions.”
Some Xichen cannot resist asking, “Why not just earn Wen Ruohan's attention long enough to free you and your mother? Your need to help me cannot be so extreme as to lose this opportunity.”
Xichen needs to know. After all, originally, when Meng Yao helped him in Yunping, he wanted a favor called in for him and his mother. And Xichen would have delivered, if he could. There had been a warmth to that desire, now usurped by cold.
The inquiry doesn’t settle well with Meng Yao, that much is obvious from his consternated features.
“Even if I did not wish to stay to find a way to free you, Wen Ruohan won't let me leave,” Meng Yao declares as though it is like biting stone, “SiSi, however, will be going back to Yunping soon. She will free my mother, and I trust SiSi to take care of her in my absence.”
There is a sincere twist to his latter words, and Xichen finds himself slipping back into at least the shadow of familiar faith.
“Won't let you leave?” Xichen nudges in concern more than disbelief, wavering to and fro between wanting to support Meng Yao and being doubtful of the man's role in all this.
It’s only now, when his anger has subsided at least a little, that he notices how pale Meng Yao is. He seems almost a ghost, and there are multi-colored bruises lining his neck. Bandages peek out from his extravagant robes, hiding what must be Wen Ruohan’s more overt tokens.
Meng Yao doesn't respond right away. Rather, he looks at Xichen with something akin to desperation, clearly searching for words. Xichen lets go of a breath he didn't even know he was holding, eyes narrowing as he opens his mouth to inquire further. But then Meng Yao shakes his head, on the precipice, and Xichen lets him be the one to fill the space.
“Wen Ruohan is a practical man,” Meng Yao concludes after a moment, explanation sobering, “He is not forgiving, nor is he emotional in the strictest sense. He likes people who are useful to him. I have proven myself useful. He will not let me go until I have served my purpose.”
Needles of assumption stab one by one down the taut ridges of Xichen's spine. His purpose. That can only mean one thing in Meng Yao's position, and again Xichen is thinking of Wen Ruohan believing he owns Meng Yao. Instead of losing himself to images of Wen Ruohan pinning Meng Yao's much smaller body, he focuses on playful bitterness – as playful as this situation can be.
“So you're not staying just to help me then,” Xichen says dryly.
Pleasantly startled, the dimples on Meng Yao's cheek lend light to his shadowed expression, “Oh, Zewu-Jun, don't sell yourself short. Winning that monster’s attention would never be worth it if I did not have your company to look forward to.”
Xichen is taken aback by that, so much so that it takes a few beats for his features to shift into a subtle smile, the shape of it something he almost forgot.
Unfortunately, the magic is broken as Meng Yao flicks his eyes towards the door, seemingly hearing something. He climbs to his feet, though Xichen does note that he does not put full weight on his left leg, “It is time for me to leave. Now that I have gained more of Wen Ruohan’s trust, I will be able to see you again. Give me a few days, and I will return. I will prove myself to you again, Sect Leader Lan. I promise.”
~~
Although Xichen doesn't expect Meng Yao to be so quick to fulfill his promise, he does indeed slip back into Xichen's prison two days later. He brings with him food, medicine, and information. He starts by reassuring Xichen of the health of his brother, and the relative condition of the Nie brothers.
Xichen does not engage with him right away, but he does at least turn to face him this time. He has had long enough to contemplate the threads Meng Yao has dangled in front of him, and to accept them as his only option. But there is so much doubt, and bafflement at Meng Yao putting himself at risk like this.
He cannot help but think there's a large part of Meng Yao who likes this danger – likes the power it brings. It must be something special, to be favored by the man who rules this place. Such presumption just brings shame to Xichen. But he reminds himself, as much as he thinks he knows Meng Yao, he spent but a week with him. He is struck with the desire to get to know him again, this new him.
“Meng Yao, do you get any time to yourself here? Time to breathe, to be apart?”
He doesn't even realize he's interrupting until he realizes that Meng Yao's mouth is open mid-word. His mouth shuts and he tilts his head, immediately considering like it doesn't matter that Xichen wasn't paying attention to him before. And perhaps it doesn't – not to him. If anyone, Meng Yao would understand one's mind wandering.
“I do,” he starts, satiating Xichen while he thinks about a fuller answer, “The Wen Clan has a wonderful library. They have have a few surprisingly good poets in their family. But it’s their music collection I like most.”
It is at least a little assuaging to know that Meng Yao is given time to be himself.
“You may be proud to know that I have been practicing the guqin. I will never be as good as you or Lan Wangji but perhaps one day you will permit me to play with you.”
At the mention of the guqin, a ruffle of yearning stirs in Xichen's chest. He misses Liebling, his xiao having been taken from him long ago. But more than the void in his hands at the thought of playing, he misses early mornings of melody with his brother. Surely when they get out of here – the if they get out stays forcibly shut behind the walls of his mind - Meng Yao's company will be appreciated on such excursions. At least it will be by Xichen.
The thought of that coming to pass is bittersweet, the pang opening a cavern in his stomach. No matter, he offers a firm nod in the hope that the day Meng Yao speaks of will occur.
“I still dance as well, on my own when I am able,” Meng Yao concludes with a fading smile, “Though that is less enjoyable than it used to be.”
Xichen can guess why. He recalls the way Wen Ruohan had watched Meng Yao when he danced in front of all of them. Then the rove of his hands after. It brings a scowl to his lips, one he tries to banish with physical distraction.
Now that the question has been answered and the conversation laid to rest, Xichen reaches for a piece of fruit. It's a round citrus fruit, painstakingly peeled – perhaps even by Meng Yao, The meat offers just the slightest of rewarding resistance for his teeth, the taste so forbiddingly sweet that it feels wrong to enjoy it. He pauses in chewing, and swallows it whole instead.
Seemingly noticing the sudden shift, Meng Yao frowns, “Is the food not to your liking?”
“No, it is fine. Too good, actually.”
It must be his tone, or perhaps the expression on his face, but Meng Yao softens. He looks down at the sheer variation of food, huffing, “Yes, I suppose you have not eaten like this in a while. But I did bring it for you. Do you really want me to get into trouble sneaking it back into the kitchen?”
He means it as a joke, and at first Xichen does give a ghost of a smile. But then it suddenly hits him just how much trouble Meng Yao could get in if he’s traced back to here. He has contemplated the risk of his visit of course, but it strikes like lighting now.
“How are you able to do all this?” Xichen asks abruptly, the ‘why’s’ unspoken but present nevertheless, “What if you get caught? Wen Ruohan will think you and I both implicit in plans against him.”
The lines around Meng Yao’s eyes tighten in bitter mirth, “Is that not what we are doing?”
Xichen pauses at that, chin jerking like he was slapped. Meng Yao waves a hand, “I am sorry. I did not mean to insinuate that I would let you take the fall. I am here because I know it is safe. I will never stay beyond that time. You needn’t worry.”
Not let him take the fall. A twinge wriggles in Xichen’s stomach as he takes Meng Yao in, who looks so very very tired. The bruises on his neck have not vanished, if anything there is more than before. But not just bruises – there seems a drag of cuts or perhaps burns edging into his collar. When Xichen guides his eyes down, he sees the same signs on Meng Yao’s wrists – only visible because the other has reached for another piece of fruit. Little slivers and rings of disfigured skin, risen like burrows in the dirt. Some are certainly burns, but others are more indecipherable.
Xichen reaches out only to take his hand back just as quickly, and the injured look on Meng Yao’s face is enough to make him instantly regret resisting the urge.
“Of course I worry, Meng Yao,” Xichen says to ameliorate, “You say you can’t leave even if you wanted to, but that doesn’t mean you need to be doing this. Taking such risks. You’re not a Sect Leader, you’re just a civilian in all this.”
As much as seeing the hurt in his expression stings, the utter dispelling of sentiment that takes its place sears more. Were it not for the telltale curl of his fingers into fists, Meng Yao might have gone blank.
“If you would rather not see me, Zewu-Jun, you need just say so,” he stamps out slowly, “Whether I see you or not won’t change what I am doing. I may be a civilian, but I am not gutless. Wen Ruohan must be stopped. You have seen but a taste of what he’s capable of. What he’s planning. If you only knew…”
The trail of his words mingled with a tight-lipped expression conveys just how tenuous his control over his emotions is. Xichen is driven by the need to break this mask of his – to dig down to how Meng Yao is truly feeling, lest he shatter when Xichen is not here to help him collect the pieces.
He is genuine about this, wanting to help, even if Xichen is unsure about the way he’s going about it. It's true he said he's not doing this alone, but Xichen knows what it's like to not want to break under pressure. He's intimately familiar with the price of being strong in front of others.
“You’re right,” he says, voicing what’s on his mind in the same way he wants Meng Yao to, “I shouldn't have said you're just a civilian. You're not a mere anything. But you're right. I don't know what Wen Ruohan is planning. I am left in the dark, stuck in this gilded cage. And I am not coping well.”
He draws in a prickly breath, “You're doing this with or without my blessing, and while I'm stuck here, I can at least help you. Can't I? So let me in.”
Meng Yao’s eyelids flutter closed for but a moment, but it feels like minutes. When they reopen, they are cored with guarded appreciation, “You ask for more than you realize. You are burdened enough as it is. I am fine.”
The hint of honesty tied off with an impossible truth – being fine in this place – draws a disbelieving huff, but Xichen curbs the sour sentiment, “Regardless, when you need to talk, I will be here.”
With a blink, Meng Yao's gaze melts with a welcome tinge of warmth. He nods, words so sincere they settle neatly under Xichen's skin, “I will keep that in mind.”
Suddenly, there is a piece of apple place in front of his mouth. Meng Yao nudges it forward encouragingly, “Now eat?”
Xichen glances down at the fruit hovering in the air, lip twitching with an absent smile. He accepts the slice, leaning forward to take it. He only looks at Meng Yao after a few moments, thinking he sees Meng Yao abruptly look down.
They dine in silence, the easiness of quiet space between them smoothing any remaining edges of tension; a much needed reprieve of mind. He gives no thought to the argument that came prior, nor the reality of their situation. He simply appreciates, taking this moment for the sanctuary it is.
|
OCTOBER 6TH Boko took a long draught of his soy chai latte and smacked his lips. 'There was one producer, Ms Stoker, who really went to bat for me. She was able to shoot down most of the exceptonally moronic changes that the others wanted to make to the screenplay. Like bringing my heroine back to life after her scorpion bite. Or worse, casting a Deschanel to play her.' It was the first properly chilly day of autumn. A party of my fellow Drones and I were huddled around a corner table at the hipster cafe, staring out at the drizzle and comparing notes on the past few months. Boko had been back for a few days, finally over his jetlag, and reinstalled in his cozy flat alongside Hadrian, Antinous, Andromeda the cactus, et al. As for myself, I had been decanted back into the loving arms of my family at Brinkley Court, and had so far kept my old room fastidiously clean.
'You know, we recently went to the set of "Dunstan Priory",' Angela said. 'Catsmeat and Barbie had featured roles, and we got to be extras.' 'I know! I read Bertie's blog. How did Marion end up settling in?' 'Quite well,' Catsmeat responded. 'After talking things over with the production team, they worked out some clever editing, and we didn't have to re-shoot much. I wrapped up all of my stuff just last week. Once Esmond's finished filming the new Adam & Стёпа TV spots, he's taking me to Saint-Tropez.' Here Boko turned to me. 'Speaking of which, Bertie, you really need to sort things out with Jeeves. You're obviously crazy about him.' Angela did a mild double-take. 'But... aren't you two already dating?' I was taken aback, not having expected the inquisition. I stared down at my vegetable panini, as if it would prompt a fitting answer to my friends' intrustive stares.
I managed a flustered 'Um...' before Boko cut in again. 'Oh come on, man! I thought you had your Code of the Woosters to live up to! How hard can it be to ask him out?' 'You were never this shy back at Eton,' Catsmeat chimed in. 'Do you remember that French exchange student in year 11?' 'Oh yes, Jean-Baptiste!' Boko exclaimed. 'I hear tell that Bertie gave him a goodbye that throughly dispelled the frigid Englishman stereotype-' 'Jeeves is too good for me!' I blurted, unintentionally knocking over the Himalayan salt crystals.
Despite my table-thumping petulance, I did speak the truth. In every way possible, Jeeves shines where I merely flicker, and even my own feeble light has been fed substantially by his brilliance. Six months ago, I had kicked up such a stink about autonomy and doing everything for myself. Quite troubling, then, to reflect on just how desperately I had come to count on the man. But oh, what I wouldn't do to retain his friendship. 'I... if I tried to ask him, it would ruin everything between us. And he's the best thing to cross my path for a long time.' I felt my stomach turn to granite at the thought. If you've ever contemplated skydiving, public speaking, or disobeying an aunt, you'll know the dratted feeling. 'Oh, Bertie,' Angela rested her hand on mine. 'You musn't sell yourself short like that. Anyway, you should see the way Jeeves looks at you.' 'Spare me the rom-com cliches,' I muttered. 'Just talk to him,' she commanded, an edge of Dahlia-esque steel in her voice. 'I promise you that you'll be pleasantly surprised.'
I was given pause, and again I gazed down at the layers of tomato and spinach on my plate. While Angela is known for her pranks, she is a sensitive enough soul to not mislead her loved ones on delicate issues such as this. At times, she can even be something of a sage. (While we were in Gloucestershire, she did earnestly talk Madeline out of wearing a cardigan that was an hideously unflattering shade of tangerine.) 'It's true,' Catsmeat affirmed, 'you've sort of become Jeeves' pet, seeing the way he dotes on you.' 'I've never actually seen him be so affectionate, myself,' Boko remarked. 'He's polite, but normally he seems quite stand-offish to me.'
My confidence was being slowly tugged out from under its shell, and the possibility of Jeeves responding to my blithering overtures favourably was doing something very funny to my insides. It was as if the granite of my stomach was suddenly replaced with a litter of bouncy pomeranians. 'Well...' I mumbled at length, 'I guess... I could perhaps suggest the possibility to him.' 'Splendid!' Angela cried, looking ready to help us pick out a ring.
'One other thing I must know,' Boko inquired, 'that whole.... Pooh bear thing... Bertie, was that true?' 'Well, I deleted the photo, so I no longer have the evidence, but I am sorry to say that I did indeed have to live through that ordeal.' 'How ghastly,' Boko shuddered into his chai. 'Do you think Spode might ever come after you about it?' I shrugged. 'Jeeves reckons I'm safe for now. Spode came to realise that I was trying to protect Madeline from that Klein character, so he'd probably cut me a sliver of slack if it came down to it.' 'I should think so,' Angela declared, pointing her finger to the other side of the cafe. We turned as one to witness the sight of Roderick Spode, crammed onto one of the cafe's whimsically bantam-weight chairs, devouring a buddha bowl full of tofu and broccoli. His attention was split between this and a dog-eared paperback of 'Marley & Me'.
***
While the Roland, my laptop, and other necessities had come with me back to Brinkley Court, a few errant items were left huddled in a corner of Boko's hallway. The old boy insisted I come collect them at the earliest possible chance, and both he and Angela now conspired that it would be the perfect opportunity for me to spill my tender, quivering guts to Jeeves. On the day of this trial, my sweet cousin dressed me in a natty slim-fit indigo shirt that Jeeves had once complimented me on, and coiffed my curls to perfection. I was unkindly refused any hard liquor. 'Take heart, Bertie. You're going to ask him out,' she commanded, straightening my collar. 'He's going to accept you, and it's going to be wonderful. Now spit out that gum at once, it's quite boorish.'
I jiggled my foot so frantically on the tube, that a kindly old Jamaican grandmother offered me a paper bag to breathe into. Angela and Boko had somehow turned a blind eye to my usual awkwardness, and were convinced that everything would go so clinically smooth, lke some kind of mutually beneficial business merger. Here's the thing: I can vividly describe Jeeves' charm, his good looks, his patience, his kindness, not to mention his marvellous mind. I can call him a paragon, a genius, a wonder. But you truly need to be in his presence to understand why he is a man that you cannot just partially fall in love with. A man that you cannot breezily offer your heart to as if it were a half-eaten packet of Jammie Dodgers. If you fall for Reginald Jeeves at all, you fall for him completely, and it changes you, in the deepest way possible. He's like some chemical that permanently transforms anything it touches. Had I paid attention in science class, I suppose I would have a cogent metaphor for this, but alas. If he turned me down, it would not leave me the same Wooster as before. And I was not liking the prospect of 2017 becoming the year my heart was shredded twice.
(Addendum: the above does not happen to apply if you are Bingo Little. But then, so few people are.)
Once I got to Fulham, I bore Boko's gruesome performance as a one-man pep rally, and turned a blind eye to the truly gratuitous display that Hadrian and Antinous were giving in the fish tank. (Really, couldn't they have snogged in the privacy of their fibreglass castle?) After taking my time with a fortifying cup of tea, I slowly gathered up the little pile of my knick-knacks in the hall, spared a thought for Agincourt, and trudged my way up to Jeeves' door. He was devastating enough in his rolled-up shirt sleeves, did he really have to half-smile at me like that? 'Good afternoon, Mr Wooster. I take it that you have returned to your aunt's home in Richmond.' 'For the nonce, yes. Though I'm sure she'll be at me to find a house-share with one of my friends soon. I'm just collecting the last of my things now.' 'I see. Though I am happy for Mr Fittleworth to be back in his own home, I must confess that I am sad to see you leave. I very much enjoyed being your neighbour.' 'Me too.' I dug a trainer into the porch tiles. 'Um...' I was relieved that my voice did not crack. His gentle gaze bid me finish my thought. 'You know Jeeves... I feel we've become such terrific chums over the past few months, and, well... I'd hate our assocation to end here. Seems a bit of a lemon of a sitch, you know.' 'I quite agree.' 'And... and... dash it. It's a struggle to bring this up. I mean, you say I'm no dullard, but let's be real. I'm a dissolute child of the internet with more trust fund than brain, and... you've been the one steady influence I've drawn strength from in I don't know how long.' His eyes did not move from my face, which was currently doing its bit to expedite global warming. Even my eyelashes felt as if they were burning. 'I mean to say, Jeeves, that... oh hell.' We shared a nervous giggle, which dissipated quickly, and I was left to confront the precipice again. 'You... wouldn't consider taking me on as a client, would you? To handle my assets and whatnot?'
Something in Jeeves' expression quickly shut down, and I was left on the porch with a conscientious solicitor. 'I do not think that advisable, Mr Wooster.' You know that clamping heaviness that fills your chest when you know something truly valuable and unique has been lost? I can't say I hadn't expected it, but it flummoxed me all the same. At least I had not said anything truly foolish, e. g. that I was in love with him.
'Oh, no bother, then, I understand you're a busy chap.' I attempted the nervous giggling again, which didn't seem to do any good. 'Well... maybe Bea needs a bit of help around the office. I could come in a few times a week to file things and answer phones and do coffee runs. Do paralegals need dogsbodies? I think I should quite like being legally blonde, eh what?' His brow crinkled ever so slightly. Examining me now, his eyes started to mellow, and he looked truly sad. 'Mr Wooster, I should make it clear that it is against my principles to work with you in any professional capacity.'
There it was. The undeniable gap in our stations: he an accomplished man of the world, I a ridiculous posh slacker. It was time to accept that pitiful lot and let him get back to his vocation. What right had I to demand any of his time, when there were so many people more worthy of it? I couldn't look him in the face again. All I could do was trudge down his garden path and rid myself from his presence. 'I understand, Jeeves. I'm sorry to presume upon you like that. I'm sure you have important things to be getting on with.' 'No, but... Mr Wooster!...' He sounded almost frustrated with me. I could take no more of this. I turned and ran, pretty certain that I dropped something in my flight, but uncaring.
An hour later, I found myself leaning on the side of Westminster Bridge, staring listlessly out over the Thames as a yet another drizzly evening descended upon London. If I admit that I lingered there in the cold as commuters weaved around me, heaving embarrassing sobs against the railing and rubbing at my streaming eyes with the sleeve of my coat, I don't think your opinion of me would likely sink lower than it already probably is.
Behind me, Big Ben bonged seven. Emerging from my stupor of self-pity, I suddenly realised that I was standing in the exact same spot, doing the exact same thing as I had done, just after Ginger had dumped me. I tchah-ed to myself, annoyed that my vow not to get ensared by man trouble again had been broken. Was I doomed to repeat the same romantic misadventure ad infinitum? Perhaps the next thing on my agenda was to find a good therapist.
My phone rang, and I supposed that Aunt Dahlia was fretting, eager to tear into me for being late for dinner. However, the caller was an unknown number. 'Hello?' 'Bertie?...' The very blood in my veins stilled at once. 'It's Ginger. I need to talk to you. As soon as possible, face to face, if we can. Are you free for dinner tonight?'
***
|
Bucky did everything he could to make this ten by ten basement hellhole into something like a home for his pups. A single, dim lightbulb swung from the ceiling and illuminated the pathetic amount of belongings that Bucky had accrued in the God-knows-how-long he’d been down here. Long enough, at least, to push out three kids by himself, but he suspected it was much longer than that.
He knotted together old t-shirts and towels to make blankets, made ragdolls so the pups had something to play with, and piled it all in the corner opposite the hard mattress on the floor. Maybe his pups should have slept on a real bed, but Bucky didn’t have the strength to let them rest their heads in the same place that Pierce fucked and knotted him.
Bucky told them to close their eyes when Pierce came down, but he doubted the pups always listened. And they couldn't listen to Bucky if Pierce used his Voice, which he did.
Several sets of heavy footsteps made the ceiling tremble. The lightbulb flickered, and dust and dirt shook down onto the four of them.
Something wasn’t right.
“Guys,” Bucky said, herding with his hands, “Stand behind me.”
If Pierce brought friends again –
Pierce wouldn’t fuck his own pups, would he? They were young, younger than Bucky was when Pierce snatched him off of the street and locked him in a freezing underground room. The oldest – George, Bucky thought of him as, but Pierce didn’t let them have names – took each of his sisters’ hands and tugged them behind Bucky’s rail-thin body.
Bucky wasn’t much in the way of protection, but he was better than nothing.
Indistinct shouts carried into the room, and the footsteps loomed closer. Then, the square door in the ceiling rattled as something fell against it. Somebody cursed, somebody whose voice was Not Pierce at all. Bucky spread his arms out further, shielding the kids.
More shouting. The door rattled again.
Then the thing fucking splintered. Bucky held his hand over his eyes and squinted against the light that poured into their dark room. The hazy silhouette of a man both taller and slimmer than Pierce greeted him, and the scent of concerned alpha floated down and wrapped around the room like a well-loved quilt.
“What the fuck,” the silhouette said, “What in the actual hell?”
“Who the hell are you?” Bucky demanded.
The silhouette jumped down. A dark-skinned man in Kevlar and cop gear said, “I’m Officer Rhodes. You – you’re safe now.”
“Oh,” Bucky said. Thick, sticky relief pounded into him. His head swam, vision doubled, and he managed, “Good. Finally,” before black spots clouded Bucky’s eyes and he toppled backward into the dark.
**
Rhythmic beeping pierced the fog of Bucky’s mind. He was floating somewhere far away – beep – a place beyond the hellhole in the ground where he lived with his pups – beep – pups that he forced in his belly, but he loved them anyway – beep –
Shit, his pups.
Bucky’s eyes flew open. Dizzily, he drank in his surroundings. Taupe-colored walls. Heart monitor. IV in the crook of his arm. He was lying on a hospital bed that was the most comfortable thing he’d felt in ages, but his pups weren’t in sight; he was alone in the room and that was bad, bad, bad. Bucky forced his legs over the edge of the bed and stumbled forward toward the door, dragging his IV pole with him –
Only to be intercepted by a curly-haired man in a white coat.
“Whoa, whoa,” the doctor said, “You’ll rip out your IV. You can’t overexert yourself, sir. Please sit back on the bed.”
“The fuck I will,” Bucky spat, “Where are my pups?”
“The pups are safe,” the doctor said.
Bucky scowled and said, “I’ll believe that when I see it. Where are my pups?” He didn’t mean to shout, or to shove the doctor away so hard, but Bucky didn’t give a shit about niceties when his goddamn babies were missing. Using the wall to prop himself against, he hobbled out of the room and into the hall, but his great escape lasted all of ten seconds before a couple of nurses in scrubs pulled him back. Bucky fought against them and yelled more about bringing him his pups, kicking and flailing, but nobody listened.
The doctor injected something into Bucky’s IV, and like magic everything was dreamy and nice, not so scary anymore. They drugged him. They fucking drugged him. What the hell was going on?
“My pups,” Bucky slurred, even as the nurses herded him back into bed.
“The children are in the room beside yours,” the doctor said, “and you’ll see them soon. I need you to answer some questions for me, though. Do you know your name?”
“My name is Bucky.”
He hadn’t said his name in a long time. Pierce called him James, because James was the name on his plastic high school ID card.
The doctor paused.
“My name is Dr. Banner,” he answered, “Bucky – is that short for something?”
“Bu…Buchanan.”
Dr. Banner went about three shades paler. He swallowed and said, “Your full name wouldn’t happen to be James Buchanan Barnes, would it?”
“That’s me,” Bucky said, offering Dr. Banner a placid, dumbass smile. Something itched in the back of Bucky's mind. He was supposed to be worried about something, but at the moment all he could think about was floating like an errant cloud over his hospital bed.
“Do you know how long you were being held in that room?” asked Dr. Banner.
Bucky shook his head. He mumbled, “Last time I was outside it was 2005. Pushed out a few babies down there so I know it sure as hell ain’t 2005 no more.”
Dr. Banner cleared his throat and said, “It’s 2016.”
“No shit,” Bucky said, “Then eleven years, I guess. Huh. I’m twenty five.”
Bucky thought that maybe there should have been more questions, but Dr. Banner excused himself after that. No more than a few minutes later, he returned with a well-dressed beta lady with strawberry blonde hair, and –
“My pups,” Bucky breathed, “They’re okay.”
“Daddy!” exclaimed the youngest. She was the only one to shout, but all of them ran to him, wearing hospital gowns too big for their tiny bodies. A pang of guilt axed Bucky through the middle seeing how thin they all were. He tried. He tried to give them everything he could. He understood what his ma meant when she said she would do anything for her pups, after George came.
The pups leaned over his bed to hug him. Bucky hugged back best he was able, but he was hooked up to a bunch of shit and was weak as a kitten besides. Their dark hair was clean and brushed, and they smelled like soap over their usual Bucky’s-pup-scent. Somebody had cut their hair. In the light of day how similar they looked to Bucky struck him. He’d never seen the pups in daylight before. Maybe the drugs made him sentimental, but seeing them here in actual, natural light warmed him up from way down deep inside.
“Mr. Barnes,” greeted the beta, “I’m Pepper Potts. I represent the Stark Omega Clinic. We were hoping you could tell us the names of your children. They don’t seem to know.”
Bucky smeared a hand over his face and hoarsely answered, “Yeah. Alpha didn’t want them to have names, wouldn’t let me call them their names. But they have them. I named them,” he pointed to the oldest, “George,” and the middle, “Rebecca,” and the youngest, with her eyes that were too big for her tiny face, “Winifred.”
“Do you know how old they are?” Pepper asked.
“Uh,” Bucky said. His brain moved like molasses, thoughts coming too slow and slippery to grasp onto. He said, “George is…like nine months after September 2005. So I guess he’s ten? Probably? It’s hazy. I stopped counting days. I’m not real sure about the girls.”
Pepper and Dr. Banner exchanged a meaningful glance.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” Pepper said, “You’ll be seeing a lot of me in the next few days here. C’mon, guys. Let’s get you back to your room.”
“No,” George said, “I’m staying with Daddy.”
“I don’t wanna go,” said Becky.
Win just clutched at the fabric of Bucky’s hospital gown like he might float away if she let go.
In the end, they moved the kids into the same room as Bucky. They told him that the pups weren’t as dehydrated and malnourished as he was, and Bucky replied that that was probably because he made sure that they ate and drank before he did, unless he thought he might die. He was no use to his pups dead.
Lots of people came and went from the room, monitoring Bucky, monitoring the pups, bringing bland foods that they could keep down without it coming right back up again, putting more shit in Bucky’s IV – Bucky had no fucking idea what was going on. He didn’t know where he was other than that it was obviously a hospital, and he didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to be doing.
But he did know one thing, and that was that his pups were safe. For the first time in ten years, Bucky’s pups were safe.
That was what mattered.
**
Steve wiped the sweat from his head with a kitchen towel and reached for the juice in his fridge when his phone vibrated against his granite countertop. He didn’t recognize the number, but plucked it up anyway and held it against his ear with a, “Hello?” as he took a glass down from the cupboards and filled it with OJ.
“Am I speaking to Steve Rogers?” a deep voice rumbled on the other end.
“Yes, sir,” Steve answered. He nursed the orange juice, chest still heaving from the exertion of his morning run.
“My name is Nick Fury. We met once – at a Stark fundraiser event.”
A vague memory of an imposing guy decked out in black surfaced, and Steve replied, “Yeah, I remember. How can I help you?”
“As you know, you registered several years ago as a potential support alpha for outpatient needs at the Stark Omega Clinic. I’m calling today because a recent case chose your scent sample as compatible, and if you’re open to it, we’d like to arrange a meeting at the clinic as soon as possible,” Nick said.
Steve wet his lips, at a loss.
“Rogers?” Nick said, when Steve’s silence extended too long.
“I’m here,” Steve said, “Just surprised. What do I need to know?”
“I can only give you the basics for now,” said Nick, “and if you and the omega decide to move forward and take you on as his support, then I can give you his file.”
“Then give me the basics,” Steve said.
“Male omega, twenty five. Has three pups, all of which are a result of rape,” Nick said, “So you would be supporting not only an omega, but his family, as well.”
“Jesus,” Steve murmured, “When do you need me at the clinic?”
“As soon as you can make it,” Nick said, a degree of relief in his voice – did he think that Steve would shoot down this case? Nick added, “We need to move this process along as quickly as humanly possible.”
Steve considered his schedule and answered, “Is today okay? I need a shower and some coffee, but I can be down in a couple of hours.”
“Perfect. I’ll let the clinic know to expect you,” Nick said, “and Rogers…thank you.”
“Of course,” Steve said, but Fury had already hung up.
In a daze, Steve finished his juice and peeled off his exercise clothes. He climbed into his shower. As the water beat down on his back and he soaped himself up, he wondered what kind of omega had found him scent compatible.
Traumatized omegas filtered through Stark Omega Clinic for healthcare, the most severe cases of which often required a support alpha to help reintegrate the omega into the world in a safe space. When Steve’s patented animation technique took off and his bank account filled, he registered as a support alpha candidate, provided a scent sample, and took the required courses. He had the means to help somebody if they needed.
And help he would, provided that the omega and his pups wanted to move forward after they met Steve. He didn’t intend to go back on his word.
Too hopped up on anticipation, Steve forewent coffee and climbed straight into his old VW Beetle to head to the clinic. He dressed to impress in neat slacks and a plaid button-down, throwing on his leather jacket over it to stave off the bite in the spring air. Forty-five minutes later, Steve pulled into the parking lot of the Stark Omega Clinic. He pried his hands off of the steering wheel and wiped his sweating palms on his slacks.
The building that housed the clinic was older, a relic out of Colorado’s gold mining days. Worn brick and a sloped roof faced the incongruently modern parking lot. The building began as a hospital, changed hands and became several iterations of a bed and breakfast, and eventually landed in the lap of the late Maria Stark, who decided to wield her family’s wealth for the greater good and refurbish the place for omegas in need.
Tony took care of the clinic now. He lent it personality.
Apprehension swallowed Steve as he crossed the parking lot and headed toward the front doors.
What if the omega didn’t like him?
What if the pups didn’t like him?
He must have smelled like the mess that he felt like, because Natasha – the self-defense instructor and Steve’s friend since they kept meeting at Tony’s parties – intercepted him in the lobby of the clinic and said, “You need to pull it together, Steve. This is the hardest case I’ve seen in my life and if you smell anxious you’re gonna be useless.”
Steve ran his fingers back through his hair and exhaled. He said, “You’re right. Sorry. I just – this is unexpected?” Out of hundreds of scent samples, this omega chose him. The likelihood that Steve would ever take on the role of support had been low and grew ever-lower as more and more alphas registered as candidates for the cause.
“I know,” Natasha said, resting a hand on Steve’s arm, “but you can do this. There’s Pepper – she’ll take you out back. They’re in the courtyard.”
“Good morning,” Pepper greeted. Briskly, she went on to say, “Just so you know, if the pups don’t like you, then this won’t be happening, so make sure that you treat them with respect as well as Mr. Barnes.”
“Of course,” Steve replied, “Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”
That teased a fond half-smile out of Pepper. She paused at the tinted glass doors that opened to the inner grounds of the clinic and stopped Steve with a hand to his chest. She said, “Obviously I can’t give you the details yet, but this is hands down the most serious case that we have ever had come through the clinic. You are going to be taking on something huge, so if you can’t do that, I need you to turn back now.”
Steve lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. He said, “Ma’am – Pepper. I’m willing to do whatever I can to help.”
Pepper nodded. She said, “I knew you would say that. Here we go. Look alive.” She pushed open the doors.
The sun filtered down through the trees, dappling newly-planted flowerbeds that ringed around a mostly-green lawn. Several omegas sat outside in white clinic garb, two playing a game of checkers, one reading at a bench in the corner of the courtyard, another curled up in the grass. The pups were what captured Steve’s attention – three of them in clinic white, chasing each other in the grass. Behind them, a long-haired omega looked on with a tender expression on his face.
He looked like he’d been through hell. He was so skinny that Steve’s stomach hurt to look at him, and his cheekbones jutted out against the pale skin of his face. He held his body as though waiting for a blow, even here at the clinic, a safe haven.
Every head turned when Steve trod into the courtyard – not many alphas were allowed in this sanctuary beyond the alphas on staff, and there was no mistaking Steve for anything but.
Pepper’s heels clicked against the stone path that ran through the courtyard as she guided Steve to the romping pups and the gaunt man Steve assumed was their omega father, and the omega that chose his scent sample. As soon as they approached, Pepper extended her arm out at Steve and said, “Everyone, this is Steve Rogers. He’s the alpha you picked out of the scent book.”
Steve stooped down and fell to his knees in the grass so he’d be closer to the pups’ level. He offered a smile and said, “Hi, guys. I’m Steve. What are your names?”
“I’m Win-i-fred,” said the littlest, stumbling over her own name.
“Pleased to meet you,” Steve said. He stuck out his hand to shake, but Winifred eyed it like it might sting her if she touched, and so Steve backed off, letting his hand fall to his side. He blinked back at the other two pups and said, “And what about you guys?”
Neither spoke, so the omega intervened. He placed a protective palm on each of the children and said, “This is George, and this is Becky. We’re not so good at our names yet,” he sighed, “I’m Bucky.”
“Good to meet you,” Steve said.
And it was – God, it was. He knew that if his scent was compatible to an omega that the omega’s scent would intoxicate him right back, but he wasn’t prepared for the perfect smell that surrounded Bucky. Even beneath the musty aroma of sickness and fear, Bucky smelled like salvation. He smelled like soil on a rainy day, like a cup of coffee in the cold. Steve almost bit through his lip in an effort not to scent the air.
“You can ask Steve any questions that you’d like,” Pepper piped up from behind Steve.
Steve made himself as nonthreatening as possible, tilting his neck back to bare it and dropping his shoulders to make himself smaller. Bucky raised his eyebrows, but the pups didn’t react one way or another.
“Do you got a job?” Becky finally said.
“I do have a job,” Steve said, “but it’s a job I do from my house. I’m an artist.”
“Do you have a garden?” asked Winifred. She dared to step closer to Steve than the rest of her family.
“I do have a garden,” Steve answered, “and you can plant anything you want in it.”
“Flowers?” Winifred asked.
“Yup. Any flowers you can think of,” Steve told her.
“Yellow flowers?” she went on.
Steve smiled, “Definitely. I love yellow flowers.”
“Are you gonna hurt my dad?”
Everyone’s attention whipped to George, who wore a thunderous, protective expression on his face. Steve hadn’t even noticed that George placed his small, underfed body between Steve and Bucky until now, like he intended to use himself as a shield if Steve tried anything funny. He was a tiny warrior without armor, facing down an enemy far more powerful than he. Steve shook his head and said, “I would never, ever hurt your dad.”
“If you hurt my dad, I’ll hurt you,” George said.
Bucky reached out, looking panicked, and pulled his son back. He said, “Okay, that’s enough. We decided we liked Steve, remember? Remember, you said that you liked his scent?”
“It’s okay,” Steve said, “George, I don’t ever want to hurt anybody on purpose. But if I did hurt somebody by accident, we would make sure that you all got someplace safe.”
Bucky let out a breath that he’d been holding. He addressed Pepper and said, “Can you guys give us a second? I wanna talk with my pups.”
“Of course,” Pepper said, “Steve?”
Pepper led him across the courtyard a safe distance away, where Steve watched Bucky settle in the grass and speak to his children. He should have been unnerved by the blatant judgment of his character, but Steve found in the face of knowing how much this family had suffered, his own discomfort felt trivial at best. Several long minutes later, Bucky waved them back over.
“We decided that we want you to be our support,” Bucky said to Steve. He didn’t quite meet Steve’s eye and instead looked just to the left of it. Steve furrowed his brow and wondered if this was something that he was going to have to work on with Bucky.
“Great,” Pepper said, clapping her hands together, “I’ll start getting the paperwork together. Steve will have forty eight hours to make sure that his home is up to support alpha standards, and as soon as it’s ready, we will escort you to his house and ensure that you and the children are settled comfortably.”
Bucky nodded, a faraway look in his eye, and murmured, “Okay.”
Pepper poked Steve in the side and called, “Steve?”
“Yeah, sounds great,” Steve said. Great. Like Steve was planning a barbecue instead of the lives of four scared human beings.
This was happening.
Steve was about to be the lifeline of an omega trying to fit back into a world that treated him, for lack of a better word, like shit. Not just that omega – but his pups, too. The responsibility bore down on him like sandbags stacked on his shoulders, but Steve found as he blinked at Bucky and his pups that he had never been more determined to do right by somebody in his entire life.
|
"A lot to discuss? Thanks, but I'll have to pass. I have something... very important to do right now," Piper blustered, pushing Will, Jason, and Percie together, and guiding them all towards the exit. "Sorry if that ruins your schedule, Mom. Make an appointment next time; or at least go through my dad's agent. Assuming he still has one, of course."
Piper was moving so quickly, it took all of Percie's agility coming into play to keep the daughter of the sea from face-planting right onto the spotless floor of the art gallery. Aphrodite briefly watched them go with a surprised look on her face before she jogged after them, following them right out the door. Piper tried to go even faster at that, which resulted in a rather comic chase developing; Aphrodite trying to catch up without ruining her perfect hair, and Piper desperately shoving at her three friends, none of whom could agree on which direction they wished to go.
The embarrassing display went out the door, down the path into the park, and towards the parking lot, before Aphrodite seemingly gave up trying to run them down and just teleported in front of them, Percie stumbling right into the goddess' exposed neckline. Will crashed into her, Jason crashed into him, and Piper plowed into Jason, knocking all four demigods over on top of each other.
"My goodness, you kids are quick," Aphrodite jeered, looking down at them with genuine appraisal in her eyes. "I know, you really weren't expecting to see me here, but the gallery is simply fabulous! So many gorgeous people who go out to be seen; the art is just a bonus. The smell of creativity always brings the heat of passion along with it, wouldn't you agree, Piper?"
"I don't want to talk to you," Piper grumbled from the top of the pile, pushing herself off Jason and staring up at her mother in annoyance. "We're busy; we don't have time to sit down to cookies and coffee and gossip about our personal lives."
"Then I'll make you some. Whatever business you have going on can wait; I've been pulling every string in my repertoire to get you and Jason into the same room together, with no luck! Then lo and behold, just as I'm trying to cook up another scheme to make my dream come true, you go and show up looking for him without me having to interfere at all! How was I supposed to ignore such a fantastic opportunity?"
"How about by keeping your head down, and not coming up to us once we reunited? Would that have been so hard?"
Aphrodite shook her head. "Not just hard, dear; impossible." The goddess waited for all of the demigods to untangle themselves from each other before she continued. "Now, Piper: I must say, I'm disappointed in you. How does someone as compassionate and kind as you make the change from 'breaking someone's heart is a cruel act' to 'I'm not only going to break your heart, but stomp on it and eat it in front of you' in the span of less than a year?"
Percie and Will were remarkably uncomfortable by the turn this conversation had veered into; Jason and Piper especially looked completely shell-shocked.
"I didn't-" Piper tried to argue, before falling silent again. Percie winced; she could tell the girl had been about to say she hadn't broken Jason's heart, but that was a bald-faced lie. The son of Jupiter couldn't even look in her direction without reddening in the face, and Piper had no luck returning his gaze, either.
The goddess waited for an answer, but quickly figured out she wasn't getting one. "Piper, if you and I have something to hash out, by all means: let's hash it out. I've always believed in open communication with my children. However, I believe the fair thing to do would be to finally explain to Jason why you ended the relationship."
"She... doesn't owe me an explanation," Jason dismissed, his voice frail. "Piper's business... is her business. If she wanted me to know, she would have told me. There's no need to put her on the spot like this, my lady."
"Need?" the goddess asked. "Of course there's a need; my daughter refuses to be honest with you because she's refusing to be honest with herself."
A quiet demeanor fell over Jason, before he turned to Piper with a blank look. "Piper, what is she talking about?"
"Nothing!" Piper answered, a tad too quickly. "There's nothing about myself that I've tried to hide; from you, or anyone else."
"You didn't have to try, dear. It was so easy, you didn't even realize you were keeping it concealed. Well, from everyone except me, of course," Aphrodite boasted. "I don't know why you're possessive about it; no one you care about would hold it against you in the slightest. The justifications that you've drawn, however misjudged and hasty they might be, could be considered serious enough for Jason to accept it, since you seem so resolute in keeping your own realizations locked away. Really, all you're doing is putting two people you should care about through unnecessary torment: Jason and yourself."
Percie was drawing a blank; she hadn't known Peter long enough to really learn too much about him, and Piper fell into the same category. The demigod was withering under her mother's gaze, growing more and more flustered by the moment. Her fingers were curling and uncurling with anxiety, something Aphrodite must have noticed, but didn't comment on.
Next to her, Percie sensed Will seize up. Glancing over in his direction, she saw Jason go completely rigid, a look of familiarity coming over his face. The son of Jupiter flashed a concerned look Piper's way before facing the goddess once more.
"My lady, I do believe that is enough for one day," Jason said, considerably more force in his voice than Percie would have predicted.
Aphrodite's face briefly flashed in puzzlement, before she looked at him. "Pardon me, Jason? I'm just trying to-"
"I know exactly what you're doing, my lady. I've seen your son do it once before; it disgusted me then, and it disgusts me even more now." Will went completely still at Jason's words, but Percie was still in the dark as to what the young man was talking about. "Your intentions, however noble, are not worth the pain they cause in their pursuit of the truth. If Piper wishes to share, she will. But she'll do it on her own; forcing it out of her is not something I will sit here and be party to. Never again."
The goddess of love fumbled for a few moments, before her expression darkened. "I see... suit yourself, Mr. Grace. I can tell when I'm not wanted. But love has a funny way of rearing its head just when you want it to the least; think on that, the next time you try to make a real connection with someone." With that unusual threat made, Aphrodite popped away, leaving behind a very non-intimidating cloud of pink dust and sparkles.
"You're probably going to regret taking that tone with her, Jason," Percie observed, fanning the feminine air away from her face. It smelled vaguely of cinnamon and chocolate-covered peaches. "Of all the Olympians to piss off, she's probably at the top of the list when it comes to most vindictive when slighted."
"I don't care," the Roman replied, his voice steady. "She can shoot all the love arrows she wants at me; I meant what I said."
"Umm... I thought Cupid was the one who shot the love arrows."
Jason bit his lip for a moment. "Yeah; he is."
Percie waited for an elaboration, but didn't get one. Instead, Jason turned to Piper, who was still standing petrified in her spot. "Are you okay?" he asked, clearly wanting to comfort her but not knowing how to do it.
"Better... than I might have ended up," she confessed, her bottom lip quivering. "I... think I need to go lay down for a minute." The Hummer was only about forty feet away from them, and Piper unlocked the doors with the key from there. Then, in a move Percie had not been expecting, Piper tossed the key to her. "When we're ready to go, you can drive, Percie. I'm not feeling up to it."
Piper lumbered off, towards her dad's vehicle. All three demigods stared after her for a moment, making sure she got there safely, before glancing back at one another.
"Okay... either one of you care to explain what just went down?" Percie asked. "Because Jason clearly figured something out, and based on how you were acting, Will, I'd say you caught on pretty fast, too. Can I get looped in now, please?"
Both boys hesitated, but Percie's gaze didn't flinch; after a few moments of silence, Will sighed. "Percie... you do know you weren't the first person Nico came out to, right?" the healer put forth.
"I know that. Jason, just like Janice, was there when Cupid... made... him... oh."
Will nodded. "Yeah. Cupid outed him... violently, if I'm being generous. Of course, Jason backed him up, and even though the god might not have had actively malicious intent; one could argue he was just doing his job; what he put Nico through was beyond the point of necessary."
"Exactly," Jason agreed, scowling at the place where Aphrodite had been standing. "Cupid, and his mother, can say whatever they want to to justify their actions. I don't care; their methods are cruel, disturbing, and do more harm than good. The read I got off Aphrodite just then was the same read I got on Cupid; whatever she wanted Piper to reveal, it wasn't going to be pretty. Yes, she broke my heart. That doesn't mean I hate her, or want to see her suffer. I'm sure she had a reason; it doesn't console me, but it could be worse."
Percie thought it over. "So... when you two caught on, did you think that the secret Piper's harboring is...-"
"Not our place to speculate," Will cut in, though he did look intrigued. "Even if it is... that... then the best thing we can do is let her know she has our support, no matter if she decides to tell us or not. When she's ready... she will."
The child of the sea didn't argue there. As much as she wanted her friends to know that they didn't have to keep things from her, facing some of your own personal demons could be the hardest thing to overcome, no matter how much cushioning you had under you.
"Fine by me," she relented, shrugging. "Though, I will congratulate you for chasing the debutante off, Jason. You apparently offended her so much, she didn't even stop to ask herself about who I was."
Will blinked. "Yeah, actually; she didn't even look at you twice. I'm sure she figured out you were a demigod, but with her mind focused on Jason and Piper, she must not have deemed you worthy of any special attention."
"If only she could stick to that level of ditzy-ness for the rest of my life."
Jason chuckled at that, then took on a more reserved look. "As much as I still think telling her off was the right thing to do, I can't help but feel like Aphrodite's going to pay me back for that at some point."
Percie frowned. "What, will she give you a bad haircut in your sleep, or something?"
"More likely she'll lock me up in a tower, and give me nothing to watch except Spanish soap operas all day long."
Will cocked his head. "Hm... maybe I should mention that to Nico as something Hades could instate as a sentence in the Fields of Punishment. Opera's becoming more of a mainstream thing in some parts of the world; making conmen and people who text while driving listen to Caruso and Volpi nonstop is now less of a punishment, and more of a really sophisticated mosh pit."
Both Percie and Jason stared at him. "Hades makes people who text and drive live out their afterlives in the Fields?" Percie couldn't help but ask.
"You've clearly never driven in Texas."
No, she had not. Nor had she driven in Los Angeles, but now that Piper had given Percie the keys, that last one was about to change. Not bothering to hide her excitement, the daughter of Poseidon leapt into the driver's seat, staring at the beautiful dashboard with zeal. ""I'm driving Tristan McLean's Hummer," she gushed, cranking the engine and snorting at the sound of the vehicle revving up. "Oh, purr for me, sweetie. Mama's about to treat you real nice in a second."
In the rearview mirror, Percie watched Will and Jason make terrified expressions at each other, like "Did this woman really just talk to an engine like it was a rekindled old flame?" Yes. Yes, she did.
"I wonder if Piper's named her, yet," Percie noted, glancing back at the prostrate daughter of Aphrodite in the very back of the vehicle. Piper gave no indication that she was awake or listening, so Percie decided to take that as a no. "I'm gonna call her Rhonda; spicy, but charming."
"Percie, are you sure some of Aphrodite's influence didn't rub off on you while you were talking to her that first time?" Will questioned, leaning forward into the front seat. "Because you're getting a little too close to this Hummer for my liking."
"Hummer?!" Percie patted the steering wheel affectionately. "Easy there, girl. He didn't mean that. Don't ever listen to Will outside of medical matters; he still makes Star Wars references."
"You're succumbing to the Dark Side, Percie!"
Both Percie and Will grinned like idiots at their own playful banter, while Jason buried his head in his arms, probably asking why Juno had seen fit to bless him with such dorks for friends.
"Okay," Percie announced, putting a more serious face on. "We've got Jason, and we've got Piper. Next friend on the list is the most elusive one of all; Leo. In my world, Lea ended up revealing herself shortly after Gaea's defeat, and spends most of her time either coming up with new ways of torturing the cohorts on the Field of Mars, or causing some kind of shenanigans that Calypso has to clean up after. We don't have that luxury here."
"No, we don't," Jason confirmed. "He's my best friend, but even I don't know where he is, at all. All we got was the one letter after Gaea' defeat, where he explained he was still alive, and occasionally we get another one that says he's fine. No locations, activities, or hints to speak of."
"A mystery, then. Okay; if you ever needed to get in touch with Leo, for a full-throttle emergency, how would you do it?"
Jason pondered her proposed conundrum for a moment, before his face lit up. "It's a bit of a stretch, but my best guess would be-"
A sharp pounding on the driver's side window startled all three conscious demigods, and Percie's hands went flying up in a wild self-defense position. "What's the meaning-!" she shrieked, before the familiar face leering at her from the other side of the window silenced her outburst.
"Thalia! Don't scare me like that!"
The daughter of Zeus' grin grew even wider, until it spread fully across her face. Percie rolled the window down in a huff, both relieved and shaken to see the Hunter now.
Behind her, in the very back, Piper poked her head up in distress, until she too caught sight of their visitor. "Thalia?" she blinked, trying to wipe spots out of her eyes. "When did she get here?"
"Just now," Jason answered, throwing a look over his shoulder at the child of love. "You can go back to sleep, Piper."
"Works for me. Oh, and tell Percie to keep her voice down the next time someone surprises her like that. Do you know what it's like being woken up by a woman screaming at the top of her lungs? Overrated."
With that, Piper folded back down out of sight, leaving Percie blushing more than she would have liked. "What are you doing here, Thalia?" she finally managed to ask, calming back down. "I knew Artemis was flying Annabeth and Nico out to New Rome, but I thought she sent you and the other Hunters after Lamia."
"She did," the lieutenant replied, "but we didn't have much luck. We tracked her down here, to Hollywood, but lost the trail somewhere around the Hollywood Bowl."
"Yeah, we ran into her there... at least, a version of her," Will informed her from the back seat. "Guess we got a little careless in that regard."
Thalia listened, nodding along. "Yeah. When I sent word to Lady Artemis that we'd tracked Lamia down to Los Angeles, the same place you guys were heading, she told me to make a slight change in the plan. The rest of the Hunters will see about seeking out the sorceress; she asked me to accompany you personally, until you managed to fully reunite the Seven."
"Personally?" Percie asked, a little stunned. "Why? Is she worried something big is coming up?"
"Not that I know of. Just as we followed Lamia here to Hollywood, Artemis confirmed that she'd just finished dropping off Nico and Annabeth off at Camp Jupiter, so I suppose she was technically Diana at that point." Thalia couldn't hold back a giggle. "You know, Nico actually made her stop in Iowa at one point so he could grab a to-go order from McDonald's?"
Jason's mouth dropped in astonishment. "He didn't."
"He did. To be fair, he did ask her if she wanted anything."
"And how did Artemis respond?"
"She said something about eating meat; not fake meat. Rather restrained of her, to be honest."
Will face-palmed. "That boy... no matter how much I tell him that stuff is going to clog his arteries and weigh him down with heart disease, he just can't let it go. I think he's suffering from an addiction; an addiction to cheap meat raised in a science lab."
"Of all the things he could be addicted to, Will, I'd say you lucked out," Percie put forward. "At least McDonald's isn't something he'd have to hit the streets for."
"I'm sorry, have you ever been to a McDonald's in Iowa?"
Jason cleared his throat, stopping the conversation from taking a turn towards the greasy appetites of the American Midwest. "Thalia, you were going somewhere with that conversation before we got distracted, right?"
The Hunter smirked at her brother. "Yes, I was. After dropping them off in Camp Jupiter, Lady Diana made the assertion that I should put myself at your service until this issue with the Percys was resolved. As much as she would miss having me by her side, she's empathetic enough to know that a problem this personal to me is something I can't stand off to the side for. Not after having to bench myself for the Prophecy of the Seven, anyway." She turned a softer eye to Jason. "I knew you were in good hands, but I was still terrified for you. Not being there was probably one of the hardest things I've ever done."
Jason flushed a little, before saluting her. "Welcome aboard then, sis. Dad knows we could use every bit of support we can muster; we're facing freaking constellations, after all."
Thalia, of course, climbed into the passenger's seat, which Percie was fine with. She still got to drive Rhonda, after all. Once the lieutenant was situated, Percie looked back at Jason in her rearview mirror. "I believe you were about to tell us where we might find Leo before we got so rudely interrupted by your sister and her knocking."
"You'll know when I'm being rude, Percie," Thalia joked next to her, flashing a cheeky grin at Percie. Thomas got that same look whenever he was mouthing off to her, or Janice. It was impossible to stay mad at him for too long; not when he could do that.
"I'm sure I will, Sparky," Percie returned, before letting Jason speak.
"As I was saying, it's a bit of a long shot, but I think the best place we can try to make contact with Leo would be the Grand Canyon," Jason finally managed to get out. "It was technically the first place we met, and sometimes he'll mention trying to rearrange a visit in his letters. It's not much of a hint, but it's the best I can do."
"Better than nothing," Will commented. "Sure beats just driving around the country until we randomly stumble on something that could help us."
Percie paused. "That... actually happens a lot, now that I think about it. Just walking along, and poof! Perfect answer to at least one of your immediate problems... and another fifty issues come right along with it."
"Happens to us all," Thalia grunted. "Odysseus made it a real bad habit; that dude couldn't walk forty feet without accidentally waltzing right into something or someone who wanted him and his crew dead. Didn't help that just about all of his crew members couldn't take a hint, and kept doing things they were expressly forbidden to do."
"Good thing none of us ever fall into that trap, right?" Percie cracked, earning some chuckles, plus one very deliberate look of horror from Will. "Grand Canyon it is, then. Just as long we don't see any Thunderbird convertibles; Rhonda's likely to drive anyone in those right off the edge into the crevice."
"Rhonda?" Thalia asked, befuddled, earning even more guffaws from the others. With a destination in mind, Percie finally pulled Rhonda out of the lot, squealing in delight every time she got to make even the slightest turn. There was a minor scare when a giant eighteen-wheeler got a little too close for her liking, and Percie made sure she let the driver know that. Granted, she mainly did that by rolling down her window and screeching a number of Ancient Greek curses at the guy, most of which seemed to go over his head. Though he did raise an eyebrow when she mentioned that she and Rhonda wouldn't forget this incident.
When she pulled her head back inside, she was met with three bemused expression. "Oh, please," Percie rolled her eyes. "I was just testing to see if he was some monster in disguise; he didn't recognize any of my Ancient Greek, so I'd say we're in the clear."
"Whatever you say, Percie," Will snickered from the back. "You can admit you were defending Rhonda's honor; I promise I won't tell Annabeth."
Jason groaned. "Oh, great. Now she's got him saying it, too. Thalia, please tell me I'm not alone in thinking this is even weirder than most of the stuff we tend to see on a regular basis."
Thalia startled a little, looking up from the dashboard. "I'm sorry; what were you saying, Jason? I was too busy checking out Rhonda's playlist."
The son of Jupiter's frustrated exclamations rang out for several miles, to Percie's amusement. She left Los Angeles behind her, the city of sin and glamor becoming nothing more than a blip on the horizon. Their mission had been successful, so far: She'd found two of her friends, and had Thalia at her side now, too. Annabeth and Nico were safe in Camp Jupiter, and Leo was now solidly in her sights.
She could only hope Percy was faring as well as she was.
|
“Mirabel! Where’s Mirabel?”
Julieta’s cry was a knife. But Mama had said Mira was fine? How could she be gone? Luisa dropped the rag she was holding so she could push up to her feet. In addition to the weakness, she felt woozy and unsteady. Her right shoulder and elbow complained at her, so she gingerly held her arm against her body with her other hand.
“Luisa, there you are!” Isabela collided into her with a… hug? “Are you okay?”
Luisa tried to reply, to reassure that she was fine, but her voice was still escaping her. Time was running oddly,and her reactions were sluggish. “Mira?” was what she managed. Mira was MISSING. What if Mirabel was hurt? The whole house fell on her, and Luisa couldn’t protect her.
“We’re going to find Mirabel, Lu. But you don’t look so… “ Isa’s mouth quirked downwards in worry. “You’re bleeding. Our powers are gone. The house fell down. Nobody is okay! I can worry about both my little sisters at once.”
Luisa mulishly shook her head. “Gotta find Mira.”
She started to pull away from her sister when Isabela STAMPED. “You’re HURT, Luisa!” Isa’s voice was sharp, and Luisa shrank away.
“ Lo siento… ” she apologized, not sure why she had made her sister so mad. “I can look for her.”
“Lu, you’re hurt. You can’t look for her, you need to stop apologizing and sit down.” Isa planted her hands on her hips, fear and concern making her tone come across as imperious.
Isabela couldn’t recall ever seeing her big-little sister bleed, at least not since Luisa had opened her door. And now the sticky stuff was matted in her hair and running down her face. Some had dripped onto her white blouse which was also torn and dirty. She also seemed to be standing… wrong.
“Lo siento…” Luisa repeated. She should have said something else, but Isa was so mad. She swallowed, trying to focus through the haze. How long had it been since her mother had screamed for Mirabel? Nothing seemed quite real. Her head hurt.
“ No siento. I need you to be safe, too! I can’t risk losing you! You are going to SIT down, and you will LET me HELP you, you big..” She took Luisa’s arm in her hands, giving it a tug. “Stubborn!” Tug! “Oaf!” Tug!
Luisa was surprised at how strong Isa was, and the tugs unbalanced her. Already unsteady, she sank down to sit. “Look at me,” her sister said as she cupped Lu’s chin with her hands. Isa made a fierce frown as she examined Luisa’s face, tilting it from side to side.
“You’re gonna have quite a lump without Mama’s food to help…” Isa’s breath only hitched a little.
“ Lo si- ” Luisa was shushed by Isabela’s finger pressed against her lips.
“Stop apologizing. I’m going to take care of you whether you like it or not, Burrita .” A stubborn set to Isabela’s chin. “Does anything else hurt?”
Luisa dimly remembered that Isa would sometimes help their mother, producing fragrant herbs for Julieta’s tinctures. Her hermana’s hands were deft and confident as she checked Luisa’s scalp for any other injuries. The big girl hissed involuntarily when she grazed a tender spot.
“Shh, sis. I see it. We’ll get it. There has to be some water we can find to clean you up. Ay! No! You sit!” she exclaimed the last as Luisa started to rise.
“You broke yourself in two trying to do everything, Lu. I’m sorry I didn’t see it. I was caught up in my own problems, so maybe I wasn’t the best sister to you and Mirabel… but..” Isa bit her lip. “Our family is what matters, and our family is what’s left. We’re going to find Mirabel, don’t you worry. Okay? You may have noticed that our little sister is pretty amazing.”
Isa was saying this? Luisa blinked owlishly at the pollen-streaked young woman. Clearly, she had missed something big. But Isabela just laughed gently at her expression.
“I know, I see your face. Losing Casita might be terrible, but this is the first time in years I feel like myself. We’ll get through this. Now, obstinada , you will SIT here, and I’m going to find some water in this mess.”
Luisa watched her sister march off into the rubble and haze, dumbfounded. Isa had yelled, but she wasn’t.. mad? She wouldn’t even let her apologize for being hurt ( weak) . Luisa always apologized for asking for help, for when she had to be a burden to others. Why wasn’t she mad at Luisa for not helping at all, when everything was broken? Would you have been mad about taking care of Isa, or Mira? whispered a traitorous thought. Luisa frowned at that, turning it over in her mind. Of course she wouldn’t be mad taking care of her sisters. She loved them. Luisa would move the world for them.
“But…” the protest escaped her lips as a soft whisper to the air. But. But it was true. The idea sat heavily in her twisting stomach, an uneasy chunk to digest. Isabela cared that Luisa was hurt. Maybe.. Maybe it was just because Luisa couldn’t help search for Mirabel like this. She was, objectively, not.. feeling exactly great. The pain in her shoulder had grown into a steady throb, and the fingers of that hand were tingly-numb. Her head pulsed in a counter-beat to her arm, and the world had a hazy, unreal quality.
That had to be it. Isabela wanted to make sure Luisa could carry her weight again. But…
But that didn’t feel right. Maybe it wasn’t true? Maybe it was… just because? Your sisters deserve love and care, don’t they?
If so, what did this mean about Luisa?
Despite the busy circles of her thoughts and anxieties, and despite her pounding head and throbbing arm, sitting down and being quiet had a sneaking effect on the exhausted Luisa. The past few days had only wielded scattered snippets of rest. The once-strong girl found her eyelids heavy and her head drooping. She needed to… she needed…
But it was of no use. Luisa Madrigal fell asleep.
|
Jughead is aware he is being spoken to. He’s also faintly aware the conversation is important. The problem is he cannot bring himself to focus. His train of thought keeps steam rolling towards his childhood friends and their betrayal. He found the only thoughts powerful enough to distract him from the anger and resentment involved a raven haired temptress with her lightly tanned skin and soft curves.
The things he had done to her and she to him in return. He would never forget the taste of her or how wet and inviting her mouth was for him. One week. He knew he was an idiot, he was nowhere near her league and once she had time to realize how big of a mistake she was going to make she would change her mind. Sleeping with Veronica was a fantasy he never even let himself have , but now that he had the fantasy he wanted the moment to be genuine and to be about them. It would be torture seeing her in the halls of Riverdale High or at pops. It would be even more torture to see her hand in hand with Archie if she ran back to him like he figured she likely would. He was uncertain if they resumed their relationship where exactly that left him and Betty. He would ignore the fact that it was him who’d put his chance with Veronica on hold due to his irrationally logical reasoning.
Jughead felt a deep resentment for his former friend. It was not enough that Archie could have pretty much any girl he wanted . Betty and Veronica. The two most stunning, cunning and intellectually gifted young women in Riverdale. Archie had effectively turned him into the second choice for both women in less then a moons turn.
Jughead could admit he’d been the one to initially push Betty away. He knows he broke her heart a little too harshly the last time and things had not been the same since their reunion. The weight of what she was suffering with her family was also weighing on them as well as his involvement with the Serpents. However that did not, to him, excuse her or Archie of their betrayal. He cannot reason why Archie or Betty would throw everything away so easily but it makes things easier for him to throw away as well.
And the odds that both he and Veronica would chance upon them at that exact moment at the exact same time. The moment their eyes met on that dark street felt almost cosmic. It was fate. It had been a moment of weakness that had led him to Betty’s front door, it was usually she who would show up at his door. He was aware how dark the road ahead of him was going to be going up against Hiram Lodge and in that dark hour he had craved a little light hoping he could maybe provide some light for her as well. He’d never expected to find the end of life as he’d known it. His world had fallen apart and any illusions he ever had shattered. All of his memories of Betty now somehow felt tainted.
“Yeah he’s out of it.” Sweet Pea says and it snaps him out of his thoughts and he finds his focus back in the Whyt Wyrm in a back booth with a few of the younger serpents where they could at least pretend to attempt to have considered concealing their drinking.
“Huh?” He asks and Toni laughs outright.
“I know that face Jug.” She says with a smile.
“What face?” he ask knitting his brows and grabbing some of the nuts in a bowl on the table.
“That ‘I made out with a beautiful girl but still can’t stop thinking about Betty Cooper’ face.” She mocks sarcastically using a high pitch tone that he’s sure is supposed to be his and fluttering her lashes as if he would actually do something so absurdly dramatic.
The old Jughead might of gotten defensive, maybe even a little embarrassed, but not anymore . They are family and he is comfortable in his skin, literally and figuratively. Toni is his best friend, even without the length of history he shared with Archie, she had gotten close enough to claim that spot in his life.
He had divulged to her all the discoveries and happenings at the Lake house. Now she was teasing him with the knowledge in front of the gang. The crazy part was this firecracker of a woman probably knew him enough to have truly read his mind on his face.
“Trouble in paradise Jones? Who’s the other unlucky lady?” Sweet Pea asks sipping a beer.
Sweet Pea had also slowly been becoming one of his closest friends. After his Southside induction and the situation with the snake charmer they had a begrudging respect for one another that had continued to evolve. After being thrown into the chaos of Riverdale high and working both at the shop and some odd jobs for the Serpents together he and Sweet Pea had actually formed a solid friendship. They could actually appreciate the differences in each other. Most importantly they trusted that the best interest of the Southside and their family was all that truly mattered to them both.
“Not Toni.” Jughead answers “This Time.” he adds in retaliation hoping for a reaction out of her while stealthily avoiding their questions.
Sweet Pea belts out a laugh along with a few of the others and Jughead can’t help but join in. Toni tosses some peanuts at him but smiles too in a show of good sportsmanship.
“So I’m guessing some Northside floozie.” Sweet Pea asks.
“A gentlemen never kisses and tells.” Jughead replies.
“Says the guy who literally just told.” Toni fires.
“Since when were any of us gentlemen?” Ask Fangs.
“The day after never.” answers Jughead and the rest of the Serpents share a rowdy toast in agreement.
Jughead appreciates his friends taking him out of his thoughts. The thought of Veronica’s warning about her father still lingers at the back of his mind as well. He knows Hiram Lodge and his father have bad blood and history probably more than he will ever know which is why he cannot fathom why his father would trust the Lodges with Sunny side.
This war that he helped to ignite eats away at his conscious almost constantly. He lost his dad so many times he won’t lose him again. Not to Hiram Lodge and not to prison. Jughead will handle Hiram himself. His article was only the tip of the Iceberg.
He looks around at his friends, no, not by myself.
“There might be something we have to deal with.” He tells the group.
“What kind of trouble we looking at now?” Toni ask in that voice of hers that is so sweet yet ready for a challenge it intimidates him.
“I’m not sure yet. I’m going to do some digging and get back to you. Just be aware we’re not in the clear yet with sunny side. Sweet Pea, Fangs I’m definitely going to need you to pay someone a visit with me soon though.” He tells them.
Sweat Pea looks excited at the prospect of trouble. He’s probably the one person that’s seen Jughead at his darkest. Fangs looks weary as he always does. Their contrasting demeanors help aid in the intimidation factor because it throws their targets off. Jughead has learned the intricacies of the good thug, bad thug routine on some of their security jobs. Jughead was going to need that.
Hiram Lodge was a very smart man , but Jughead would be smarter. He needed to get a rise out of Hiram Lodge publicly. It would make him a suspect if anything were to happen to one of the Serpents and they could use it as leverage to stay his hand on any crazy plots he might have of retaliation. That would give Jughead time to find out what else he was truly up to and give them an upper hand on The Lodge Patron.
Jughead felt guilty that this was Veronica’s father he would be going after. The same father he had essentially told her not to give up on. He fought the slight urge to want to use her in getting the rise he wanted out of her father. Partly because he didn’t want her stuck in the middle and partly because he wanted to use her in other ways that didn’t involve her father in the least. Even if those ways would probably hurt Hiram more than anything the Serpents could do.
He tries to shake the thoughts out of his head.
“I need some air.” He says before making his way out the booth “I’ll let you two know when and where.” He tells Fangs and Sweet Pea. They nod and he exits the bar.
Jughead pulls out his phone and stares at the missed calls and unread messages from Betty. He’s torn between wanting to talk to her and wanting to pretend she doesn’t exist. He decides he can’t deal at the moment and puts his phone back in his pocket. He pulls out a joint from his pocket and lights it with a match.
His mind turns to Veronica as he hops on his bike, feeling the ghost of her fingers against his lips. Last night felt so surreal, this morning all the more so. He has no idea what had overtaken them. He cannot wrap his head around it all, it feels like a dream. He’s still confused as to what kind of dream.
Nothing that beautiful can be a nightmare
He finds himself heading to pops and sending out a random prayer that neither Betty or Archie are there. The food at the Whyt Wyrm was not up to par and he needed proper sustenance to be at full thought processing capability.
He needs plans and lots of them. One for Hiram Lodge, one for dealing with Betty, one for dealing with Archie, one to protect the Serpents, and one for Veronica. He was uncertain what type of plan he needed for the latter but needed nonetheless.
Waiting one week counts as a plan doesn’t it?
It did but he would most definitely see her before that time and he needed to figure out where they stood and how to be around Betty and Archie without the hurt or the guilt.
She had changed his life with her mouth when she went down on him after he suggested they wait on taking it further. He saw the devil dancing in her eyes as he spent himself in her mouth. Then she had put her dress and heels on leaving behind her fancy underwear set. She left with a simple “See you around, Forsythe.”
He had no idea how she was getting home or what her parting comment meant, but he had still been seeing stars and was in no shape to follow her and ask questions all he knew was he kind of liked the way his inherited name sounded on Veronica’s lips. He finds he now likes her lips a lot.
Were they genuine friends now ? Would either of them still want each other in a week?
He was fully prepared for her to get back with Archie and pretend their encounter never occurred. He would take the secret to the grave if she wanted , but he’d also take the memory.
He walks into pops and heads straight for his usual booth regretful he’s left his laptop home in result of his lingering hangover. Writing helps him condense his thoughts and sort them through objectively. For now all he has are his thoughts and as many cheeseburgers as he can afford.
Pops appears next to him ready to take his order.
“Two double bacon cheeseburgers.” Says Jughead knowing he sounds as exasperated as he feels. “Actually make that four. Oh and Onion rings.”
“ A shake?” Pops ask knowingly.
“Of course my good man, surprise me.”
Pops gives him a genuine smile and not for the first time Jughead feels as if pops is the only person in Riverdale who truly understands him.
“It’ll be out in a minute.”
“Take your time my good man, I have a lot of essential pondering ahead of me”
Jughead is alone with his thoughts and begins the process of prioritizing. He begins with a mental list of important topics. Topping the list include Betty, Archie, Veronica, and Hiram Lodge.
Betty, file away for later. Archie, file away for later. Veronica, file away for.... To Be Determined. Hiram Lodge it is.
Hiram Lodge he can tackle. The bigger the problem the faster his mind always seems to piece together solutions. No problem was bigger than a problem that needed justice.
Damn it why did I forget my laptop?
He needs to research. He finds himself missing Betty. This is where they would partner up and solve the mystery. He feels a stab of hurt realizing how much Archie had been her partner in crime solving the Black Hood mystery. He thinks of enlisting Veronica to be his partner but quickly realizes he can’t rope her into investigating her own father. She might be in deeper with her father than he even knows. He saw the guilt written all over her face at her confession and how she seemed to want to divulge more. He’s the perfect example that despite adamant protest sometimes ending up like your parents is inevitable.
He makes a note of how his troubles keep bleeding into each other. He also makes a note to try not to hold Veronica’s allegiance to her father or any future implications against her. He’s been through the whole sins of the father ordeal and to be fair she had given him adequate warning. She would be Switzerland. It dawns on him however that by protecting his family he might have to destroy hers.
The smell of fresh cheeseburgers catches Jughead’s attention and as pops approaches with his tray of food. He salivates and feels his whole day brighten up just a bit. His thoughts had already begun to show some signs of progression, now with the proper nutrition he had no doubt he would be ready to deal with everything the universe seemed intent on throwing at him.
He is exactly two and a half cheeseburgers in when the universe decides to take him up on the challenge.
“Thanks for meeting me. I thought it would take at least a week.” Says Archie’s voice from behind him towards the entrance. Jughead tenses involuntarily. He knows it’s Veronica Archie is with. He can feel her behind him like all of his senses are acutely attuned to her.
That didn’t take long , he thinks as he feels his heart drop just the slightest.
He hopes against all hopes they pick to sit anywhere but near him. He dares to hope even further that they are not clued in to his presence.
“We can’t avoid each other forever Archie. Best to put this behind us and move forward onto our respective lives.” Veronica answers.
Jughead has to fight the temptation to look back and steal a glance.
“That sounds fancy for I’m breaking up with you.” Archie says in what sounds like an attempt at a joke but comes off as unsure and dimwitted.
Jughead is fully aware he is eavesdropping and he’s okay with that. He is used to making sure he goes unnoticed and observing from the shadows and he attempts to do such again as Veronica’s words are on replay in his mind. His hands itch to type them on a word document. He settles for his phone. One week has never felt so far away.
|
Lyani coiled around the heated cauldron, carefully tilting a flask of glowing purple fluid. The looping spiral's dark gray scales were softly illuminated by light purple incantations. Hanging bottles clanked as harsh winds rattled the dark wood of her store, books covered tables, her work scrawled out over scraps of paper held down by shiny stones.
This most recent brew bubbled a ruby red, roiling with purple smoke. Wrapping around the cauldron she peered over the lid to her foot that clutched the last set of instructions to the brew. Crossed off were chicken scratch notes to let the brew simmer for over a month, bring to a boil, add raven's foot, and a few drops of purple sludge. It was her last vial of it, and even if she extracted more sludge the process could take weeks.
She paused, knowing the sway of the universe would stop her from accurately pouring this vial. Taking a heavy wooden spoon she hit the roof, scattering birds that sat there, and listened. No sound, no sound, no sound? No sound. Setting the spoon down she took up the vial, instructions clutched in her foot as she ever so slowly tilted the vial-
With force enough to rattle the entire house something pounded hard against the double doors of her shop. The spiral jumped, the entire vial of sludge emptying into the cauldron. The bright red erupted into purple smoke that plastered her face and wings making her cough up burnt elixir, the pounding on the door continuing.
"LYNAI! OPEN THE DOOR!" A massive voice bellowed. Wiping only her eyes she noodled her way to the rafters, unlatching the supports and pulling twine to open the doors. Snowflakes and chilly air billowed inside as the great blue head of a massive ridgeback filled the head shaped entrance to the store, his long, pointed snout carelessly denting the wall
"Careful, careful! I'm renting!"
"LYNAI!" She flinched, the boom of his voice hurting her ears.
"YOU ARE LOOKING PURPLE TODAY. I SEEK ANOTHER POTION!"
"Easy, keep it down, I have neighbors-"
"WHAT?"
The little spiral flinched again at the boom. From tip to tail she was about as long as his snout, the double doors accommodating larger dragons in her shop. The bigger dragons always gave her a headache, and this one was certainly not an exception to the rule.
"Just tell me what you need. In a library voice."
"ANOTHER POTION OF GOLDEN VOICE. I AM TO BE PAIRED TODAY AND I WANT TO IMPRESS MY MATE."
She rubbed her temples, coiling up on the floor. "I have two more potions of golden voice. You may have one of them for four gold pieces."
"I WILL HAVE TWO OF THEM FOR TWENTY GOLD PIECES. I WANT THEM BOTH." His head left the "hangar", replaced by a massive bag of gold coins. Each heavy disk was the size of a dinner plate. The action of dropping the bag scattered the notes on her desk. With a sigh she put her feet to the wall and pushed out her spine, unrolling to scoot the bag of gold inside. Drifting up she took the two vials in her teeth and slipped around to the window where the small town lay out below. The vials dropped into his open palm, and without a thanks the ridgeback left.
Lyani turned back to her lab, now an utter mess. Notes mixed with melting snow, a massive sack of coins taking up a third of the room, and a now failed project simmered over an extinguished fire. Her wings drooped.
The sounds of wings met her ears, much smaller wings, and a frilled fae dragon with swirling white and black scales like that of a blizzard. A tiny bird with flitting wings hung in the air by her folded wings. The fae looked at the dent in the far side of the wall.
"Ridgeback?" Her voice asked.
Lyani nodded at the cauldron with a sigh. "The gold should cover most things, it just won't cover the time on this."
"What was it?"
"Elixir of the aurora. I've never made one before, I figured it would make someone's mate happy."
"That's sweet of you. You have a summons from the clan leader. You're to be paired today."
Her wings fluttered nervously, her looping body uncoiling awkwardly. "A summons for courtship? I've never.. what do I do? Do I have to?"
The courier nodded, "come to the lodge at sundown. Elsan and Regina are presiding over the pairings. It means they've chosen a mate for you to strengthen our flight."
Lyani's wings gave a nervous flutter at the mention. "Are you sure its for me?"
Opening her satchel the fae took a scroll out and handed it to her. "It is. It won't say who your mate is to be, you will find out at the pairing. Its normal to be nervous, especially if you haven't been paired before."
The fae offered her a reassuring smile, Lyani hesitantly nodded.
"Nervousness is normal, nervousness is normal. All part of the recipe, right?" She laughed awkwardly, unconvinced.
________________________________________
As Lyani arrived at the lodge dragons of the flight were making their way in. Fluffy tundras, towering guardians, fleet fae, the ridgeback from before thundered his way up the steps through a door large enough to accommodate him. The spiral slipped through the air, her wings keeping her aloft as she angled around into the rafters of the lodge, looping around the beams comfortably.
The lodge was a great wooden hall built by the founders themselves Elsan and Regina. Faces of dragons and friendly beastclan were carved around the tops of the walls all sized equally. The founder guardians Elsan and Regina presides over great wooden podiums at the far side of the hall, the center meeting space respectfully kept open by all attending dragons. Elsan's sky blue scales contrasted his golden wings, his regal stature accented by the heavy glacier plate over his shoulders, big enough to serve as a closet for Lyani. Regina inspected the flight as they arrived, her own scales a dark purple with similarly golden wings.
Fiddling with her wings Lyani realized she had missed a spot, her left wing was a purple mess from earlier. Contorting herself she stretched to scrub her scales.
"THE CEREMONY OF COURTSHIP WILL COMMENCE." The great bass of Elsan's voice startled Lyani causing her wing to flutter out of her grasp.
Regina stood to address the flight. "IT IS EACH MONTH WE MEET TO PAIR OUR FLIGHT FOR COURTSHIP. IT IS THE STRENGTH OF MANY THAT WILL KEEP OUR HEARTHS WARM AND OUR BELLIES FULL."
Elsan regarded a scroll before him. "WE HAVE SELECTED A NUMBER OF DRAGONS TO COURT EACH OTHER, TO EXPAND OUR FLIGHT. THE SELECTION PROCESS IS RANDOM BUT FINAL. THE CLAN AWAITS YOUR SUCCESS."
Regina glanced towards Elsan's scroll. "LET THE CEREMONY OF COURTSHIP BEGIN."
Clearing his throat with what sounded like a clash of thunder Elsan began to read. "LYANI."
Lyani yelped, tumbling down from the rafters with a wing in her mouth as she tried to clean off the purple mess. That wing quickly retracted as she had the entire flight's attention.
"GILGAMESH."
A gigantic imperial strode forward, larger than any dragon Lyani had met. Her heart stopped. His scales seemed to be made from solid gold, shiny and reflective. His mane was long but well kept, silky and smooth. Great wings were capped in leather adornments, little gears turned, and a scarf longer than her tied off around his neck. She was a touch longer than one of the imperial's great golden horns, altogether he was five times as long as she was.
Lyani leaned over, looking sideways beyond the imperial, desperately hoping Gilgamesh was the green spiral twisted in the rafters. This caused the imperial to awkwardly look behind him, trying to see what she saw.
"LYANI, GILGAMESH, MAY YOU BRING THE CLAN GREATER NUMBERS."
Gilgamesh bowed to the guardians in a careful motion, and stepped carefully along Lyani towards the door. Lyani flew ahead, her face burning with a mixture of emotions as they exited the lodge. She cast herself into the town square, making an anxious figure eight in the air as she awaited Gilgamesh, talking to herself.
"An imperial! They expect me to mate with an imperial! I'm going to get squished! Of all the big, dumb, clumsy-"
With a whump she flew into his leg, he lifted it gingerly, then lowered his head down to Lyani with a look of concern in his gentle eyes.
"You must be ready to have fun," Lyani remarked, "we can't very well go back to my room can we? You don't need to speak so close to me, its going to hurt my ears-"
"We can return to my home." His voice spoke. She was caught off guard by him, astonished. Gilgamesh's soft spoken voice was so quiet it did not carry any of the unpleasant effects of the other huge dragons. His voice carried all the power of its size but none of the pain. Her tail curled and uncurled in a kind of fluster.
"I-I would like to see your home. Where is it?"
"Rest atop my back. I will carry us there. It is at the blizzard dome's workshop." He extended a giant paw to her as a ramp. She skittered up his shoulder and onto the fluff on his mane as he began to take slow, patient steps.
The blizzard dome was a structure made during the clan's early days to keep deadly storms from harming the town. It occurred to Lyani that someone must keep it functional. She nestled along his neck, resting her head atop his as he walked. She did have to admit, his mane was extraordinarily comfortable, a few books and she could rest up here for hours. The fur made a good windbreaker, his natural body heat served to make her warmer, and he had a scent of... polished metal that could be better. Her snout scrunched.
________________________________________
Gilgamesh entered his home, the room was entirely massive. It held workbenches with neatly drawn and noted plans who were unfolded on a bench or rolled up and organized on a rack of blue prints. Clockwork parts filled labeled bins and unfinished projects were kept in boxes labeled as such. There was a clear and consistent method of organization. The door shut.
The spiral periscoped up over the imperial's mane and looked over his home. "I figured you worked on the dome but what do you make?"
"Trinkets," his soft voice replied. "Small things, toys, mechanisms. I'm making a clock for the baker, would you like to see it?"
"What kind of clock?" Gilgamesh lowered his head to level with the work bench, Lyani sat at the edge of his snout. She watched as his large claws took delicate care of the clockwork on the table. It was a large brass dial with little doors atop it. Hands clicked with passing time, and it was about as tall as Lyani was wide. Reaching to the back of it he flicked a switch and the doors opened. Little brass fae emerged from the doors to ring a bell over the clock, striking with tiny hammers six times before returning to their tiny homes.
She gasped and realized she had been holding her head in her claws, delighted, then recomposed herself. "Where did you purchase the fae from? They're so well made."
"I crafted them. This whole clock."
Lyani saw herself in the face of the clock, then Gilgamesh behind her, and the reason for the meeting returned to her.
The smaller dragon noodled away to a large brass bowl, a spiral hot tub. She scooted the thing over as Gilgamesh watched, waiting to see what she wanted. It took a good number of tugs to bring the bowl beneath his back legs and she flopped in.
"Alright big boy. Do your thing. Fill 'er up, I got other things to get to."
The giant imperial over her looked appalled, shuffling large paws on the stone, leaning over her side to give her an uncomfortable look, ".......no."
With a huff she tossed her head back. "Do we have to draw this out? I have other projects I want to finish."
His head tilted, he stepped aside so she no longer sat directly below his back legs. "Projects?"
"Yes, I need to reorder more purple sludge and start the brew again for the elixir of the aurora. And this is making things take longer."
With relatively soft footsteps Gilgamesh stepped over to a large cabinet, producing a vial of purple sludge. "I would like to see your work."
Her eyes widened at the sludge. "...why? What's in it for you? Don't you want this over with."
Sitting next to her, he gave her the vial of rare sludge. "Imperial courtship is slow. We have time for the things we want. I would like to see your work."
"..but isn't this just a fling? Like, we're just supposed to make a few eggs."
"It can be. Is that what you want?" He asked, resting his head next to her. The genuine look in his eyes made her heart warm.
"I don't think I do.."
"Think about it. You have as much choice as I."
She nods, snaking around and tangling into the branches of his horn. "I'll think about it. My lab is about ten minutes by wing this way."
________________________________________
About two minutes by wing Gilgamesh arrived at Lyani's lab. She opened up the doors for larger dragons and slipped inside. The imperial tucked his claws beneath him, loafing in the street as the wind tousled his mane, face resting on Lyani's floor. Bottles rattled as he sat down outside.
He watched her as she set to work. Lyani stuffed the elixir's recipe in her back claw.
"The brew has to simmer for over four weeks before adding a touch of purple sludge. Too much sludge and the volatile solution explodes, not enough and you won't have any shine."
"Why does the brew need to set for so long?"
"The blubber needs to congeal at the base of the cauldron and a thin film needs to form at the surface. In my earlier tests without the film adding any amount of sludged made an explosion."
"How many explosions have you survived?" Concern touching his voice as she balanced atop a stool at an awkward angle, recipe in one foot, rummaging through a cabinet with her front claw.
"I don't count, emphasis on failure makes Lyani and unhappy alchemist." Taking her ingredients she adds them, stirring with a spoon almost as big as her.
"Do you record your brews?"
"Yes, which reminds me I should jot this one down." More concern reflected in his eyes as she found a clean side of scrap paper to start a new lab entry.
"May I ask more questions about the process? I only have a light understanding, enough for my own craft."
"Please please ask, it's been so so long since someone really let me go into detail about any of my brews."
Gilgamesh offered his own questions about the processes, intrigued by her answers. Lyani was entirely in her element as she worked, tending to bottles hanging from the ceiling and sitting atop tables. She hummed a tune as she worked that Gilgamesh soon picked up. In an hour the brew returned to its deep red state.
"That. Will. Do. It." She crossed off the final steps off the list and folded it between her back claws as her front claws recorded the experiment. Gilgamesh paused, then lifted his head to look down. A fluffy tundra looked up, motioning for him to move aside as he blocked most of the road. Gilgamesh removed his head as Lyani packed up her ingredients, then the great gold head of the imperial returned.
"The dome has jammed, I need to fix it."
"Oh?" She slipped over to the doorway. "I can accompany you over there, for another one of your projects. I'm sure you want to talk about yours just as much."
A smile touched his jaws as he bows his head, offering his horns to her. The spiral snatched a book off her desk and slipped over his horns and to his surprise onto his back. His head craned over to investigate as she got comfy, and gave him an innocent look.
"I'm doing testing. I need to know if this makes a good reading spot."
"Please, I would like to review your findings."
________________________________________
The dome held slats of metal that arch over the town when activated warding off harsher winds. Only half of it had moved, Gilgamesh walked along the rails to ensure nothing was wrong with the mechanics as he explained the contraption to Lyani. Dislodging some ice with a single claw, Lyani felt the way his body tensed as he used more of her strength. In a panic a tundra with grease smeared fur hurried over to him.
"Gilgamesh!"
Collected, the imperial swung his head around to the tundra.
"I dropped a wrench in the gearbox, I think its stuck in there for good, we're going to have to tell the founders the dome won't be ready now and start boarding up the town and make emergency plans-"
Gilgamesh silently lifted a claw, placing it atop the panicked Tundra's shoulder. "My designs allow mistakes. You will not be helpful panicking as you are. Take ten minutes. Take a drink of water. Then return."
His voice kept the same softness as when he regarded Lyani, and the spiral watched as the worker nodded, hurrying off. Lyani nested in his mane atop his head, marveling at how coolly he handled the situation.
The main mechanism for the dome was a large gray box filled with cogs. As he looked over it his mane kept falling in the way, with the blowing wind it kept interrupting his investigation. Lyani gathered his mane and swirled around it, using her noodly body as an improvised hair tie to keep his bun together. He glanced in a shinier pane of metal at her work, the spiral beamed down at him.
"So it would seem the last complication to make the dome active is to remove this wrench. I'm going to have to take apart the panel. We will cut it close to the storm's approach."
"Then let me take a look. I bet I can fit in there."
"Lyani-" the imperial protested as she slipped off his head and into the machine. His head lowered to track her, a task that soon became impossible.
"Found it!" A gnarled wrench popped out of the gearwork.
"Good. Now come back."
"Uhhh."
"You're stuck."
"Only slightly."
"Stuck is not on a gradient."
"Yeah yeah. Can you see me?"
"I see.. part of you. I think I can wrap my claws around you. Am I holding your body or your tail?"
"Neck!" Lyani choked as he tried to pull, he immediately loosened his grip.
"Then you're at the top right quadrant, there's a nook there for spare gears that's empty. We're out of spares, you can use that for a u-turn."
There was shuffling in the machine, and her tail appeared.
"Like that?"
"That works enough."
"So stuck IS on a gradient?"
"Mm. I'm going to attempt to remove you."
With a gentle touch he snaked her body through the gears and a grease-smudged Lyani hung from his claws. Holding her away from the box he pulled a lever, the dome sliding over the rest of the town and clanking down on the other side. "I have soaps for this."
________________________________________
Lyani bathed in Gilgamesh's tub. His bath was a great ceramic basin lined with different scents of shampoo, along with a tub of conditioner so large she could bathe in it. The soaps he provided cleaned off the grease in moments in the pool sized bath.
A part of her had to wonder, this was still an arranged courtship. She was bathing in his home, in his bath, to use his towels and his soaps. This was out of a romance novel, and the next scene had to absolutely be Gilgamesh walking in on her in the bath. She dwelled on him, more fond of him than when they first met. If this was going to work she needed to be in just the right pose as he walked in on her.
She curled her tail so the tip laid out the bath, resting her head demurely at the bath's edge. Minutes passed, and she had a better idea. She rested on the far end of the bath, head and claws on the edge and let her body extend behind her. And waiting. No Gilgamesh. Then she laid on her side, lining the bath with a tiny sign. No Gilgamesh. As the water cooled she opened the drain, leaving the bath with mild disappointment to dry off.
With the door opened a crack Lyani drifted out to a small dining room, small by Gilgamesh standards. The great dragon arranged a table covered in a makeshift tablecloth, and set two platters out. Lyani coiled up atop one of the plates making the imperial rumble with a laugh.
"Welcome back, Lyani."
"Gil," she smiled up to him with a little flutter of her wings. "What's this?"
"Dinner. Would you join me?"
"I would love to join you."
The imperial served her dish, a hearty steak seasoned perfectly. Gilgamesh turned and served himself. A slab of meat heavier than her thudded on the table. The two looked at it for a solid minute, comprehending the size differences between them before continuing their meals.
"What is next for imperial courtship?" Lyani asked as she munched.
"We have shared our lives so far. What is next for spiral courtship?"
Lyani savored the steak, enamored with his cooking. "A night flight is traditional. With the storm I don't think we will have that."
"Will you accept a warming by the fireside for your arranged courtship?" His eyes genuine, his offer gentle, he took clean, careful bites of his steak.
A shyer look crossed her face as she looked up to him, his golden sheen glowing. "Gilgamesh, I accept."
________________________________________
She watched as the huge imperial used a small brass contraption to light a fireplace as big as her room. She wandered over to it and felt the radiant heat all over. That's when she heard a soft whump behind her, and turned.
The full length of Gilgamesh was laid out before her, from the tip of his snout along his fluffy mane, kind eyes, shining gold scales carrying such an intimate color, muscles along his legs so bulky, strong, the softer scales of his belly exposed to her, fiercely strong back legs with a long, tapered tail ending in fluff. The expanse of him left her speechless, jaws parted as she drank him in. He waited patiently, allowing her to make the next move.
Stepping across the rug she nestled up next to his head, wrapping around his snout and snuggling against him. Finding him delightfully warm she coiled up in a snuggle. As she did his eyes slowly closed, enjoying her company at the fireside.
Basking in each other's company Lyani snuggled up to Gilgamesh. The imperial sighed, a sensation Lyani could feel through her whole body. He lifted his head to nuzzle her against his knuckle, her body coiled around his snout to better cuddle him.
Lyani scooted her way up to his ear, pressing her face i to his fluff. "Gil, I think I'm ready for you.."
His eyes opened, glancing to the ear she spoke into. Jaws tried to open, her body roped around him hindered the process, she gasped as she felt his breath against her scales.
Loosening up her hold he was able to speak, the bass of his voice carrying through its softness. "Are you sure? I will not force you to. I will take the blame from Elsan and Regina-"
"I don't want you to." She cuddled up to his ear, whispering intimately. "I'm ready.. I just don't know how to begin."
Gil took a few moments to think. With his jaws opened, he allowed his longer, articulate tongue to slip from his jaws, wrapping around her hips. Her claws sank into the scales around his ear as she squeaked, tense with anticipation. Her lower half was coaxed into his jaws as her upper half warmed by firelight, and she felt the thickness of his broad tongue stroke her scales so alluringly. Somewhere between panic and need she flexed her claws, breaths coming shallow, and buried her snout against his as she felt it heat up.
He stroked her thighs, exploring her body solely by touch as his eyes closed to focus. Each breath he took felt gigantic to her, and he allowed the tapered tip to draw across her entrance as his tongue gave her hips a squeeze.
"Careful-" she whimpered, her tail flicked down his throat causing his eyes to widen suddenly, he choked and gagged, the little spiral immediately ejected herself from his hold flopping on the ground. Gilgamesh coughed a moment, clearing his throat.
"I'm sorry! Oh I'm so so sorry, I've just ruined everything. I should go, I'm sorry Gil, I-"
Her words were cut off by another squeak as a massive claw pinned her hips to the ground. His immense head lowered to face her, snout pressed to her neck as he inhaled deeply, then exhaled blasting her with heat like bellows from a forge. The effect was immediate as her body squirmed, her fresher scent of berries exhilarating to him. She at first pushed against his snout, then pulled him close. Unraveling his tongue he drew the flat of it up her chest. She scraped claws over the underside of his jaws, squealing with glee as his tongue flatted over his face taking playful nips at it. The broad flat of his snout caressed her as a great thunderstorm of a purr held in his chest.
"You say Aurora, I stop."
She nodded back to him, chest heaving with every little pant. His claw lifted slowly, telegraphing all his movements for her, and the spiral leapt at his snout again. She shuddered with a heated breath, trying to grind herself against his snout as her head lay next to his ear, tail wrapping under his chin.
"Take me Gil-" she breathed, taking the imperial by surprise. Jaws opening again his tongue slipped around her hips, fully around her to let the tip stroke her entrance. He could feel the shudder start with the moan into his ear, travel along her neck down his snout, over his nostrils as he drank in her fruity scent, down her hips held by his tongue, and along her tail caressing his neck. Her eyes shut tight at the teasing, squirming at the sensations.
The tip attempted to push through her entrance eliciting a yelp, "careful, you're still so huge.."
Humming softly in response, a sensation that vibrated through Lyani's body, he very carefully and very slowly pierced her with the tip of his tongue.
She shoved her head to his, nuzzling him hard as she gasped and moaned, even the tapered thickness of his tongue was more than she was meant to handle. Her back claws found purchase on his fangs letting her ease her hips onto the heart muscle. The movements of his tongue caused the most pleased and needing whines. She tried to tighten around him, feeling so thoroughly filled as he took his time with her.
Claws raked over his snout as she gasped, hissing as she was spread by him, then tapped with a heated, "that's it- that's it- I'm full, that's my limit Gil."
His eyes still closed, he moaned at her intimate, sweeter taste. Flexing his tongue he memorized her depth, feeling how much she could take, grinding deep inside her with motions that drew out lower moans from Lyani.
"Oh that's it.. just like that.."
Gil continued his slower grindings, finding her clit was already being tended to by his sheer size over her. Drawing his tongue back stroked her depths and her clit at the same time, an electric feeling for Lyani who clawed at his snout, shuddering against him again.
"That is so good.." she sighed, tightening her grip on him as he thrust forward. The sensations of having her clit stimulated as she was stretched so much flooded her with arousal. Her fluids dripped along his tongue, coating him with her flavor in his caring thrusts, easy and slow. Her body heaved with each breath, riding the thickness of his tongue, feeling it throb, tremble with each sound Gil made.
"Gil that feels so good," she crooned into his ear, "You're so big, I can feel you filling so much of me.."
Clawed caresses touched his ear with little licks and nips between her moans, hips moving in rhythm with the pace Gil set. Her walls throbbed and tightened around the invasive muscle, unable to stop him as each thrust of his tongue spread her again and again. Drips of her arousal trickled over his tongue, alighting his sense of taste and working him up more. She could feel the hotter breaths against her, hear each subtle sound Gil made and it only made her more heated.
"Just like that.. just like that and I'm going to.. ah~"
She ground against him, rolling her hips more excitedly. Her wings stretched out and she pressed her head to his, jaws constantly parted, moans raising higher and higher. His tongue began to speed up, thrusting faster to get her there, the feeling so unique and overpowering to her. With a cry she climaxed, squeezing his tongue in waves as her walls throbbed against him, earning a splash of her arousal as she squirted against his tongue. Claws raked against his scales and her tail lashed in wild strokes, eyes rolling back into her head as she greedily took as much of his tongue as she could.
Gil's grinding motions ensued through her climax, consistently stimulating her through and beyond her climax. Legs tried to come together and both push out and trap his tongue, in the process she pushed her claws too far down his throat causing him to gag again.
"Aurora!" She called out in her tortured pleasure, and Gil delicately removed her from his jaws, rolling to place her atop his belly, a panting hot mess. She tried to cuddle up to as much of him as she could, his large paw pressed her to him as he reached for an urn of water, offering her a drink. She stuffed her head in it, gulping down a bellyful before flopping on him again.
"Wow... just... wow..." she panted, "imperial tongues.."
His ears turned back in a bashful motions, the tremble of his purr soothing against her body.
"I like the way spirals taste," he spoke to her, "I want you again before tonight is over."
She shuddered at the thought with a small moan, "you can have me, have me have me and have me.. but I need to know if this is going to work."
He cocked his head at her questioningly, patiently awaiting more.
"I need to be able to get you off if this is going to go anywhere. Wait, can't you just reach yourself?"
"Uh..." Gil glanced away bashfully.
"Gil you're the size of a mountain what do you have to be shy about? Its just your dick."
"I cannot reach myself. No."
"Then I have to." She slipped down the his body, over his softer scales, down between his legs.
"..where is it?" She asked, leaning on a thigh like a tree trunk.
"Lyani, look at me for a moment."
She turned her head, felt his hips roll and shift, then turned her head back, unable to prevent the gasp from escaping her lips.
Before her towered a massive pillar of masculinity, a towering cock at just about half her length at two meters, incredibly thick with deep veins. It throbbed, hard with his arousal, and below it sat massive balls each as big as her head, each so full. She drifted around him, taking in his heady musk, feeling warmth radiate from him.
"Are you sure? Because-"
"I need to be able to do this. Otherwise what's the point!" Her body shaky with excitement she drew claws lightly over the sensitive flesh of his cock. She could feel the breath he drew from it, smirking to herself as she nuzzled the mighty head of his member. Wrapped up around him she tightened her coil, slithering up his cock to lick at and tease the head she constricted, slithering her body in pleasing strokes. Gil let his head fall back as she did, surrendering his body to his smaller partner.
Her head spun with the excitement of it all, already becoming wet at the sheer size of her partner. She hugged his cock, grinding and rubbing her body up against him. Licking the head she found an especially sensitive region, his claw slamming to the ground with a stifled moan, the sounds building in his chest. He rolled over to stand, the spiral holding tight to his cock.
"Right there- Lyani." He growled as she stopped stimulating the oh so sensitive area. She squeezed and stroked his cock, laughing joyfully.
"I can't just overdo everything that works!" Swirling over his dick stroked him faster, in doing so snaked her head down to his balls to nuzzle and kiss them, lifting them in her claws as her body jerked him. Squeezing one of his heavy balls she felt a surge of slick fluid at the tip of his cock that quickly rolled over her lower half. Moaning delightfully at the mess of precum she continued playing with his balls.
Gil's claws sank into the stone, back arching as she played with his cock. Thighs tensing, he rocked his hips subconsciously. More and more he got into her affections, thrusting as if he could accelerate her pleasure.
The spiral cried out delightedly as he did, holding on with her whole body. The movements bucked her on his cock making it easier to stroke him faster, and she tried to hold onto his heavy, swaying balls. One slipped from her claws and she watched as the pendulous sack swung back only to collide with her face with a meaty thwap.
"Aurora!" She called to him, a touch dazed. He stopped and checked between his legs, tensing as she swirled over his dick back to the head.
"You can do that but I can't be by your nuts or else you're going to have an unconscious dragon."
A pleased, enamored chuckle sounded from the imperial that turned to a deep moan as she tightened around him. The world spun again as he landed on his back, sighing deeply.
"Please. Continue."
Flashing him an affectionate smirk she ground herself against him. Swirling constricting pulses worked the full length of him, her tail teasing his balls. Massive jaws opened with a lazy moan, eyes beholding her as she worked him. She gave careful attention to the underside of his dick and the slicker, sensitive ridge. Squeezing his balls earned her another louder moan as precum surged from the head making a complete mess of her.
Feeling her own nethers tingle she ground herself excitedly, moaning over the fat head of his dick. Gil watched as she eagerly worked him, jerking his cock faster as he neared his peak.
"Lyani-" he gasped, "my tongue is fff-.. my tongue is calibrated to understand you are not an imperial." Slack jawed, she could feel his fast, deep heartbeat throb through his member, relished in the sounds he made.
"My cock is not, and will not give you anything less than imperial-sized production."
Moaning at the prospect she stroked him faster, jerking his cock with every inch of her, licking, suckling the head where she could. "Good. That's what I wanted."
"Don't- ohhhh careful, don't keep your face at the tip-" his warning melted into moans. Lyani kept eye contact, greedily swallowing his precim as her tongue teased the tip of his dick, flicking at the hole. Her tails squeeze and caressed his balls as her body jerked him faster, faster. His eyes shut and with a primal roar she felt the onset of his pleasure.
His huge balls tightened, she could feel the movement against her tail. His roar deafened in the most exciting ways, and she felt the member become even harder, swelling in her hold. All too excited for her prize she clamped her mouth around the tip, suckling with want as she gave him a sultry look from the business end of his rod.
Then her eyes widened as the imperial's first load released, filling her throat and mouth, the sheer pressure enough to dislodge her jaws from her prize. Her lower body continued to stroke as her upper body panicked, eyes shut tight claws trying to deflect the heady surge of hot cum that's splattered her body. Before she was ready the third load made a mess of her, unleashed from the head of his cock the pillar throbbed with a forceful release that rained down on his belly. Again and again he came all over the poor spiral, a few stray droplets spattering his belly and snout, Lyani totally unprepared as she withstood his climax.
Tapering off she slowed her ministrations, a complete mess atop him, eyes wide with the excitement of it all. With a gentle claw he removed her from something a second time that day. He dragged her through the hot mess on his belly, leaning forward to let his tongue fill her a second time. Too tired and too much of a mess to resist she vocalized her pleasure, writhing atop him.
Doused in his scent and heat and overloaded in all of her senses she squirmed, tightening around him. The tip of his tongue tickled at her clit before filling her again. So worked up by the ordeal she was on a hair trigger, splashing in his cum as her moans rose higher into screams. Her passage tightened in her climax, a second release of her arousal over his tongue as her tail whipped scattering the mess. She threw her head back against his belly as her hips lifted into his tongue, filled by the heat of the slick muscle, before collapsing, both of them panting in their shared afterglow.
Lyani crawled up to his head leaving a smeared mess, nesting near his ear. "Why did you warn me? See? I did fine."
Gil rumbled with laughter that Lyani echoed, the two sharing in each other in intimate firelight, bodies pressed close as his claw held her back, her body held his snout.
They held each other for some time before stirring. Gilgamesh took them both to the bath to wash up. A great sponge washed down Lyani's whole body gingerly, giving him a lovedrunk look the entire time. Returning the favor, the spiral scrubbed the sponge down the length of the imperial's body as he lounged in the hot water. The little hums he made gave her such a delight, and she worked hard to clean every inch of his body.
"I was going to say earlier, there might be a better way of going about this. I cannot reach myself-"
"-dangerous information to give me."
"-yes, but I made a mount."
"...Gil I can't take that dick if I can't take your tongue."
His ears pinned in a lighter fluster, "for me, that I can use to stimulate myself. You will need that bowl from earlier."
Lyani's eyes lit up at his words, "then why are we waiting?"
________________________________________
Lyani waited by the fireside, warming her scales. Gilgamesh took a folded metal frame from his closet and set to opening it. She watched with awe as huge pads fit to hold and support his weight opened, many times herself. The supports were made of thick iron, and he rolled slicker padding that formed a short tube, wide enough for Lyani to slip through.
So she did.
Hanging through the mount she smirked at him as he opened a jar labeled "Griffin Grease."
"Need a hand there stud?"
Bashful at the name he placed the jar of grease within reach of Lyani, then pushed up onto the mount. His heavy cock hung in the air, half flaccid and swaying. With a trill Lyani slicked herself up and massaged his member. Gilgamesh made deeper, pleased hums as she coated his cock. She could feel it growing beneath her claws, feel his firmness, feel it heating up as she stroked and teases. Leaning forward her tongue flicked the slit of his cock, laughing softly as all twenty meters of imperial dragon above her reacted. She tended to every inch of him, coating the surface area of his dick and sat back to appreciate her handiwork.
As she did Gil stood back up and readied his hips. The head of his cock loomed over her and she looked up at it with lip bitten anticipation. With a slow thrust she squeaked as it pushed her back through the sleeve of the mount, plopping her back in the bowl below him. Gripping the front of the mount Gil made himself comfortable, a massive sigh coursing through him as he shifted his weight. Lyani watched the head bob all too pleased, relishing in the wait.
Gill lifted his hips, then dropped them with a stifled moan as he began to lay the mount, slow, forceful movements as he he ground the underside of his cock in the sleeve.
"Gil.. you don't have to be quiet. I want to hear you," Lyani spoke softly as she marveled at his size, the sleeve of the mount keeping the head of his cock aimed at her body.
Hearing her voice he lifted the stifle in his voice, letting his moans come more naturally. The mount groaned under the weight of his muscles, each thrust of his hips making it bow ever so slightly.
Loving the view she had Lyani curled up so her slit was level with her head. She allowed her tongue to dart out, dipping inside herself with fleeting touches, moaning delightedly. Squirming every now and then, she watched as her lover above increased his pace.
Gil began to thoroughly fuck the mount, hips beating against the thick padding. It rattled with the force of it, the sleeve constricting his cock making him moan for her, moan loudly. The deep tones resonated through her body as she continued licking at herself, toying with her clit, delving into her passage. She watched as the mount began to buckle, loosening at the hinges as it took Gilgamesh's lay, her lover's ferocity doing wonders for her pleasure. Her breath came in short bursts and the first gout of precum splashed over her body breaking her concentration.
"Oh GILGAMESH!" She moaned, reveling in him. Gil forced his cock through the sleeve vigorously, bending the mount a little more with each beat of his hips. His tail slammed against the ground making the bowl Lyani laid in rattle, her tongue resuming its thrusting deep inside herself. Moaning as she felt another shower of his precum she writhed, needing more and more.
Her lover's coos and moans made him hotter, his muscles tense as he bucked into the mount. Eyes shut tight, he could feel his heavy balls churning. Knowing she was safely below him he released any inhibitions. His pleasure only increased: his moans louder, he was vaguely aware of the beating his mount was taking and how it bowed beneath the pounding of his hips. With a sharp snarl he felt his climax rise, churning balls lifted as his heavy cock swelled in the sleeve. With a mighty roar that brought Lyani to climax he hilted in the sleeve, holding back nothing from her.
She watched from below as the frame bent hard, his cock forced through the sleeve as the head unloaded a forceful stream of cum that covered her, quickly filling the bowl. She arched her back with a delighted cry, reveling in Gil's hot seed as gallons of his cum erupted from his cock, his balls utterly unloading onto her. The bowl quickly overflowed and she splashed, trying to stuff as much of him as she could.
His climax waned, cock drooling heated cum onto her as she basked in her afterglow.
When the mount collapsed. Its pieces fell apart and Gilgamesh turned his body, falling aside her. Lyani, exhausted and as spent as him, slipped from the mess and coiled around his cock, nursing the tip. She suckled, soft moans drawn from Gilgamesh as she eased him through the end of his orgasm.
His claw tried to reach her as she eased him from pleasure to pleasurable torture. She noticed the shift, slipping along his body back to his snout.
"I should clean this before we go to bed, I thought that bowl was big enough-" a claw to his lips silenced him. The spiral's runes glowed along her sides, and the mess dissipated into thin air.
"I can't stop the smell, but I can the mess."
"..wait. Could you not have done this earlier?"
"Yes, but then you wouldn't have washed me." She giggled into his ear, cuddling up. "Carry us to bed?"
Gilgamesh carried her across the house, Lyani curled up around his snout. His bed was near the size of her room, covered in well worn but comfy quilts and blankets. His bulk collapsed with a huff, Lyani kissing his ear sweetly. "Good night, sweet Gil."
________________________________________
Gil woke, bleary eyed. He felt surprisingly good for how much of himself he spent. His ears flicked, Lyani was no longer cuddled up to his snout. He realized he was panting, something was making it extremely hard to think. A moan passed his jaws and he lifted the blankets.
Lyani smirked up at him, coiled around his fresh morningwood. She arched her body up and down his length, slithering and constricting in a firm morning lay.
"That's not fair-" was all he could gasp, she squeezed him tighter as he tried to speak. Pre already doused her and he laid on his belly, giving her enough space as he desperately thrust against nothing, a reflex to the pleasure she gave him as she suckled the head of his cock. He felt her tail squeeze his balls drawing out a dryer morning moan, a claw desperately tried to reach her and lift her from his cock, but he couldn't reach.
Lyani giggled at her lover's sleepy clumsiness, his helplessness. His cock was so delightfully hard this morning she couldn't help herself. She drew her tongue up his shaft in a long, sultry stroke along a vein, squeezing his balls again to reward herself with his salty precum.
"How long-" he gasped, shoving his head into his pillow as his hips mindlessly thrusted, mind awash with pleasure.
"A few minutes, you've been just so good for me." She moaned as she ground herself to him, slipping so her slit ground up against the slit of his cock. Holding the head in her back legs she coiled around him, licking, nuzzling the underside of his cock. Giving his balls a squeeze with her back legs she felt the surge of precum fill her, such a warm feeling.
"Its- ohhh, Lyani-" he arched his back with a gasp, softer, lighter moans in this unexpected morning pleasure. She felt his cock throb with release, heavy balls swaying and beginning to empty. The first load of cum surged up his length and directly into her, spilling all over her body as the second and third loads were quick to follow. The heat of it triggered Lyani's climax, the force of his pushed her from his cock but he was quick to use it to grind her into the bed, both stimulating each other as Lyani played with his balls and shaft and Gil ground his shaft against her entrance.
Spent, he collapsed to the side making the massive bed quake, giving her in her mess a dreamier, sleepier look.
"Good morning."
________________________________________
"Is this goodbye?"
Lyani was carried up to her lab, the double doors open. Gilgamesh made a contemplative rumble.
"Goodbye is not on a gradient," came his reply as he nuzzled her, "but, I would enjoy another lecture on your work, whenever your next one is held."
Her smaller snout nuzzled him back with a little lick. "I can help with your next project. You look good in a bun, you should let me do that more often."
Another rumble passed through him, this time laughter. "I will find myself on a new project tomorrow night, I seem to work much better with my mane tied back."
"Mmm, that sounds too efficient, I might have to hinder that," she teased. "Goodbye, Gil.
"Goodbye, Lyani."
Lyani laid out on her windowsill, watching affectionately as his great gold wings caught the wind and took flight, soaring into the sky.
|
Lucifer was so drunk he probably couldn’t tell a tree from a woman, and ended up shooting Dean in foot with a bullet. Castiel screamed in surprise and started kicking about, desperately trying to get out of Lucifer’s grasp.
"Dean!" He yelled worriedly, reaching out for his boyfriend. "What the fuck!" Dean shouted, dropping to the ground, not even feeling the wound by the amount of adrenaline running through his body.
"You fucking-!" Dean couldn’t even put a sentence together.
Lucifer's eyes snapped open in shock, sobering up quickly when he realized he shot Dean in the foot. He shoved Cas away, backing up.
"Shit!" He hissed, turning and taking off before the cops could show up, stumbling along the way.
"Dean! Are you alright!?" Cas yelped, running and skidding to his knees next to Dean. Dean groaned weakly, gritting his teeth with a pained grin, his foot felt like it was on fire. It felt like a bee had stung him, but the pain was increased by one thousand times.
"Cas.." Dean said weakly, trying not to pass out. Castiel sat next to his feet and tried to put pressure on his wound.
"Dean...Dean, please stay awake." Cas coaxed as he pulled out his phone. The smaller boy dialed 911, holding to phone to his ear quickly. Dean nodded, looking at Cas, the pain overtaking him, blurring his thought.
"I'm sleepy, Cas..." Dean's words slurred together, his face paling in pain. Castiel teared up and cradled Dean's head to his chest, rocking back and forth gently.
"911, what's your emergency?" The woman on the other side of the line said.
"M-My boyfriend was s-shot." Cas sobbed out, wrapping his arms around Dean as if doing so would keep him awake. "Dean, baby, please stay awake, just a little bit longer." He croaked out.
"Okay, stay calm and try to keep pressure on the bullet wound, medics are on the way." The woman said quickly, tracing Cas' phone call. Castiel gently laid Dean's head down and scrambled to his foot, placing his hand tightly around the wound. The amount of blood on his hands terrified him. "'M foot hurts, Cas." Dean told him, trying to wiggle his toes, then groaning in pain. "'M I gonna die, Cas?" Castiel looked up at Dean with watery eyes and smiled, shaking his head. "No, no you're not. Y-You're doing so well. I'm getting you help, baby." Cas said sadly.
"Cas..." Dean murmured, before his eyes drooped in exhaustion.
Two minutes later an ambulance screeched to a halt in front of the pair and ran over. One medic pulled Cas away as the others crowded around Dean. Castiel screamed and reached out for his boyfriend, desperately wanting to stay by him.
"D-Dean! Let me go! I need to be with him!" Cas yelled and kicked around, squirming in the man's strong hold.
"I want him to come with me." Dean managed to say, then his eyes fluttered closed, his body going into shock to compensate the pain. The medic hesitantly let go of Cas and the smaller boy instantly ran over, clinging to Dean's hand like his life depended on it.
"Dean, please wake up!" Castiel pleaded, fresh tears falling down his face. If he just stayed inside he could have been on a blanket, staring up at the infinite stars with the love of his life.
Dean was bleeding out, nothing important was hit, but he just had used his foot to crawl and sped up the process. The nurses lifted Dean onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, Cas barely had time to hop in before the doors slammed shut. Castiel ran over to Dean’s face and cupped it, kissing him gently before leaning their foreheads together. For the first time in a while, Cas willingly let himself cry. The smaller boy clung to Dean’s face, his hands running through Dean’s hair and whispering pleads for the only righteous man in his life to be okay.
A nurse pulled out a needle and pressed it into Dean's arm, giving him a large dose of sedative to calm him. They wrapped his foot as tight as they could and the ambulance pulled into the hospital. Doctors ran over and they threw the doors open, wheeling Dean’s stretcher inside. Dean's body started to calm down and he went limp. He was wheeled into the operating room and a nurse turned to Cas.
"Look, I know he's your boyfriend or whatever." She said boyfriend as if the word disgusted her. "But he might be in there for a while, so just go home." Castiel flinched and wrapped his arms around his torso insecurely.
"No, I'll stay here. I want to make sure he's okay." Cas said as he tried to walk around the nurse. He got this problem a lot, where girls were grossed out because his boyfriend was attractive, the perfect stereotype of a womanizer, and he wasn't. He was like a skeleton with skin stretched over it and was shy and timid. Girls didn't like that, it actually made them scared, even angry when people like him finally found a boyfriend, especially when they were the human form of Greek gods. "Whatever." She rolled her eyes, muttering "fag" under her breath before she walked past him, shouldering him roughly as she pretended to be writing something on her clipboard. Castiel stumbled and teared up before he ducked his head, rushing to the room Dean was in. He wiped his eyes and nervously chewed on his lip, standing in his corner and out of the way so they could help Dean. The operation wasn’t that complicated, all they had to do was pull the bullet out and sew Dean up, thankfully it wasn't an in and out hole. One of the lead doctors came over to Cas.
"Your friend will need crutches or a wheelchair for 16 weeks, and he won’t be able to play sport for about a year, but he should be fine. Of course, with physical therapy and such, there's no reason why he shouldn't be." The older man smiled at Cas. Castiel nodded and smiled, hugging the doctor. "Thank you so much. Thank you." Cas whispered before running over to Dean.
The smaller boy got onto the bed next to Dean and curled up next to him like a cat, nestling his head on the sleeping boy's chest. Cas was careful to avoid Dean's foot. He would stay here for as long as he needed until Dean woke up.
"Thank you." Cas whispered, a content and happy look on his face.
Dean was still passed out, but his body responded to Cas' warmth and familiar smell, wrapping his arm around him. Castiel sobbed happily and snuggled closer, his hands fisting in Dean's shirt. The smaller boy cried, not in pain or sadness, but in relief. Cas fell asleep with a peaceful smile on his face, his messy hair gently tickling Dean's chin.
Dean came back to consciousness a few hours later. At first, he thought he was in bed, since it was dark and Cas was wrapped around him, but then Dean looked up and saw a large man taking his vitals.
"What the fuck?!" Dean yelped, jumping a little in surprise. Castiel startled awake, clinging to Dean as he looked at the doctor in shock before realizing where he was. Cas looked at Dean and cried out in relief, cupping his face. The smaller boy didn't even give him time to take in everything, slamming their lips together in a hot, deep, messy kiss. Cas brought his leg over Dean’s stomach and straddled his sternum, pulling back for only a moment.
"D-Don't you ever scare me like that again!" Cas scolded, swatting Dean's chest lightly with the most stern face he could manage before kissing him again with a needy noise spilling from his throat. Dean's eyebrows furrowed and he tried to remember.
What had he...oh.
Dean kissed Cas again, before pulling away with a blush as the man writing down Dean’s blood pressure cleared his throat.
"You're going to be fine, but you might have to stay here another day or two." He said in a thick Russian accent. Castiel turned bright red, sitting up on Dean’s stomach with a shy look. "Okay, yes. That is fine." The smaller boy said before a curious look spread over his face. "Do you speak Russian?" "Yes." The man grinned at Cas. "And you?" The doctor asked in Russian. Dean was just looking back and forth in between the large man next to him and the thin boy sitting on his chest. Castiel giggled and nodded. "Yes I do, my family is from Russia, I moved here when I was four but I still learned it from my parents." Cas replied casually, the Russian rolling off his tongue as well as his English. Dean's eyebrows shot up. He knew Castiel could speak Russian, but he never knew Cas was that fluent. The man responded.
"Ahhh. I came here ten years ago, my parents thought American college would be better. " He nodded at the two boys on the bed when he was finished taking Dean’s blood pressure.
"Well, I'll be back in two hours to do this again, and if you and your boyfriend are gonna do...anything, take that sticker thing off his heart, because his heart rate will go up and all the nurses will come running." The man’s words slipped from Russian to English, so Dean could understand. Castiel turned red and nodded, biting his lip, public sex was thrilling; the thought of being caught was thrilling. The smaller boy leaned down and cuddled into Dean’s chest, smiling his heart out.
"Okay, thank you." Cas said gratefully. The man nodded and walked out, closing the door, leaving it a little bit open, since closing the door all the way was against protocall.
"So..." Dean said, his voice raspy, looking up at Cas. The room was dark, the only light coming in from the little sliver in the door and the mini TV looking thing above Dean's head, showing his heart rate and breathing patterns. Castiel smiled and leaned down, cupping Dean's face.
"So.." he parroted breathlessly. The smaller boy kissed Dean, pouring all of his love into the heated kiss. Dean’s eyebrows lifted and he moaned a little into the kiss. "I love you so much, Cas." "God I love you more than anything." Castiel sobbed quietly, his hands clenching in and out of Dean's hair, unable to decide whether to grab the nape or the thick hair on top. Dean bit his lip and held back a moan.
"So no picnic?" He asked breathlessly, a small smile appearing on his face. He brought both his hands up to rest on Cas' hip bones, the number on the heart rate monitor began to rise slowly, but not enough to be noticeable. Castiel grumbled and kissed Dean again, silencing his teasing question.
"Mmph, later." He moaned against Dean’s mouth. The smaller boy jumped off Dean and stripped off his sweater and collared shirt, his jeans falling to the floor.
"We have one hour and fifteen minutes," Cas said quickly. "You're such a naughty boy," Dean teased, smirking. "Never thought I'd fuck you in a hospital." He grinned up at Cas, trying to mush his blanket down and his hospital gown up. Castiel turned red and ran back, smiling shyly. "Now get over here, cutie." Dean hummed, patting his chin with a quick wink.
Castiel and Dean were panting heavily.
"Shut up, you almost died and I need you close to me," Cas said when Dean gave him a weird look, laying next to Dean and tried to force down the shame of what his boyfriend just did.
Of course, Dean didn't enjoy eating ass, it was probably weird to him. Cas stood up and quickly pulled on his clothes before laying back down next to Dean with a shy smile. Dean managed to turn around so he could look at Cas.
"That was amazing." He said, breathless.
Castiel looked at Dean with pink stained cheeks and dreamy eyes. "Really?" He whispered shyly. Dean nodded. "I've always wanted to do that." He admitted awkwardly. He started to lean forward, then stopped. "I would kiss you, but I'm sure my breath is fucking horrible." Smiling, Castiel leaned forward to kiss Dean as well before his smile instantly faded into mortification. "Oh my god!" Cas squeaked, curling in on himself to bury his face in between his legs in embarrassment.
Yep, Dean was never going to eat him out ever again, he would forever be insecure about that fact. "Oh, no, Cas, not like that! It was my cum I was eating anyways!" Dean could not believe he was having this conversation.
"Come on, Cas, I didn’t mean it like that..." Dean said softly, putting a hand under Cas' chin. Dean tilted Cas' head upwards, looking into the boys' bright blue eyes. Castiel looked at Dean and surged upward, kissing the breath from his lungs and pulling back to squeak out a 'jerk!' before burying his hands back in his sandy blonde hair and smashing their lips together. The smaller boy fell back to the bed with a breathless noise and covered his face.
"We will not speak of this...ever...again." He said slowly. "Speak of what?" Dean smirked, looking down at Cas. He leaned down to whisper in Cas' ear, in a sultry voice. "Cause I'd love to do that again..." Cas whined and moved his hands, lightly cupping his jaw. Soft lips lightly kissing Dean's neck. "You're so hot." Castiel whimpered. "Not as hot as you, Sweetheart." Dean smirked, his smirk dropping and a soft moan falling from his lips when Cas started to lick at Dean’s sweet spot. Castiel mewled and nibbled gently, breathy pants falling from his lips. A leg came up and wrapped around Dean’s waist, he cuddled closer with a smile. "Liar." "Fuck yeah, baby." Dean moaned softly. "Mark me up. I want all the doctors to see me tomorrow and see all my hickeys and know that I belong to the sex god with the bright blue eyes and black fucking sex hair." Dean said all this in a breath, choking back moans. Castiel let out a needy moan, shyly starting to suck a hickey on Dean’s strong neck. For some reason, the quarterback loved having his neck nipped at or sucked on. It made Cas feel like he was doing something for Dean since Dean always did stuff for him. "Cas..." Dean whined, bringing his hands up and tangling them in Cas' black hair. "Y-Your lips feel s-so fucking good on my neck!" Dean’s chest was heaving now. He didn’t know why his neck was so sensitive, but, God...it felt so good. "Really?" Cas whispered, biting gently at Dean’s collar bones. He sucked underneath Dean’s jaw and started kissing his way down again, sucking roughly at his pulse point to leave another hickey. Dean nodded, whining loudly. "Cas..." He begged, bucking his hips, his hard cock rubbing into Cas' clothed leg. "Please..." Castiel gripped the bolt of Dean's jaw and sucked another hickey on the meat of his neck, nipping gently at the red mark before wrapping his lips over it. The smaller boy started to grind his lithe hips against Dean needily, desperately wanting to give Dean what he wanted so badly. "I need you.... love you so much." Dean mumbled, thrusting his hips forward, streaks of precum obvious on Cas' dark jeans. Moaning highly, Dean choked on a whimper and came with a gasp, all over Cas' jeans. Castiel smiled and sucked at Dean’s neck, leaving one more hickey before he sat up. "I love you too baby, I'm going to go get some stuff and a change of clothes, I'll be back in an hour or so." Cas whispered gently, pecking Dean’s lips with every listing. Dean grabbed Cas' arm. "Please don’t leave me, Cas." He begged, looking up at Cas with big eyes. Castiel smiled and cupped Dean's face.
"I'm going to surprise you. I'll be right back." The smaller boy whispered fondly. "I love you..." Dean whispered softly, his eyes fluttering closed, his grip on Cas' arm loosening. Castiel frowned and gripped Dean's face a little tighter. "I love you too, baby. Are you okay?" Cas whispered. "Tired." Dean mumbled, the drugs they had given him an hour ago finally kicking in. Castiel smiled and kissed Dean's forehead. "Okay, go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up." The blue-eyed boy murmured. "You better be." Dean mumbled softly, before letting his eyes flutter closed again, starting to snore lightly.
Dean slept peacefully, waking up an hour later to Cas shaking him.
"Hmmph?" Dean groaned, rolling over to look at the blue-eyed boy. Castiel smiled and shyly held out the basket.
"Hello, you're up soon." Cas whispered as he stood and walked over. The smaller boy sat cross-legged at the end of Dean's bed, careful of his foot. Dean managed to sit up, wincing a little when his foot scraped against the bed.
"Good morning." Dean said, looking up at Cas with bleary eyes. Castiel giggled and set the picnic basket on Dean’s stomach. "Guess what I brought..." He said fondly. Dean rubbed his eyes, looking down at the basket in his lap, the realization hitting him a few moments later. "Cas..." He said, his face starting to light up as he looked inside. Castiel smiled shyly and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, I thought it would cheer you up a bit." The smaller boy whispered, pointing to the burgers and pie he brought. "You didn’t have to do this for me..." Dean looked up at Castiel. "You're the best boyfriend ever." Dean declared, moving the basket to his bed stand, trying to lean over and kiss Cas without hurting his foot. Castiel turned red and laughed, smiling happily while he met Dean in the middle. He gently pushed him back on the bed as he kissed him deep and slow. The boy pulled back and moved the tray that connected with the bedside over Dean’s lap for him, pulling out the food while he chewed on his lip.
"Cheeseburger with bacon for the hero, veggie burger for me." Cas said, placing the burger in front of Dean. Dean snorted and raised an eyebrow. "'Veggie Burger'? The two words cancel each other out, Cas, they're opposites!" Dean started going on his health food rant. Castiel giggled and leaned over, kissing Dean quickly before he took a bite of his burger.
"Just eat, cutie." Cas teased gently. The smaller boy pulled up a chair and sat next to his boyfriend’s bed, his head laying on his thigh like a content cat as he chewed. "I love you, Cas." Dean said around his bite of burger, bringing a hand down to stroke at Cas' hair. "I'm so glad we're both okay." "I'm glad you're okay. You terrified me." Cas murmured, leaning into Dean’s touch as he took another bite of his veggie burger. The blue-eyed boy moaned and closed his eyes, loving the taste that his boyfriend hated so much. Dean laughed at the sounds Cas was making him and shushed him. "Our neighbors might think we're fucking... again." Dean joked, a happy grin on his face. One of Castiel’s blue eyes peaked open, giving Dean a mischievous look. The smaller boy took another bite and let out a fake moan, throwing his head back.
"Mmmm, so fucking good." Cas moaned in a high pitched keen. "God... Daddy ." Deans jaw dropped, looking down at the boy. "Cas..." Dean said again, his voice rough and thick, but not with laughter, but lust. Dean’s grip started to tighten on his burger as he watched his boyfriend moan and squirm around on the plastic hospital chair.
Castiel sat back as a nurse rushed in, a concerned look on her face.
"Sir! Are you alright?" She asked quickly. Cas turned around and gave her a pretty smile, acting as cute as he could.
"Yes, he's fine, he's just really enjoying his burger." Cas said in an airy voice. The nurse looked at Dean and her eyes flickered to the burger in his hands.
"Are you sure? It sounded like a girl was in here." She said warily, Dean definitely didn't look like a twink. Cas nodded and smiled, dimples and all.
"Yes, my boyfriend sounds like that." Cas said teasingly. The woman nodded slowly and walked out, leaving Cas with a smug, cat-like look. Dean watched her walk away and he thanked every god he could think of that the mini table covered his lap, and more importantly, his growing boner. Dean grumbled and grabbed Cas' jaw roughly, pulling him close.
"Don't make me have to punish you with a wounded foot, Castiel." Dean said in a low voice, his lust obvious. Castiel watched Dean with a look that was all sorts of cockiness and horniness and fear all mixed into one. The smaller boy turned his head just enough to catch Dean's thumb in his mouth, sucking lightly. Dean's hips bucked into the air, his cock begging to grind against something. Dean looked over at the door and saw that it was open. "What you're gonna do..." Dean continued in his low voice. "Is gonna close that door, then crawl in between my legs and give me the best blowjob I've ever gotten. Got it?" Dean jerked his thumb out of Cas' mouth, slapping his cheek lightly. Castiel hated being manhandled or hit, but when Dean did it, it was just all sorts of hot. Maybe he had a kink for Dean being bossy. The smaller boy flicked his tongue out once more and licked the pad of Dean's thumb before running to the door. Cas closed it softly and ran back, literally crawling up between Dean's legs. He gently laid Dean's foot aside so it wouldn't hurt and burrowed his head under Dean’s hospital gown, taking his thick, blood-engorged cock into his mouth. "Good boy..." Dean groaned softly, putting his hand on the Cas shaped bump under his gown. Biting his lip, Dean jerked off his heart monitor, not wanting another run-in with the nurse again. "So fucking hot, Cas..." Castiel hummed at the praise, his lips stretched around Dean’s cock as he bobbed his head. The boy could honestly only take Dean halfway into his mouth without choking. He was on the bigger side of the scale. Cas moaned and hollowed his cheeks, sucking needily. Dean threw his head back, some of the dried cum on his headboard flaking off in his hair. He would have to ask Cas to wipe the headboard down later.
"Shit..." Dean hissed, almost ripping his hospital gown in desperation to clutch at Cas' hair. Castiel laughed and moaned, humming mercilessly as he jacked what he couldn't fit in his mouth. The boy tongued at Dean’s slit and the sensitive spot on the underside of the head of Dean's cock. Cas gently took the gown off his head to help Dean and looked at his boyfriend with hooded eyes. "Cas..." Dean whined, his tough and dominant demeanor crumbling. Dean tugged at Cas' hair, trying to get off himself into Cas' mouth and throat.
"Y-You gotta learn how to deepthroat..." Dean babbled, his head thrown back, his Adam's apple bobbing. Castiel couldn't help but feel a little insecure. Was this not good enough for Dean? The smaller boy looked down at the large cock in his mouth and took a shaky breath. He needed to please Dean. Cas relaxed his throat and slowly tried to take more of Dean into his mouth. "Fuck, Cas!" Dean whines getting higher. "S-So fucking good!" Dean bucked his hips up. "So good!" Dean repeated, his orgasm coming soon. "Love you so much, Cas!" Castiel took the chance, pushing his head down all the way until his nose was buried in the light hair at the base of Dean's cock. His throat fluttered and spasmed around the upper half of Dean's cock, his eyes full of love and slight tears because of his gag reflex. But he surprisingly liked it. Dean gaped down at Cas, forgetting to breathe for a few seconds.
"Castiel..." Dean whispered, looking Castiel in the eyes, before he came down Cas' throat with something that sounded like a sob, his body writhing on the bed. Castiel desperately tried to swallow everything Dean gave him. The smaller boy sucked and choked slightly, his eyes becoming hazy and content. "Fuck, Cas..." Dean’s voice was thick, he pulled Cas up by his jaw, smashing their lips together, the kiss starting out as hard and rough, but turning into slow and passionate. Castiel made his way up Dean's body and straddled him, kissing back eagerly. The blue-eyed boy moaned gently, burying his hands in Dean’s short hairs. "I love you." Dean murmured softly, his lips still pressed against Cas'. Cas smiled and took Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth, sucking lightly. "I love you too," Cas whispered when he let Dean's plump lip go with a pop. "I think I've cum more times in the last three days of being in a relationship with you than I have in the last 3 weeks." Dean grinned, looking into Cas' blue eyes.
Castiel laughed and tilted his head, a teasing smile fading from his face, into one of confusion. "What do you mean?" Dean looked at Cas with a raised eyebrow. "We have a lot of sex, Cas. It’s not bad." He shrugged. Castiel smiled in relief and leaned forward, kissing Dean's forehead gently. "My apologies," Cas whispered. Dean leaned forward and started to kiss Cas' neck, before his stomach growled loudly. Castiel gasped and bit his lip, threading his hands in Dean’s short hair. He paused and chuckled, reaching over to grab Dean’s burger.
"You forgot to eat." He chided. "Your sexy face kept distracting me," Dean mumbled, trying to come up with a good pickup line. Castiel laughed and kissed Dean sensually, sitting back up as he offered Dean his food. "Mmmm, you're cute." He teased lovingly. "Not as cute as you." Dean countered, taking a bite of his sandwich, looking at Cas with an arched eyebrow. Castiel chuckled and smiled timidly.
"Lair, you're physically and mentally beautiful." "And yet you refuse to believe that about yourself." Dean swallowed, grabbing a bottle of water from the basket. He knew this was cheesy, but he was enjoying it, and he really did believe Cas was beautiful. Castiel shrugged and sighed.
"I don't know, I just can't," Cas said guiltily. "That’s alright, Cas. I just want you to know that I believe you're beautiful." Dean grinned, running a hand through his hair. Castiel smiled happily and leaned into Dean’s touch.
"I love you, so much." The smaller boy whispered as he leaned their foreheads together. "Love you too." Dean quipped, before ducking his head forward and pecking Cas on the lips. Castiel giggled, pecking Dean back playfully. "Mmm, I wonder how many times I can kiss you." Cas teased lovingly. "We'll have to test that theory...later." Dean told him, bopping Cas on the nose and reaching into the basket. "Pie!" Cas laughed and leaned over, swiping a pie over the filling and bringing it to his mouth. "Mmm, you love apple, right?" He asked. "Not as much as I love the taste of you." Dean flirted, winking at Cas. Cas turned red and ducked his head, smiling shyly. "Shut up, Casanova." The smaller boy teased, sticking his tongue out. "Make me, Romeo." Dean stuck his tongue out in return. "Would you be...amenable..." Dean made his voice low and sultry. "For me to eat some pie off your chest when we get home?" Castiel shuddered, his hips rocking subtly. "Oh ." He whispered breathlessly, staring at Dean with wide eyes. "Cause I'd love to lick it off your chest." Dean knew that probably sounded gross, but at this point he was too far gone to care. Cas bit his lip and leaned in, acting like he was going to kiss Dean, their lips brushing only for him to dart to Dean’s ear.
"And I love it when you lick me." Cas teased seductively. Still looking at Cas, Dean swiped some gooey filling from the inside of his pie and smeared it all over Cas' lips, it looked like Cas was wearing cinnamon-brown lip gloss. Dean leaned forward, starting to lick it off Cas' pink lips, moaning at the taste, and in general, what they were doing. Castiel’s breath hitched, his lips parting on instinct. The smaller boy wrapped his lips around Dean’s tongue and sucked gently, his hands cupping Dean’s jaw. "T-That was fucking hot." Dean admitted, panting, his boner straining against Cas' clothed ass.
Castiel smiled and wiggled his hips teasingly before getting off Dean and packing everything but the pie into the basket. "Yes. It was." Dean moaned softly, looking over at Cas. "When can I get out of here?" He whined, trying to cover himself up with the scraps of his gown. "When you can walk with crutches or use a wheelchair without feeling pain," Castiel said with a loving look. The boy walked over and kissed Dean’s forehead, smiling a little bit too much to actually pucker his lips. Dean let his eyes flutter closed, enjoying the way Cas was babying him. "I'd like that." Cas smiled and peppered kisses all around Dean’s face, kissing his eyelids, cheeks, nose, chin, jaw, everywhere. "I love you, my hero. Now get some rest. I have to go to school but I'll be back in the morning." Castiel whispered gently. "Cas..." Dean whined, making grabby hands at Cas' arm. "Don’t leave me..." Castiel giggled and walked forward, hugging Dean gently. "How about I'll be back right after school and I'll come sleep with you." Cas suggested gently. Dean nodded sulkily, pouting.
"I'm gonna sleep until you get back." Dean pecked Cas on the lips before he snuggled down in his blankets. Cas smiled fondly, watching his boyfriend with a lovingly look before he dashed out the door, his backpack in tow. "I love you," Dean mumbled sleepily, not sure if Cas could hear him or not.
|
“Isn’t this amazing!?” Bucky threw his arms open wide and spun in a circle in the huge entry to the Exposition. “Look at all of it!”
Steve was barely paying attention, his gaze firmly on the pretty girls that had come along with them, but Tony was watching Bucky with a grin, wondering why no one ever talked about Bucky Barnes being a science nerd.
Because the Sergeant current pointing and yelling at the sign for the demonstration for a flying car? Definitely a science nerd.
God dammit he was cute.
“What do you want to do first?” Bucky’s eyes were wide as he tried to take everything in. “The car demonstration isn’t until later, but we can walk through and see the new televisions, or the radios, or the show about the different elements and how they react with each other and burn different colors or the–”
“Bucky!” One of the girls– maybe Connie? Tony couldn’t tell them apart– whined. “Bucky, we want to go dancing!”
“Later.” Bucky waved them off and turned to Tony and Steve with a hopeful expression. “There’s a synthetic man! A synthetic man!! Let’s go!”
“A what?” Steve frowned. “A synthe— what, a robotic man?”
“Phineas Horton.” Tony supplied, staring up at the sign for the display. “Phineas Horton’s synthetic man. They said he was– I mean, they think he will be the person who changes the world with androids.”
“Wow.” one of the girls commented, and suddenly looked quite a bit more interested in Tony. “You sounded smart just then.”
“I sounded smart just then?” Tony repeated, and tried his hardest not to laugh in her face. “Uh, thanks?”
“You do sound smart.” Bucky agreed, and Tony liked that compliment much more than the one from the girl. But then– “They let fella’s like you into the colleges back in California?”
“Fella’s like me?” Tony sputtered. “What does that mean?”
“Means that California boys are pretty but not good for much.” Connie– Bonnie?– chimed in and Tony’s mouth fell open.
“Wh–wh–wh–!”
“Come on girls, let’s find something to do.” Steve herded the girls through the entryway and towards some of the displays, leaving Bucky and Tony eyeing each other from across several yards.
“You got something against California boys?” Tony asked, his voice soft and teasing and Bucky took a few steps forward as he murmured,
“I’d like to have something against you, Tony.” Then he let his gaze drop below Tony’s waist, wet his lips and added, “Ain’t no little problem there, huh?”
Tony made a noise that wasn’t quite a squawk but definitely wasn’t a coherent reply and Bucky wrinkled his nose into a grin before trailing after Steve and the girls, leaving Tony staring after him in shock.
Did he just reference my dick? Did Bucky Barnes just check me out and reference my–
“Tony!” Steve yelled for him. “Come on!”
“I’m coming!” he called back and made that awkward noise again when Bucky whipped around and wiggled a set of outright devious eyebrows in his direction.
The history books all said Bucky Barnes was a charmer, not that he was a damn lecher.
Sheesh.
****************
****************
Tony felt nauseous as Bucky finally led them all into the flying car demonstration, but no one noticed. Bucky was too busy telling Steve that the best part of not being enlisted was being “the last eligible man in New York! There’s two million women in this city!”
“I’d settle for one.” Steve scoffed, glancing over at Connie and Bonnie, who were oohing and ahhing over another display.
Tony wanted to smile over Bucky’s obvious attempts at cheering Steve up, wanted to say something to Steve about how the right woman for him was– quite literally in this case– only a few weeks away, but he was hardly even breathing, edging towards an anxiety attack the closer they got to the stage. His heart was in his throat, his stomach twisting uncomfortably, and his hands trembled around the bag of popcorn he had snagged.
He knew this.
Five women in ridiculous costumes, a pretty car, Howard would come jogging up and lay a hell of a kiss on one of the girls as she took his hat…. Christ, he knew all this, had seen the old video reels, had heard the stories–
There he was.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! Howard Stark!”
There he was.
“Oh look at him!” “Gosh, he’s so handsome!” “Howard we love you!” girls were screaming at him from the audience, and Howard only flashed that award winning, paparazzi charming smile, which made them scream even more.
“Ladies and gentlemen, what if I told you–” Howard Stark– Dapper. Handsome. Fabulously wealthy. Almost intimidatingly smart. “In just a few short years, your vehicle–”
“–won’t even have to touch the ground.” Tony mouthed the words as Howard said them, staring at the man on the stage that would become his father. The man that had been his father.
The show girls pulled the tires from the car, and beside him, Tony felt Bucky tense in disbelief as Howard started pushing levers and the car started humming, vibrating, and finally lifted from the stage.
“—Holy cow.” Bucky whispered. “Tony, are you seeing this?”
“Yep.” Tony managed, working to keep his voice level. “Yeah, it’s pretty good.”
The flying car had been a disaster for Stark Industries, never more than a publicity stunt, never meant to do more than hover but damn did the audience eat it up, excited murmurs and applause from the crowd, appropriately awed expressions from the women on the stage.
Even Steve looked impressed, blue eyes widening as the car lifted even further into the air.
Tony timed it. He knew the Flying Car from the Expo had never hovered longer than ten seconds, and sure enough, right around the seventh second the car started shaking, the engine rumbling, and then it clattered back to the stage.
Tony grinned to himself, forgetting his anxiety for just a second, because Howard looked entirely panicked and instantly annoyed for about two seconds before he turned that mega watt grin back on, adopting an aw shucks expression as he said, “Well, I did say a few years, right?”
Tony finally relaxed once everyone’s attention was off the stage. Howard slipped back behind the curtains to no doubt rage over the failure like he always did, and the crowd was dispersing.
Tony could breathe again.
He didn’t know why he had been so afraid to see Howard– it wasn’t as if almost-thirty Howard would recognize his almost-thirty son that he hadn’t met yet, right? Tony hadn’t had any intention of going and speaking to Howard, no intention of drawing any attention to himself at all.
But it had been twenty years since he had even seen his dad, and Tony hadn’t realized how much he missed him until right then. It was both a shock to his system and something of a warm comfort to see his dad the way he had been in all the pictures, all the short movies from this time period.
Why had he been so nervous? In retrospect it didn’t seem like a big deal at all, in this timeline Tony was just a random guy watching a random demonstration at a fair and that was it.
That was it, so Tony took a few deep breaths, closing his eyes to get himself back under control.
“Hey.” Tony opened his eyes to see Steve watching him. “You alright? Starting to look panicky again. Is it the crowds? You got a problem with crowds?”
“I’m fine.” Tony forced a smile, softening it a little more when Bucky glanced over at him too. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Do you know you look like him?” Bonnie leaned over to see him. “Like Howard Stark?”
“Uh–”
“It’s nice.” she continued. “You’re smart and cute. What a catch.”
Behind the girl, Steve rolled his eyes hard enough that it probably gave him a headache, and Tony tipped his fedora to the girl before reaching out and shoving Steve’s shoulder.
“Don’t look so cranky, blondie. Let’s go find something you want to do, huh?”
“We want to go dancing though! Take us dancing!” Apparently fed up with doing things the boys wanted to do, the girls took off towards the music, grabbing at Bucky’s hand to try and drag him along.
Bucky pulled away with a promise to catch up with them, blowing them a kiss and winking at Connie, because he knew that she wanted a chance to dance with Bonnie, not with him. “We’ll be right there, girls! Save a dance for me!”
“Stevie, what do you want to– Uh, Steve?” he looked around bewildered. “Tony, where did Steve go? He was just here, wasn’t he?”
“I bet I know where he went.” Tony said grimly, and jerked his head towards the Uncle Sam poster. “Yeah?”
“Aw shit.” Bucky took off at a jog through the crowd, Tony close at his heels, and Steve was just where Tony knew he would be–
–standing on the spring form in front of the mirrored picture of soldiers at the entrance of the recruitment center.
The idea was that young men stepped up to the platform, their faces were reflected on the body of a tall, fit soldier, one arm raised in a salute, more troops behind him.
It was Patriotic. Inspiring. Women loved a guy in uniform. Boys looked like men in that helmet. A recruiting tool that required no words, no flashy slogan. Just a mirror.
And there Steve stood, but unlike the man just before him, Steve’s head barely came up to the picture’s shoulders, only his forehead and eyes reflected in the mirror.
Tony used to laugh when Howard told this story, about how tiny Steve had been, how funny it had been to see him in the helmet, hauling a giant backpack around with the rest of the new recruits in boot camp.
But now it just seemed sad, almost depressing, seeing who Steve wanted to be superimposed over who he really was, or at least who he was currently.
“Steve.” he motioned for him. “Come on. Let’s just–”
“Steve.” Much less subtle, Bucky pushed Steve right off the spring form. “Missin’ the point of a double date. Come on. Let’s go take the girls dancing.”
“Go ahead.” Steve said quietly, and Tony’s heart sank. Oh no. “I’ll uh– I’ll catch up with you.”
Bucky’s face set in a hard expression and Tony cleared his throat, looking away from what was sure to be a hell of an argument.
“You really doing this again?” Bucky demanded, and Steve nodded miserably, mumbling about trying his luck, since it was a fair.
“Tryin’ your luck as who?” Bucky exploded, throwing his hands in the air. “As Steve from Ohio? Dammit Stevie, this isn’t a back alley! It’s a war! Why don’t you understand that!?”
“I know it’s a war!” Steve snapped back. “You don’t have to tell me that!”
“Apparently I do!” Bucky raised his voice even louder. “Why do you gotta fight? There are so many important jobs–”
“I’m not gonna sit in a factory! I’m not gonna collect scrap metal in my little red wagon!”
“WHY NOT!”
“Bucky there are men laying down their lives out there! I got no right to do any less than them! It isn’t about me–!”
“Right.” Bucky laughed bitterly, backing up a few steps. “Right. Cause you got nothin’ to prove, ain’t that right?”
Steve stared at him, jaw set stubbornly, and Bucky stared right back.
Tony looked between the two of them, his heart breaking, hating that he knew that this was it, that this was the last conversation they would have before–
“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.” Bucky finally said, sounding much less angry all the sudden. “Yeah?”
“How can I?” Steve retorted. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”
“Damn it, you’re such a punk.” Bucky closed the distance between them and wrapped Steve in a long hug. “You’re such a punk, Stevie.”
“Yeah, but you’re a jerk.” Steve said back, his arms right around Bucky’s shoulders, and Tony had to look away again so he wouldn’t tear up.
They have no idea.
“Don’t win the war until I get there!” Steve called as Bucky moved away, and the Sergeant tossed him a cocky salute before heading off to find the girls.
“Um Tony–”
“Do you want me to go with you?” Tony interrupted, and Steve shrugged awkwardly. “Because I will. I’ll go with you this time.”
“Uh, why don’t you just go find Buck and the girls.” Steve motioned behind him to the center. “I’m gonna do this and then– then I’ll–”
“See us back at the apartment.” Tony finished. “Right? You’ll get back to the apartment tonight?”
“Are you and Bucky going to be there?” Steve asked bluntly. “And by be there, I mean are you and Bucky going to be–”
Tony cleared his throat loudly and Steve clapped his mouth shut for a minute. “Sorry. I forget sometimes. But really, are you two–”
“I don’t know.” Tony admitted. “I don’t really know about that. We’ll have to see how everything goes.”
“Alright.” Steve looked down the corridor again. “Well either way I guess we will have something to talk about in the morning. Wish me luck?”
“You got it Steve.” Tony said honestly. “You got it, this time they will take you, I can feel it.”
“Thanks, Tony.” Steve grinned, and Tony felt a pang in his chest, thinking that this was one of the last times he would see that particular grin on this particular size Steve. “The morning, then.”
“See you.” Tony saluted, and Steve saluted back, and turned to give it just one more shot, to try just one more time to make it.
Tony waited until Steve had disappeared around a corner before wandering away to track down Bucky and the girls.
Tonight was the night that everything changed for Bucky and Steve, and Tony didn’t know how he felt about it.
******************
******************
“You leave Stevie to it?” Bucky asked when Tony joined him at the edge of the dance floor. “Huh? Another chance to get rejected?”
“He’ll make it this time.” Tony watched the pairs twirl by, smiling when he saw Connie tearing it up with another pretty girl, an appropriate amount of distance between them, but judging by the heated look in Connie’s eyes, the distance wouldn’t be there for long. “Do you think–”
“I don’t want him to make it.” Bucky interrupted and Tony frowned at him. “No, don’t look at me like that, Tony. You don’t know Stevie like I do. He’ll run out there all fired up and ready to kill a bitch and he won’t know when to stop. He won’t know when to stop, and he’ll get hurt and I–” a deep breath. “I won’t be there to put him back together.”
“You think Steve can’t handle himself?”
“It’s not that. It’s not that.” Bucky folded his arms and damn it Tony had to look down to where his uniform pulled tight over his biceps. “Stevie can handle himself. He doesn’t need me. Hell, he’d be stronger than me if he grew a few inches.”
“So what’s the problem? Why do you keep discouraging him?” Tony kept frowning at Bucky, not sure he liked this side of the soldier, not understanding why Bucky Barnes, Cap’s right hand man would be so negative about it all. “He’s your best friend, why don’t you believe in him?”
“I believe in him.” Bucky muttered. “M’just worried war will ruin him.”
Oh.
“Fighting takes everything away, you know?” Bucky held a hand to wave at Connie as she twirled by. “It’ll take his optimism, his smile, ev’rything about Stevie that I love. He believes there’s so much good in everyone, and war will show him that he’s wrong. There’s no good guys or bad guys in war. It’s just men with guns. Stevie thinks in black and white, and nothin’ about this is black and white.”
Oh.
“Bucky–” Tony ran his fingers through his hair, disrupting the perfect strands. “The thing is–”
Damn how was he supposed to tell Bucky that the war did ruin Steve? That in a few years Steve wouldn’t be anything like the same kid that was so eager to get his uniform and run out the door? That everything Bucky was afraid of happening was definitely going to happen?
“The thing is–”
“I don’t really want to talk about it.” Bucky smiled a little sadly. “Tell me what was going on with you at the Stark show.”
“I–um. Nothing.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Tony, ya know?” Bucky sent him a sidelong glance. “Tell me what’s going on. C’mon sugar, I was all open and honest with you, be a little real with me, huh?”
“Sugar?” Tony repeated, and beneath the bright lights of the dance floor, Bucky blushed pink. “Careful Sergeant, I’ll start to think you’re soft.”
“Can promise ya I’m not soft, Tony.” Bucky replied, his innocent blush at complete odds with the way he tugged at his pants.
“Oh my god!” Tony burst out laughing and Bucky grinned too. “Sergeant, I can’t figure out if you’re a sweet boy from Brooklyn trying to be cute with me, or a playboy army-man tryin’ to get lucky the night before he ships out.”
“I can’t be both?”
“Oh my god.” Tony covered his mouth so he wasn’t smiling so big. “Bucky Barnes I’m surprised at you.”
“You ain’t surprised at me.” Bucky countered teasingly. “Now. Tell me what happened at the Stark expo.” He shifted his weight just enough to bump Tony’s shoulder before leaning away again. “I saw ya, got all shaky and nervous, what happened? You don’t gotta tell me everything, but don’t tell me nothin’s wrong when something is.”
“Alright.” Tony scratched at his hair again, tried to figure out how to explain it without lying too much. “Alright. Mr. Stark he uh– he reminds me a lot of my old man.”
“Your pops?” Bucky motioned him over to the side so they could get another drink. “What about him?”
“Well he’s not uh–” Tony cleared his throat, then cleared it again. “He wasn’t ever all that good to me. Cold, distant, When he talked to me, it was either to tell me I was doing something wrong, or to tell me how he had done it better. I never liked him, but I had to respect him because of what he accomplished.”
Bucky opened a beer and handed it to Tony, motioning for him to continue.
“It was weird to see someone so like my dad–” Tony made a motion over his face. “– but who wasn’t my dad, and to just see him as a person and not as someone that used to give me nightmares.”
“Nightmares?” Bucky’s voice dropped low. “About what?”
“Nothing that would require you avenging me.” Tony smirked. “But the dangerous thing is pretty great. Keep it up.”
“Why’d he give you nightmares, Tony.”
“Because I wasn’t ever able to be the person he wanted. And then he was gone before I even had a chance to prove to him that I could be someone he was proud of.” Tony swallowed back unexpected tears. “He’s been gone for so long, and I was a disappointment to him before then. I have this mental image of him as some sort of giant, some looming thing that I will never measure up to, and tonight I think I realized that I just never knew him as a person. That maybe the man I knew wasn’t who he really was.”
Bucky was quiet for a minute, a troubled expression on his face. “Well, I’m sorry he passed before he got to know ya, Tony.”
“Me too.” Tony’s eyes blurred and he looked down at his shoes. “But I think–”
“I think we should start drinking.” Bucky cut in, raising his bottle. “Because this is a fair, and we have been serious for far too long. It’s my last night before shipping out and we should be laughing and drinking and getting nak—” he took a drink before he finished the sentence, and Tony wrinkled his nose at him before raising his own bottle.
“I can brood about my dad later. Here’s to you, soldier.”
“Cheers, Tony.” Bucky clinked their beers together, and tipped his head back to drain most of his in one go.
“Look at you swallowing that like a champ.” Tony muttered. “Good skill to have.”
Bucky spit his beer all over the floor when he choked and Tony laughed until he couldn’t breathe as Bucky coughed and tried to clear his nose where he managed to inhale a little bit.
“God dammit, Tony.”
“Yeah, Brooklyn. You’re not the only who say things like that.”
*****************
*****************
“So. Thinkin’ ‘bout your dad tonight.” Bucky’s words were starting to slur together a little bit as he ripped the top off another beer. “You thinking about anyone else?”
“Anyone else?” Tony repeated, leaning back against the brick wall of the store just down the street from their building. “What do you mean by that?”
Bonnie and Connie had found a few other friends and happily ditched Tony and Bucky for more dancing, and the chance to be kissed since neither of the men were interested. Bucky had wasted no time getting Tony hustled out of the Expo and into a cab heading back towards the apartment.
A quick stop into the local grocer for more to drink, and they were content to walk the rest of the way, sipping at their beer and talking quietly. Here in the dark they were free to bump into each other as they walked, free to let their hands brush, to tease and flirt and laugh out loud without worrying about what anyone would think.
“Well, Stevie said he thinks ya left someone behind in California.” Bucky explained, and Tony’s eyes closed over the memory of Pepper. “Someone you love? Someone that means we can’t–” he motioned between their bodies.
“The way I see it.” Tony looped Bucky’s tie around his knuckles and tugged until the soldier bent to get closer to him. “I’m here in New York now, and barring any spectacular event, I won’t be going back to–” to my own time. “– to California any time soon. Yes, I left some people behind, but that can’t be helped now.”
His fingers trembled at the thought of never seeing Rhodey again, of never seeing Pepper smile again, of never hearing JARVIS’s comforting tones.
Christ. I really might be stuck here.
“Brooklyn is a whole new reality for me now.” he said then, choosing his words carefully. “I can’t live my day to day as if I’m going back to California the next morning because realistically speaking–” Shit. “– realistically speaking, I’ll probably never go back, you know?”
“So?” Bucky prompted, covering the hand on his tie with his own, dwarfing Tony’s fingers in his palm. “So what’r’ya sayin’ Tony?”
“I’m saying that you’re shipping out tomorrow, soldier.” Tony forced levity into his tone, pushing the rising panic away with a smile. “And we should make the most of your last night here, yeah?”
Bucky’s eyes dropped to Tony’s mouth. “Yeah, yeah I like the sound of that.”
“Come here then.” Tony started pulling on the tie again, and Bucky grinned briefly before bending down to touch their lips together.
Tony stood on his toes to make it happen faster, feeling like he needed some physical contact to keep him level, someone to hold him to keep him from freaking out over the entire situation and also that he really needed to get his hands on the hard body in front of him–
–”Ow!” Bucky jerked away when their noses collided hard enough to hurt. “Ow, shit!”
“Damn sorry.” Tony touched his own nose to make sure there wasn’t blood. “We didn’t plan that very well, did we? You alright? Didn’t break anything?”
“Damn.” Bucky chuckled, then put a hand at Tony’s waist to bring him closer. “Come here. Let’s try again.”
This time Tony didn’t stand on his toes, letting Bucky close the distance between them, eyes wide as he watched Bucky get closer and closer–
–and then Bucky’s eyes opened and they were just staring at each other, close enough that Tony’s eyes crossed trying to focus and Bucky burst out laughing, pulling away again to cover his mouth and try to muffle it.
“Tony! Why are your eyes open?!”
“Why are your eyes open!” Tony shot back, feeling completely ridiculous.
“I was trying to make sure I didn’t bump your nose again!”
“That’s what I was trying to make sure of!!”
Tony had to laugh, he had to, because this was the most awkward first kiss of his life and Bucky looked just as frustrated.
“Okay, bring it back.” he motioned for Bucky. “Third time’s the charm, yeah? Don’t break my nose, and for the love of God don’t open your eyes.”
Bucky was still chuckling, but he came back for a third try and this time they didn’t crack noses, neither of their eyes were open, but Tony started to say. “Oh and we should probably–”
–But Bucky was already too close to stop, and when he felt Tony’s mouth open beneath his own, he just shrugged and stuck his tongue as far as he could between Tony’s lips.
If Tony wanted to kiss like that the first time then Bucky was more than okay with–
“Damn it, Bucky!!” Tony shoved him away, wiping the saliva from his lips.“You messy boy! Why are you sticking your tongue down my throat?”
“I thought ya wanted t’use our tongues!” Bucky argued. “Why else would your mouth be open!”
“I was trying to talk!”
“Why are you trying to talk when we are supposed’t’be kissing??”
“Okay, that’s a valid point.”
They stared at each other for a long, fantastically awkward moment before Tony sighed. “Look Bucky, maybe we should–”
Bucky took two steps forward and wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist, backing him up into the wall and pinning him in place with a firm kiss.
Tony sucked in a surprised breath, his hands automatically going to Bucky’s shoulders, then sliding up his neck to tangle into his hair.
“Yeah, sugar.” Bucky muttered, parting just long enough to take a breath, then slipping his tongue out to slide along the seam of Tony’s lips, coaxing him open with little licks and teasing passes of his teeth.
When Tony opened to let him in, Bucky surged forward into his mouth, curling their tongues together and slipping slick through every corner, sucking lightly until Tony was gasping, tugging at his hair, standing on his toes to get their bodies closer together.
When Bucky finally pulled away, Tony was a wreck, lips red and bruised from being kissed so thoroughly, hair mussed, breath coming hard and fast.
“Bucky. Damn.”
“What were you gonna say?” Bucky was breathing just as hard, but the fingers that ran over Tony’s cheek and down to his jawline were whisper soft. “What were you gonna say a minute ago when I tried t’kiss ya?”
Tony didn’t answer, only hooked his fingers in Bucky’s belt loops and dragged him close again, tilting his head for a second, third, fourth greedy kiss.
“Why don’t we take this upstairs?” he whispered when they broke apart after a few minutes. “Show me how you Brooklyn boys spend a night, huh?”
Another kiss, Bucky’s teeth dragging Tony’s bottom lip almost enough to make it hurt, a big hand possessive low on Tony’s hips. “Mmmm.” he groaned when Tony grabbed at his ass. “Oh sure thing, sweet thing. Let’s go.”
|
“This won’t last.”
Morning sunlight filters through the windows. The pillows and sheets are scattered around them. Draco is wrapped in Neville’s arms, his lover’s mouth pressing soft kisses along his shoulders. Against his nape, Neville murmurs, “You want to go through all that again?”
“What?” Draco shifts, the soft breath sending a shiver down his spine.
“I told you. If you’re in for the long haul…” Neville pauses to trace a finger down Draco’s side, huffing out a laugh as Draco pinches his arm in retaliation. “So am I.”
“Not us, idiot. Our sex lives.” Draco leans back into Neville’s chest. “Once Scorpius returns, I can’t have you over for the night. He’s perceptive enough as is. And he loves reporting our home life to his teachers.”
“That’s fine,” Neville says cheerily. “We’ll have scandalous trysts at the office.”
“A greenhouse or a dungeon. You know how to treat a man well.”
“Mmm, you have a point. Then we’ll have to do without.”
“You won’t miss it?” Draco slyly runs a hand across Neville’s thigh.
“Oy.” Neville pulls his hand away with a chuckle. “Not saying that, but I’ll be happy as long as I get to see you.”
Draco preens a bit, smirking. “But what if I’m in this because my boyfriend is a good shag?”
“You like throwing boyfriend around, don’t you?” Neville looks pleased as punch, though, which is most of the incentive to keep doing it.
With what he hopes is an inscrutable shrug, Draco shifts on the bed. “We’re both teaching class in an hour. Breakfast?”
Neville’s stomach grumbles in response. With a sheepish laugh, he follows Draco to the kitchen.
*
Being in love is the best and worst feeling he’s ever had. He feels raw and exposed, like he’s been slipped Amortentia and everyone knows but him. Whenever he makes eye contact with Neville, his spine tingles. It’s disgusting.
In true Malfoy fashion, he overcompensates for his emotions with strictness. He assigns an extra essay on the uses of hellebore and adds another potion to the upcoming test. The final is less than three months away, after all.
Sitting in a hidden alcove in the courtyard, he overhears a couple students grumbling that Professor Malfoy “could use a good shag”. He smirks to himself, flipping to the next page in his lesson plan. Quite the opposite.
*
On Friday afternoon, Draco knocks on the door of the Herbology office. “Neville?”
Neville pokes his head out, glancing at the suitcase in Draco’s hand. “Going to the Manor already?”
“Classes are over, so I have to dash. If Mother and Astoria haven’t throttled each other yet, arranging a birthday party for Scorpius might be the final straw.”
“Sounds like a headache.”
“Well, I’ve had five owls full of tart and hard-headed and Merlin’s left testicle, all of which were burned in the staffroom fireplace.”
“Those poor owls are working hard.”
“I suppose so. What’s that beeping contraption that Muggles have? Cellcular something?”
Neville shrugs. “Don’t ask me. Everything Hermione tries to explain goes over my head.”
“Sounds horrid. Life would be a never-ending Floo call from my parents.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Neville replies with a wistful smile.
“Oh. Sorry.” Draco grimaces. “I’m a prat.”
“Don’t, please.” Neville reaches for his free hand, twining their fingers together. “I don’t want an apology on the subject every time. It just seems nice to be in your family, besides all the…” Neville clears his throat. “Baggage.”
“Well phrased. Augusta would be proud.”
“Speaking of parents and grandparents, when am I meeting yours?”
“We’ll see.”
Neville frowns. “We’ll see?”
“I’ll tell them soon, but it’s better if you’re not there. They won’t be happy.”
“I’ve gathered that,” Neville says gently. “I’m not asking for something unreasonable, am I? I don’t want to create a rift.”
“No. It'll take time, but they'll come around, for Scorpius if for nothing else.” Draco swallows. “My concerns involve you. You’re generous, but my parents are hard to get along with. They’re proud, stubborn people and they don’t hide it. But I still want you to like them. I’m the unreasonable one.”
Neville pauses, his eyes tracing Draco’s face. “I can’t promise to like them, but I can promise to give them a chance.”
“That’s plenty.” Draco offers a small smile. “When are you telling Augusta?”
“Sunday lunch. Looks like we’re both in for it this weekend.”
“So we march to the Bastille.” Draco kisses his cheek. “If we survive, we’ll have to discuss my son, too. If you’re going to lose your nerve, do it now.”
Neville catches his wrist, pulling him in. Draco angles his face so Neville can kiss him, slow and deep, his hands running down Draco’s waist, before pulling back. “I’m a Gryffindor. Don’t worry about my courage.”
Draco wishes he had a suitably Slytherin retort, but he’s feeling weak at the knees. With a fond eyeroll, he picks up his suitcase and leaves for the Hogsmeade train station.
*
The party is a bizarre mishmash of his mother’s elegant sensibilities and his ex-wife’s determination to make it fun. Fancy china and teacakes, silly streamers and finger painting, and a gaggle of high-pitched monsters tearing through the mansion with parents in tow. If this is (most of) Scorpius’s class at Hogsmeade, a thousand blessings to those poor teachers.
When the last little terror drives off, Scorpius is drawing a picture for Astoria at the grand dining table, chattering about dragons. Draco pulls out the seat next to Astoria. “Can we talk?”
She glances up and nods. “Scorpius, go show your grandmother your dragons.”
“Okay!” He gives his parents an inquisitive look, but then takes off running. He’s had far too much sugar for one afternoon.
Astoria runs a hand through her glossy waves as Draco sits. “If it’s about your mother, I won’t hear it.”
“It’s about me seeing someone.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Oh.”
“It’s the man I broke it off with before…well, us.”
She tilts her head. “So in the end, we both went back?”
Draco wrestles with his face to keep his expression neutral. “I want him to be part of Scorpius’s life. Eventually. Not as a parent, but as my partner, like Estefania is for you.”
“Of course. It’s only fair. Though poor Neville is going to have an uphill battle with your parents.”
“Wha—you knew?”
“Of course. Who do you think you married?” Smirking, she stands up and pats his head. “You never learned a thing about women." Then she saunters away, all too pleased with herself.
Ex-wives are the worst.
*
The next morning, Astoria takes Scorpius for a mother-son day at the zoo, leaving Draco with his parents. Mother is slathering a pat of butter on toast when Draco clears his throat. “I have something to tell you.”
Father grunts from behind his newspaper. Mother eyes Draco, catching his expression and frowning. “Lucius,” she snaps, sitting up a little straighter. Father sets the paper down, annoyed.
Fuck it. He won’t hesitate. “I’ve started seeing someone, and it’s serious. I want him to be a part of my—of our lives.”
There’s a long, heavy moment of silence. Father stares at him in bewilderment. It’s Mother who says, “Him.”
“Yes. Neville Longbottom.”
She tenses; her self-control is too good for any other reaction. Father’s mouth flattens into a thin line, and Draco understands why. Neville had been a means of climbing back up the ladder of society. But as a partner to his son—as a man, a Gryffindor, and the leader of Dumbledore’s Army—this is ridiculous. His voice is mocking. “What are you saying, Draco? The Longbottom boy?”
His panic pushes him to babble out an explanation. “I’m gay. I’ve always been gay. I broke it off with him to marry Astoria because I wanted you both to be happy, but I wasn’t happy. And I deserve to be with someone I love.”
Father’s jaw tightens, eyes blazing. “I understand if you wanted to…experiment when you were younger, but you’re a father. You want to subject Scorpius to this passion of yours, like your wife has?”
Before Draco can reply, Mother says in a steely voice, “I knew, Lucius. And I gave him my blessing.”
“You…” Father trails off, stunned. His face distorts into a familiar sneer. “You wanted this, then? Wanted your only son to take up with a Longbottom? To throw all our work to restore the Malfoy name into the dirt?”
Mother squares her shoulders. “I am not ashamed of my son. I didn’t know who the man was, but this is his choice, and it is a respectable match of two pureblood families.”
“Respectable? This is a betrayal of everything we worked for! This is what I’ll leave behind as my legacy?”
Draco snaps, “You did a fine job ruining your legacy yourself! And I salvaged it, so you should be thanking me!” Father recoils as if smacked, but Draco is too angry to regret it. He’s never said it before, but he’s right. “I have done everything for this family, and all I’m asking in return is that you accept me for who I am.”
“Accept you? There’s nothing to accept,” Father replies, lip curled. “You need to remember who you are.”
Draco is boiling with fury. “I’m not a child asking for your permission, Father. Neville is going to be in my life and in Scorpius’s life. And if you want to be part of our lives, then make your peace with that.”
In all his years, even in the throes of his bitter days of alcoholism, he never stood up to Father so clearly. Father seethes in mute anger, but instead of replying, he slams open the door to the back gardens and stalks out of the room.
It hurts. Morgana, he thought he was an adult, but his shame is a raw, blistering wound. But Mother is reaching for him, wrapping her arms around him with a soothing murmur, and he breathes into her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Hush,” she replies with tears in her eyes. “Do what makes you happy.”
*
His parents lock themselves in the study later in a low-voiced but furious fight. It’s Astoria’s last day before she returns to Barcelona, though. Draco tries to enjoy their day with Scorpius as a family, playing baby Quidditch and starting tickle fights. He’s exhausted and embroiled in his emotions, but it’s a good distraction.
While Astoria helps Scorpius to pack his things, Draco goes to his bedroom to Floo Neville. As soon as his face appears, Neville’s brow knits. “That bad?”
Shit. Blinking them back a sudden well of tears, he replies lightly, “As expected. The worst is over.”
Neville’s jaw sets. “I wish I was there.”
“It’s fine. Tell me about yours. Is Augusta still there?”
“She’s around somewhere.” He disappears for a second, then reappears. “I think she’s scolding our neighbor. His goat likes to nip at her daylilies.”
“That’s not a euphemism, is it?”
“What?” Neville pulls a face. “Don’t joke about that.”
“Sorry. How’d it go?”
Neville huffs out a laugh. “Bit of a rocky start. Gran told me not to get carried away because you have a nice face.”
Draco is startled into a laugh. “She doesn’t mince words.”
“Apparently I’m no longer young enough for my lower half to do the thinking.”
“I’d have to agree,” Draco replies, grinning.
“After I convinced her I was serious, all she said was to bring you round for tea soon. It’s her way of giving us her blessing.” Neville beams.
Draco can’t help but smile in return. “Good. Now I have to prepare my heart, and maybe an opening statement.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be there."
“And just as scared as me?”
Neville winks. “More.” He contemplates Draco’s face, sobering. “Are you really okay?”
Draco leans back, fiddling with the collar of his jumper. He already wants to bury his face in Neville’s warm chest and inhale his scent. “Tired. It’s been a long day, and it’s only half over.”
“Are you leaving soon?”
“In a couple hours.”
“I could pick up some takeout and swing by tonight.”
Draco raises his eyebrows. “You can’t get enough of me, can you?”
Neville grins, and Draco’s heart responds with a flip. “Isn’t it mutual?”
“Possibly,” he replies, unable to hide a smile. “Depends on if you order drunken noodles.”
“Then I’d better get on that. See you soon.”
“Hurry,” he replies, but Draco lingers until Neville’s face dissolves into flames.
*
Draco leaves the house without speaking to Father. Mother squeezes his hand and says, “Promise me you won’t avoid him.”
He swallows. “I promise.”
Then he sets off with Astoria and Scorpius. They Portkey to London, then part ways at the King’s Cross station. They’ve warned Scorpius, so he’s already fussy, clutching Astoria’s hand and asking pitifully, “Mommy, do you have to go?”
“I do have to go. But you’ll see me soon.”
“Mommy, why can’t you stay?”
Draco lifts him up. “Because we’re going back to Hogwarts. You miss your teachers, right? And you miss your story books? And candy from Honeydukes? We can get you another Fizzing Whizbee.”
“He’s right, honey,” Astoria says. “Don’t worry. Mommy loves you.” She kisses him on the cheek, then turns to Draco. Her eyes brim with tears, and she quickly wipes them away. “Keep him safe.”
“I will.”
“See you soon!” With forced cheer, she waves goodbye and heads down to exit the platform.
It’s rare for Scorpius to act out. After all, he’s used to the parental separation. But maybe the trauma has brought back other anxieties, because he cries and screams like a banshee. Draco tries to soothe him; he doesn’t have the heart to be stern. He lets his son writhe in his arms, his small body wracked with sobs, and stews in guilt. It’s only halfway back to Hogwarts that Scorpius finally tires out, falling asleep with his head on Draco’s lap.
He carries his son all the way home, only shaking him awake to feed him a sandwich and get him ready for bed. It’s early, but Scorpius is tuckered out. Neville arrives in the middle of toothbrush time, so Draco points him to the couch and heads back upstairs.
Finally, a bedtime story later, Scorpius is asleep. Draco enters the living room to find a table spread with spring rolls, red and green curries, jasmine rice, and drunken noodles. Neville doesn’t notice him, too busy ripping open a packet of duck sauce. Draco clears his throat. “Sorry.”
“Oh! Don’t apologize for your son. Eat.” Neville hands him a plate piled high with food. “Hungry?”
Draco’s stomach rumbles in response. He shoots Neville a warning glare, then takes a careful bite out of his spring roll. Hunger can never trump good manners.
Neville grins. “Prim and proper for Thai?”
“It’s respectful.”
“A thouthan parthons,” Neville replies between a mouthful of noodles. He swallows. “How’s Scorpius?”
Draco sighs. “I don’t know. He’s anxious. I’m sure he’ll be up again soon looking for me.”
“It never ends, huh?”
“Never. I wish my family wasn’t so messy. It’s not going to be easy to walk into.”
“I don’t mind. It’s part of your life.”
Draco pauses, chewing on his noodles contemplatively. A thought strikes him, and he frowns up at his boyfriend. “Do you want kids of your own?”
“Huh?” Neville’s chopsticks hover over the bowl, the rice falling out of them.
“Scorpius is enough for me. And you’d be an incredible father, but I don’t want more children.” He pokes his rice with a chopstick. “If it’s a dealbreaker, we should talk about it.”
Neville sets his bowl down, leaning back against the couch. “I don’t know that I want kids. I mean, I used to assume it would happen, but I wasn’t invested in it. And…well, this feels much too early, but I’d like to be someone to Scorpius. That would be plenty.”
“To be someone?” Draco echoes. “Neville, I love you. But Scorpius has parents.”
“R-right,” Neville stumbles, looking surprised. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t…I thought I could be an adult in his life who cares.”
Draco reaches out to pat Neville’s knee. “I don’t mean to say that you two are separate parts of my life. I want you to be in his life, but as my partner. I just need to make the boundaries clear.”
“Oh. That makes sense. I’m afraid I didn’t think about it much. My plan was to talk about trains and help him with homework.”
“He’s in daycare. They don’t get any.”
“Great, well, there’s a lot to fill me in on.”
Draco can’t help a snort, but returns to being serious. “You have to be honest with me. I don’t want you to sacrifice what you want for us.”
Neville gathers Draco’s hands in his, kissing his knuckles. “I promise. I would make plenty of sacrifices for you, but this isn’t one.” He leans in, cupping Draco’s jaw, and Draco revels in his touch, in the sweetness of the kiss. This is what he needed to chase away his ills. After a minute, Draco pulls back. “Since we’re expecting a four-year-old visitor soon, let’s stick to food.”
“Mmm, one more taste?"
Draco picks up a bell pepper with his chopsticks and feeds it to Neville. “Here.”
“Two can play that game.” Neville takes noodles and waves them in front of Draco’s face. Draco attempts to save face by remaining stoic, but after his stomach rumbles again, he caves and takes a bite. They continue this until Scorpius interrupts, rubbing his eyes and whining that he can’t sleep without Daddy, so Draco lets himself be whisked away. Neville is left to clean up and show himself out, but is so gracious that Draco doesn’t bother with an apology.
Merlin, he chose well.
|
Oliver has been gone two days and it feels like weeks, months or maybe even years. Felicity didn't know it was possible to miss someone this much. Her soul hurts with longing for him. She looks at the clock. She needs to head to lunch with her friends. She can't keep avoiding them forever. Hiding in her office daydreaming about Oliver isn’t going to make the time go faster or her friends reaction change.
Felicity grabs a lunch on her way outside. She smiles at the people she passes more than one looks at her ring with questions. She sighs as she opens the door to head to the courtyard. She finds Caitlin, Cisco and Barry all seated together in their normal place. She looks down at her ring. She promised to not take it off, but it
would
make lunch easier...She shakes her head. Felicity won't break her promise to Oliver. She didn't when her Dad looks at it with disgust or when her team looks at it and wonders what it means.
"Hey guys!" Felicity says as she sits down. She opens her container of food.
Cisco starts to choke, "What is that on your finger?"
Felicity looks at her ring, then her friends. Caitlin smiles encouragingly. Here goes everything. Before she can tell them someone else does.
"She married Queen when he was here." Barry says obviously not in favor of her marriage.
"Without us? Only Barry?" Cisco pouts, "The younger Queen, right?"
Felicity glares at Barry before turning to Cisco, "Only our parents were there. Barry wasn't there so I am not sure how he knows....and of course, Oliver."
They all eat in silence until Kara comes over. She clearly has a crush on Barry, but they all pretend they don't know. She sits down and drops her tablet in the center of the group, "Oliver Queen was here and we get sent away...so unfair..." She looks at everyone before continuing, "He got quite the welcome home though."
Caitlin grabs the tablet before Felicity. When she finally hands it over, what Felicity sees feels like she's been punched repeatedly in the stomach and her heart seems to weep all as a white hot rage threatens to take her over. As she contemplates murder in her brain she flips through the pictures. There are pictures of Oliver with some woman wrapped around him. Her lips are all over him. Felicity feels anger burn through her veins hotter than anything she has ever felt. She wants to kill this woman who has her hands all over her man.
"I'm sure there is an explanation..." Caitlin offers kindly.
"Yeah, Queen is a cheating asshole." Barry announces, "He isn't wearing his ring...." He says like he expected nothing less.
Felicity looks away for a moment to collect herself and stop the tears from falling, "Oliver and I agreed to postpone telling the Mainlanders until I move there."
Kara looks confused, "You're moving?"
Felicity nods, "Spouses belong together."
Kara's eyes grow wider, "You're married to Oliver Queen?" Kara looks to the group to confirm, "Oh my gosh! Congratulations!"
"Thank you." Felicity knows Kara thinks she is what is stopping Barry from asking Kara out, but Felicity is not the problem at all. "I need to get back to work..."
Felicity walks back to her desk with her head held high. She's talked and texted Oliver. He never mentioned this at all. Nothing. Her stomach is in knots and her head hurts. She closes her office door, walks to her desk and rests her head on her desk. This really, really hurts. There has to be a reason for this, she just can’t come up with one that doesn’t break her heart.
There is a knock on her door. She wipes her tears before calling "Come in."
Barry comes into her office, "I am sorry...I know this has to hurt, but maybe it's better you know now. You can call off moving to the mainland."
"He is my husband, Barry." Felicity reminds Barry.
"So you become the younger Mrs. Queen and let him cheat on you like the elder does his wife?" Barry shouts angry.
"I don't even know what happened. Women throw themselves at Oliver all the time..." Felicity argues.
"It is Laurel Lance, his girlfriend...maybe ex girlfriend. They break up and get back together a lot..." Barry tells her.
Felicity feels like her heart was ripped out, "I trust him."
"Then you're an idiot." Barry says softly.
"Get out." She says calmly. The pain is too much to yell at him.
Barry walks out and they are both sad because this could be the end of their friendship. For years, Barry was her only friend and her best friend. She wishes he could support her like she would support him. HIs hatred for the Queen family seems over the top to her.
Felicity needs to talk to Oliver. She grabs her phone and dials his number.
"Hey, baby." Oliver answers, "I miss you and didn't expect to hear from you until tonight."
Felicity cuts to the chase, "Who is Laurel and why is she basically glued to your face?"
She hears him gasp. He covers the phone and says something. He comes back to her, "Sorry, was with my Dad." He takes a deep breath, "Laurel is my ex. I mentioned her on the island in passing...We had a long and complicated history but that is all it is -- history. She met me at the airport and posed for pictures. I am sorry. I should have warned you. I didn't think about it."
"Women kiss you so much you don't think about it?" Felicity hiding her hurt with sarcasm.
Oliver chuckles, "I mean that I have never felt the need to explain anything to anyone....until you.” His voice softens even more, “ I am sorry. If it were you being pawed by some man I would want to rip his throat out." He finishes with a growl.
Felicity murmurs, "Her throat...her heart....her hair...I'm not picky."
Oliver laughs, "I love you.
Only you.
" Oliver pauses, "I miss you so much. I didn't think it would be this bad..."
Felicity feels some tears leak, "Me either...."
There is a knock on her door. She looks up to see her team, "Oliver....I'm sorry for not trusting you.."
"Hey...it's okay, baby." He says on a sigh, "This whole love thing is new to us both. I would have flown down there and ripped someone apart..."
Felicity laughs even though he sounds dead serious.
"I need to go. I have a meeting. Talk later?"
"I can't wait..." Oliver tells her with the sweetest tone in his voice, "Love you."
"Me, too."
=========================================
Oliver misses his wife. He has another week to go before she comes here, comes home to him.He smiles thinking of them making a home together. He rather be at home on the phone with her, but no he has to be here. He has to keep up appearances. Oliver hates these parties. He hated them before and he really hates them now. They are another obligation for him. He takes a sip of his scotch as he looks around the dark room with music thumping through the speakers. People are dressed up for this party. He looks and sees his friends and their "guests or “dates”.
Oliver leans against the bar and throws back the rest of his drink. He slams the glass down and the bartender refills it without being told. He knows Oliver and he tips well.
"Ollie, you've ignored me all night." Sara Lance pouts at his side.
Oliver's eyes cut to her and back to the dance floor before speaking, "You wanted to come. You know the score...." She doesn’t really know what is going on with him, but jumped at the chance to attend with him.
"I know, but I thought we could have some fun." Sara whines.
Oliver looks over at her, "You can go have fun. I won't stop you." Oliver brought her rather than a regular “guest”. He didn't want a date, but needed one. His Dad encouraged him to take Laurel or another proper date or at least a proper "guest". Oliver refused. Robert hates that Oliver brought his secretary to an event like this. He probably did it just to piss his dad off. The entire concept of “Guests” and “Dates” is rubbing him wrong for some reason this time. He probably just misses his wife. He admits to himself. Oliver Queen just goes with the flow...or did until Felicity Smoak.
"When did you get so boring? There was a time you would have had fun at this party." Sara rubs his arm up and down clearly implying they can find a room.
Oliver turns to face her, "Do you really think this is fun?" He is interested in her answer.
Sara looks out over the crowd and shrugs, "It is tradition."
"Tradition doesn't mean we should keep doing it." Oliver counters.
Before Sara can speak, Ronnie Raymond comes up to Oliver followed by his "guest".
"Oliver." He says snidely.
Oliver grimaces at him, "Ronnie....and you are?" He asks the woman by his side. He wonders if she knows why Ronnie brought her or if she is in on the party.
"Caitlin Snow..." She says with a smile. Oliver looks her over. He decides she has no idea what this party really is about. Poor girl deserves better than Ronnie.
"I was going to introduce you...Caitlin is my guest tonight. Caitlin, this is Oliver Queen, my half brother."
Caitlin gasps. Oliver rolls his eyes as Ronnie smiles. Oliver's Dad had an affair with Ronnie's mother. They are half brothers, even if Oliver hates him. Oliver is about to say something when Sara speaks.
"I'm Sara Lance, Oliver's date." She smiles and shakes Caitlin's hand who looks at Oliver oddly.
"Date?" Caitlin looks stunned and mortified. Oliver has a bad feeling about this....It gets worse as Caitlin looks ready to rip his throat out.
Sara smiles broadly, "Yep. Date." She holds onto Oliver’s arm like it’s a life line.
Oliver feels a coldness settle over Caitlin as she zeroes in on Sara holding onto him. He needs to know why, "Where did you two meet?" He asks her.
"Ronnie is working on the island....Lian Yu...for QC. I was raised there." Caitlin looks at him clearly baiting him. She knows and wants him to know she knows.
Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.
"Oh. Do you like it there?" Oliver asks to buy time.
"Very much." She replies. If looks could kill he would be a dead man. "I have some of the best friends there...loving, kind and
trusting
people."
Oliver feels fear take over for a moment. Felicity...
"Oliver, I need you..." Tommy Merlyn says as he drags him away. Oliver looks over his shoulder to see Caitlin staring after him. He’s officially screwed and not in the good way.
An hour later Oliver is looking for Caitlin after finally getting away from Tommy. He finds her and Sara huddled up talking. That is not good. He can't believe Tommy wanted him to judge which woman Tommy should fuck tonight or pity fuck...This whole scene is not his anymore. He needs a scalding shower to remove the stench from tonight.
Oliver finds Caitlin and Sara. "Sara, I need to speak with Caitlin. Keep Ronnie occupied." Oliver says to Sara while staring at Caitlin. Sara scurries off like he knew she would.
Oliver leads Caitlin outside. Once away from the sounds of the party he turns to her, "What do you know?"
Caitlin looks like she's been crying now that he can see her face clearly. She is angry with him too. Her loyalty to his wife is fierce. He respects that about her.
"You married my best friend and seem to be cheating on her. According to Sara, Ronnie brought me here as a joke...you people bring poor and downtrodden people to a party to see who can bring the "best" , "worst" and most provincial person to a party? We are humans we have feelings..." Caitlin spits out the words as her eyes accuse him of so many sins. He pictures Felicity's face if she knew about this. He never wants her to be disappointed in him like this. He couldn't handle it.
Oliver runs a hand through his hair. He has done it before. It is a game the extremely wealthy have always played. He grew up with his parents befriending middle class people and bringing them to these parties to make them look like fools. How could he have ever thought this was okay? How could they?
"Look, I didn't bring anyone for judging. I brought Sara to put off questions as to why I was alone." Oliver answers honestly. "I am not cheating on my wife. I swear to you."
Caitlin glares, "Sure...what happens when she gets here? You have another party? Humiliate her? Use her? God, she
LOVES
you. She talks about you like you are the best person she ever met, but she has no idea does she?" Caitlin is practically crying.
She
LOVES
him. He wants to shout it from the rooftops until the rest of what was said sinks in.
Shit.
Has he already blown it?
Oliver feels his heart start to race as he ponders life without Felicity. Oliver has never really experienced true fear and he does not like it. "I love her. I would never do anything to hurt her or disrespect her."
"I don't believe you." Caitlin announces. “I liked you better when you were just a hot guy on the internet Felicity and I thought was cute...should have looked more at your face and less at your body. There is a coldness there.”
That hurts Oliver more than he cares to admit, even to himself, "I am sorry Ronnie brought you here. You seem like a nice person. He's a dick” He runs his hand through his hair. “Please, let me be the one to tell Felicity about this?" Caitlin liking or disliking him is irrelevant at this point.
Caitlin looks at him. She seems a bit surprised, "You aren't going to ask me to say nothing? You don't want me to keep this from her?"
Oliver wishes he could, "No. I wish she never has to know about this, but she will be living here soon and she is my wife I owe her honesty even when I look like an asshole."
He waits for her reaction. Finally she smiles slowly, "You do love her."
Oliver nods like he is one of the bobble heads, "I do. I swear I do."
"I won't say anything until you've had a chance to speak with her. But I have to say Oliver...this is sick and twisted. People like me have no idea what you people are doing."
"I know..." Oliver wishes this was the worst thing they did.
"Did Ronnie purposely do this to hurt me?"
Fuck.
"I don't know...he isn't a nice guy. He's on the island as punishment. He has a lot of bitterness towards me and our family."
"You are his brother. He wasn't lying?"
Oliver shakes his head as he looks down, "No. It's true."
Caitlin blows air out, "Daddy issues. I don't need that in my life..." She looks around, "Can you maybe help me get home without Ronnie? I don't think I can deal with him right now."
Oliver smiles, "For my wife's best friend I can do almost anything." He takes her hand and leads her to the garage. He finds his car. He takes Caitlin to the airport where they have a jet on stand by.
Before she boards Oliver feels compelled to tell her about Ronnie, "Our dad is a bastard who does disgusting things and even he is mad at Ronnie. Stay away from him, okay?"
"What did he do?" Caitlin asks with fear in her voice.
Oliver tells her the truth, "I don't know, but it had to be awful to be sent there. No one talks about it."
She nods, "Thanks for this..." She looks over her shoulder to the jet.
"No problem." He watches her board. He waits until the plane is in the air before leaving. Oliver worries about his wife and her beautiful soul in this city full of ugly things. He swears he will protect her from it all.
Oliver heads back to the party. He can’t abandon Sara. He walks in and starts looking for her. He finds Ronnie instead, “Have you seen Cait?”
Oliver looks at him with pure disgust, “Yes. I took her to the airport. She’s gone home.”
“Why?” Ronnie moves closer.
“She learned the truth and knows you’re a loser.” Oliver says with a smirk.
Ronnie takes a swing at him and Oliver easily dodges it. He has his little brother down on the ground, “Try that again and I will kill you.” Oliver gets up and walks away. He needs to get Sara and go.
Ronnie watches him go. He stands up and straightens is clothes, “Oh big brother...you will pay for that.” He smiles and it is pure evil.
Oliver isn’t worried.
|
Aqua knew.
She knew that Terra also knew, and she also knew that Terra wouldn’t say anything, too caught up in his own head to even considering to move on. That was why he was here, standing outside the castle staring at the stars after he knew that Ven had fallen asleep. Aqua knew that Terra had no intention to sleep inside the castle, he was going to stand here until morning came to punish himself for everything’s he’s done before coming up for breakfast and pretended like he had woken up earlier to train.
This trait of Terra, one where he would do absolutely everything to make sure that Ven won’t be worried was something Aqua could understand, after all she would have done the same thing.
But it didn’t mean that Aqua won’t be worried.
They had returned to the Land of Departure, buried Master Eraqus’ keyblade and decorated it in flowers. They had prayed and they had mourned, they had also talked. About everything and anything, everything that didn’t matter.
There were too many things left unsaid, because all they wanted and needed was some time for things to not hurt, to not be confusing. They were here, all three of them, and that was enough.
But both Aqua and Terra knew that they would have to talk eventually, because things happened during these twelve years. Time didn’t stand still for them, after all. Especially so for Terra.
Aqua knew, she knew that Terra also knew, but none of them could say anything.
So Aqua came to him, standing next to him as she put her hand on top of Terra’s shoulder. “Aqua…” was what Terra breathed, his voice was barely audible and nearly lost in the wind. Aqua let her hand wander from his shoulder and all the way to his hand, her eyes never leaving Terra’s face. I know that you are hurting was what she wanted to say but couldn’t, because her words would die in her throat. It all seemed so… small, insignificant, her words would have meant nothing to Terra, but she…
“Come inside, it’s getting cold.” Something normal. She always said this all those years ago, to Terra or to Ven whenever any of them was out in the cold night to train or to just play. Sometimes she would join in too, like the night when she gave them their Wayfinders, but most of the time Aqua would be the responsible one of the three. But above all else, this was normal. Nothing confusing, nothing difficult, nothing….
Terra smiled, a sad smile that spoke a million words Aqua never wanted to hear. She let their fingers intertwine, comforting and unrelenting. She won’t let him go, even if she had to lose it all again, she would never let him go.
“Maybe you should go inside, Aqua. I’ll be along in a minute.” Liar. Aqua wanted to say, but decided against it. She opted for silence and decided to just to tighten her grip on his palm. She wanted to ground him here, to let him know that his home would always be here by her and Ven’s side. She knew it would take time, but she was willing to spend them. She had wandered through the darkness all by her lonesome, tormented by the images of Terra and Ven walking forward and leaving her behind, and now that she had them back, Aqua would never let them go.
Terra was shaking and Aqua knew he would be. He loved them very much, both her and Ven, and Master Eraqus had told him to take care of them. Terra would never ever leave them behind, but at the same time… Aqua had a feeling that Terra would never let himself heal, too content on wallowing in guilt and despair she and Ven never wanted from their most precious friend. Aqua knew, she knew that Terra knew, and yet still….
“I’m here, I’m staying. This time I’ll protect you and Ven. Whatever it takes.”
“But how about you, Terra? Who’s going to protect you…?”
Terra had a conflicted look on his face, one that screamed of so much and yet nothing. Aqua wanted to know him better, to see just what was going on in her friend’s head; what tormented him, what ailed him, what he felt, how to fix them again…
But Terra let go of her hand and smiled. “You and Ven have done enough for me, Aqua, you know that.”
No, she didn’t. Because nothing would be enough for the sake of their friendship. There was no ‘enough’ and it was fine, because she and Ven loved Terra and they were willing to do everything they could to keep him safe. There was no such thing as enough….
If Terra had let her go to walk off alone, Aqua would have followed him everywhere, but Terra took her hand and led her back to the castle instead. She watched, both in surprise and curiosity, as Terra led her up the stairs and into the kitchen. Thousands of questions sprung inside her head, but Aqua elected to say nothing as Terra led her into the pantry and asked her to sit down.
“You like your tea sweet, right Aqua?”
There was something she didn’t like in that voice, like Terra was confirming a memory instead of just knowing it like he was supposed to. But Aqua nodded, silent and cautious as Terra went around the pantry to make them both tea.
“Aqua, I…”
It was lost in the silence, but Aqua only stared at her friend, patient and coaxing. There were too many unsaid things, but she knew that they would have to talk soon. Because they’ve been together for a very long time and they were both bad at keeping secrets from one another. It’s simply wasn’t in their nature to hide things.
Both their teas were done a few minutes later and Terra immediately sat in front of her, passing her the cup of tea he had made for both of them in pure silence. “I… hurt a lot of people.” Terra sounded subdued, pained, and Aqua’s heart wrenched at the tone her friend had used and she kept her silence. It wasn’t her voice Terra needed, it was her presence, the absolute reassurance that she wouldn’t leave no matter what he said. So Aqua stayed, her hands around her teacup and eyes kept on Terra, even when he didn’t say anything else for the rest of the night.
--
For the days since they returned to the Land of Departure, Ven’s presence was what made the atmosphere brightened.
Ven was always a wonderful presence to be with, always cheery and light and all-around easy to be with. It felt like absolute trust, knowing that even when Terra had fallen into darkness, even when Terra couldn’t trust himself, Ven would always be there—smiling like all is right in the world now that Terra and Aqua are by his side.
If it was just him together with Aqua, too many things lingered. Too many things were left unspoken. Ven had been asleep all these years, he didn’t know what Terra did and he didn’t seem like he wanted to know, but Aqua was…
She had shouldered way too much burden for her small shoulders to bear, all for Terra, who had fallen to darkness.
Aqua had waited in the realm of darkness for more than a decade and yet she never lost her light. She truly was worthy of the title Keyblade Master she now held. Ven would pretty much follow in her footsteps, too. Terra was the only one who….
“Hey, do you want to go and wake Ven? He’ll be annoyed if he knew we spent the night not sleeping.”
Aqua’s hand and words were grounding, it brought him out of his stupor and immediately back to reality. Too many things unspoken, too many things that lingered, but if Terra knew anything about Aqua, last night had sent him a clear message. There will be many more nights like the one they just spent, where Aqua would just wait until Terra wanted to share his burden. He truly didn’t deserve her, nor did he deserve Ven.
But he nodded, smiling a small smile as he let Aqua’s hand took his and led them both to Ven’s room.
The walk was quiet and their footsteps echoed along the walls, it almost felt like the day they both first walked these halls to clean out Ven’s room for the first time. It was… nostalgic, but at the same time not something he wanted to relive again in his entire life.
When they arrived, Terra noticed the many emotions that flashed on Aqua’s face when she saw Ven’s sleeping form.
First it was relief, probably from seeing Ven safe and there, just somewhere they can both reach. Then sadness, then guilt, and then fear. Ah, another thing Aqua had shouldered in her shoulders, her promise to wake Ven up with Terra, one she couldn’t keep because she had lost him to the darkness. Her hand lingered around her chest, trying to contain her doubt and guilt. So Terra was the one who put his hand on her shoulder and smiled this time.
“Hey, c’mon, let’s not keep him wait.”
Terra went on, right next to Ven’s bed and smiled. This too, felt nostalgic, because Terra really couldn’t count the hours he spent taking care of a sleeping Ven. He loved Ven’s exuberance and energy, but there was a part of him that remembered Ven as the sleeping boy who cannot remember anything and it stayed. So Terra sat on the edge of his bed and started to shake him awake.
“Ven, wake up.”
For some reason, Aqua teared up at that. She stifled a sob before shaking her head, trying to clear it. But Ven didn’t wake and didn’t show any sign of waking. Terra tried again, once, twice, thrice, until Aqua noticed that it wasn’t just a normal Ven wanting to sleep in. Because there wasn’t any groaning or moaning, just…
“Ven!!” Aqua leapt from her previous standing place and on to Ven’s side, shaking him awake with her eyes wide and scared. “We need to take him to Master Yen Sid, Terra. He’s not- It was like this the last time too- Ven-“
“Calm down, Aqua…”
Aqua was trembling hard and Terra understood the apprehension she displayed when Ven had tucked in for the night. She was afraid that if Ven slept, he might never wake again, a fear that Terra didn’t understand. What did Aqua feel when she returned here, to the home where she had hidden her precious friend, a dozen years later only to find that Ven still didn’t wake after she woke him up? It must have been devastating.
“Let’s… let’s wait. If Ven still hadn’t wake up until tomorrow, we’ll take him to Master Yen Sid, okay?”
If Aqua hadn’t given him a little nod, Terra would have been sure that she might not have heard him. Because her gaze on Ven was intense, focused, as she grasped his hand in her own and called him every now and then to wake him up. They stayed there, both he and Aqua didn’t leave the room unless they needed to go to the restroom, and even then they took turns, not letting Ven out of their sight whatsoever.
When the night fell, Terra went over to the kitchen to make them tea. It crossed his mind to go outside, to not spend so much time in a place he didn’t deserve anymore, but seeing Aqua’s pale face as she wiped Ven’s brows made him shake his head. He was here to protect his friends, he would deal with his unspoken guilt and despair another time.
When Terra came in with the tray of tea, Aqua had a relieved smile on her face. She let go of Ven’s hand and went over to him, thanking him for a tea with a whisper. Terra nodded at her, saying that it was okay. So they sat for the rest of the night in the floor of Ven’s room, saying nothing while they wait.
--
Aqua roused to consciousness when the first sunbeams peeked through Ven’s windows, signaling that it was already the next day.
She woke up on Terra, or more specifically, Terra’s shoulder. The other had leaned on Ven’s drawers and let her sleep on top of his shoulder. Aqua blinked away her sleepiness and tried to take in surroundings, checking if Ven is—Ven!!
Her eyes went to the bed immediately, where she saw Ven very much awake but very much silent as he watched the sunrise from his own bedroom window like he had never done so before in his life. Aqua took a deep breath and went over to him, but Ven didn’t even turn over to her as she sat on the bed next to him.
“What’s wrong, are you feeling sick?”
Ven recoiled from her touch, his expression was something she had never seen before in her entire life. Ven looked… disgusted at her, and it reminded him of the time when Ven had golden eyes instead of blue…
“V-Ven…?” Aqua started, unsure, but the look she received spoke volumes. This was…
“I’m not Ventus,” Ven said curtly, but then he stared at his own hands and felt his own face. “Or… I am? I am Ventus, aren’t I?”
Terra had started to rouse by then, noting the strange tension shared by his best friends. Ever the diffuser, Terra went over to Aqua’s side with sleep still apparent in his eyes. “What’s wrong guys?”
Ven looked up to him, eyes wide and expression shell-shocked. “You’re… Eraqus’ whel—apprentices. Ventus’ friends.” There was a biting edge that Ven used when he spoke the word friends, as if it offended him somehow. Terra was dumbfounded, but said nothing, waiting for Aqua’s judgment.
“Are you… Vanitas?”
That seemed to brought a reaction from Ven, whose shock immediately morphed into a semblance of recognition. “Yes, I-I mean no. I’m Ventus, I… he…” There was a moment of silence as Ven (or was it Vanitas like she thought it was…?) stared at his own hands, trembling.
“I… we were talking, him and I… us.” Ven looked so lost and confused that Aqua’s heart went out to him, but she really didn’t know what to think. Who was he? Was he Ven? The Ven they all knew and loved? Or was he Vanitas? The Vanitas who had tormented all of them and laughed, Vanitas who had chosen the darkness? Aqua simply didn’t know what to say. “We were talking about us, about Ventus, and suddenly there was a light and he…”
“He what, Vanitas?” Terra asked, his face calm as his voice. Aqua jolted at the clarity of his statement, as if it was obvious that the boy in front of them was in fact not Ven. Aqua stared at Terra, who then laced their fingers together without looking away from the boy in front of them. His fingers were trembling. He was scared, too…
“He… fell to our memories from before,” Ven (or Vanitas, Aqua is still not sure) had a frightened look on his face, he drew his knees closer to his chin and tucked them into a hug. “Before we were split into two, I mean. To a we both of us don’t remember…”
|
“. . . and there seems to be no suggestion of further insurgent action, although, of course, preventative measures are being taken by the Imperial Police Force to secure the southern and western districts. Threshecutioner squads will be posted at regular intervals throughout the city to ensure maximal compliance with Imperial law, and although no curfew has yet been imposed, some have expressed—”
“And — sorry to interrupt, Lorrca — would you say it’s likely that we’ll see an influx of drones in response to the lowblood riots? Particularly in areas like the Hedges, for example?”
“The answer to that, Morvan, is unfortunately, no. Drones are far too large and unwieldy to serve as any kind of effective safety measure, and the reality is that they’re really disruptive to trade routes, making it difficult to employ them without a city lockdown in place. Threshecutioner units are simply more mobile, more discrete, and per capita, more effective.”
“But not more cost-efficient, I might add.”
“Well, we bear what we must, Morvan, but the Condescension, blessed be her name and may she live forever, has always been very discerning with public service taxes. The bulk of the cost may fall on the policed areas. But frankly, we’ll just have to wait until this period of heightened security is over to see the tab; the price of safety, as we all know, runs high.”
“Indeed. Speaking of public service, has there been any word of a new appointee to the empty Archagent seat?”
“Not a whisper, although anonymous insider reports suggest that high-ranking bureaucretins have been meeting with the Condescension on a nightly basis to review a shortlist of contenders. It’s unthinkable to imagine that we’ll see the end of the month without someone at least in the works . . .”
Roxy snapped her fingers, and the hologram screen sank back into the breakfast bar. The Crocker Estate kitchen was smaller than she’d expected, and kept in pristine condition, by dent of never having any actual food in it; the stainless steel and spotless white marble of the floors and countertops gave it the impression of a film set, which, of course, it was. One whole wall opened out onto the Estate grounds, which were, since they lived in the city, small, but still sizable enough to fit a whole oak tree, rustling frost-tipped branches against the glass.
A window on her husktop offered a very different view. It offered a grainy feed of tiny bedroom, with a cot squeezed in one corner and the rest of the available space absolutely consumed by cords, circuits, bulky unidentifiable heaps of machinery and cannibalized gadgets, a veritable maze of fire hazards. Perched on what appeared to be the room’s only chair was one Dirk Strider, wearing the world’s ugliest tank top and its most pretentious pair of shades.
“Looks like you got sun,” Roxy remarked, leaning her chin on her hands. “Did you have to pay extra for them to bleach your roots, too?”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. I’ll have you know I’ve been out here doing honest to God old-fashioned physical labor. Feel like a fuckin’ construction drone, all the welding and shit I’ve been doing.”
“Must be weird. Give it a couple years, you’ll even be able to open a pickle jar without help.”
“Whoa, there, Lalonde. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Shit’s downright unrealistic.”
“You’re right. There’s only room for one strongman in this family, and the job is taken. Sorry, bro.”
“I don’t know why you’re framing this like an inconvenience to me. I had you hauling around computer mainframes for me for fifteen years under the guise of not being able to lift one myself.”
“You sneaky sonuvabitch.”
“Guilty as charged.” He was picking at a square, fan-looking device with a screwdriver instead of looking at her. That was par for the course. If his hands weren’t doing something, he wasn’t happy, and if it gave him something to occupy his eyes with besides the person he was talking to, so much the better.
“Whassat?”
“It’s a drone,” he said. “Old-school, twenty-second century model. I can’t believe it still works. We found it at the bottom of the ocean during one of our dives, and I originally brought it back to try and scrap, but I figure that with some updates, it’ll run like clockwork.”
“What do you want it to do?”
“Just fly around. Do some surveillance, security, that kind of thing. They’re the poor man’s satellite tracker.”
“Neat. Is the water filter on its bullshit again?”
“Oh, don’t even get me fucking started on the water filter,” he said, with heat. “Ask me when it’s not on its bullshit, that’s the harder question. Asshole’s got a hard rewiring coming to it if it doesn’t stop shitting its pants every time someone asks it to process more than eight liquid fucking ounces at once, and that’s a promise. Not that anybody around here is helping out. One of them dead ass suggested we try purifying the water with a chlorine-based cleaning agent, and nobody except yours truly could come up with a reason as to why that would be a magnificently shitty idea.”
Roxy snorted. “Why don’t you use a media filter instead? Hard to fuck that one up.”
“Would, except all the water around here is salt, so we’ve gotta desalinate as well as purify. And ordinarily I’d bite the bullet and buy one from Crockertech, except they don’t sell desalinators, because all their filters are built for finfaces who’d go skinny dipping in liquid sodium chloride if they could.”
“Yikes.” She tapped her foot against the stool thoughtfully. “Have you tried vapor-compression?”
“Not yet, no. Think it’d work?”
“No guarantees, but if you’ve got the power — and I figure a couple of solar panels wouldn’t be too hard to rig up — it’s cheaper than electrodialysis by a mile.”
“I’ll look into it,” he said, and tapped the edge of his shades. Dirk’s visor was built into his sunglasses, because he was the reigning Douche Champion of the Planet, and also because in Bakersfield it was easier to built a visor into a pair of shades than to pay for the UV coating on a store-bought model. Virtually every piece of tech Dirk owned was homebrew. This was, in part, why it all broke so often.
“Speaking of the Crocker brand,” he said, and she groaned. “What? I distinctly remember being promised a copious quantity of deets upon completion of the video caller. Lo; my part of the deal is complete. Produce the deets.”
“There’s nothin’ to tell! I swear, she’s just like. I mean, she’s not normal, exactly, but she’s . . . a person. You know.”
“You’re holding out on me. What does she like to eat? Does she watch TV? Walk me through a day in the life, I’m desperate, here.”
“Mm-m. You share some of your hot goss, if you’re so desperate for drama.”
“Does she like really gross troll food? Dead baby juice, that’s a thing, isn’t it? Does she drink it for breakfast?”
“She doesn’t like to eat if she can’t help it, actually,” Roxy said, despite her best intentions, and then, because in for a caegar, in for an aureus: “—since she’s around food so much, and also because basically all of her shit is alchemized, she doesn’t know what real street food tastes like, Dirk, it’s a damn crime. Girl runs a culinary monopoly and she drinks caf for lunch, that’s what I call a tragedy. And she likes crime shows, like Trollcops and In Which Two Detectives From Diametrically Opposed Backgrounds Join Forces For A Comedic Romp Around New New York And Battle The Forces of Emotional Repression And Also The Mafia, but she likes novels better. Her favorite movie is Sherlock Holmes 36, the one with Johnny Lee Miller’s great-great-great-great-grandson and Troll Jude Law, but she’s seen it so often she just fuckin’ goes to town on it every time it comes on because she knows all the plot holes and twists already. Spoiled the ending within the first twenty minutes and called it ‘obvious.’ God, she’s awful to watch movies with. She wants me to watch Jurassic Park with her tomorrow night and I don’t know how I’m gonna survive it, she’s gonna tear it to shreds. ‘How would any part of this be insured, and how did they recruit enough employees to run low-wage jobs like customer service without promises of insurance benefits, given the isolated nature of this island?’ I don’t fuckin’ KNOW, Janey, I don’t think Stevie Spielberg was too preoccupied with insurance law, he was kind of busy revolutionizing the special effects industry!”
Dirk hadn’t touched his screwdriver in a few minutes. He was smirking.
“Wipe that look off your face, Stridork, you asked,” she said hurriedly, and pulled up her palmhusk so she’d have something to look at that wasn’t his smug face.
“So,” he said, poking at his drone with exaggerated casualness. “She’s hot, then.”
“Oh my God, shut up. I’m going to fly all the way out there just to give you a wet willie.”
“Good. Bring her with you, I’ll be practicing my shovel talk.”
“You’re the worst.”
“I’m aware.”
Her BettyBother was mostly empty, save a few memos from Crockercorp about employee policy and some invoices. She deleted them without looking; Jane would tell her if they were anything important. A single new message request had popped up at the top of the screen, which was unusual, since her spam filters usually caught extraneous messages before they could reach her inbox.
“Roxy?”
“Hmm?” She didn’t lift her eyes.
“I asked if Auto-Responder was still working well. I’ve been tossing around the idea of a software update, something like the new line of Nitram models.”
“Oh. No. Hal’s doing good. He’s a trooper.”
“Didn’t you say something about a loophole in his programming? The delay-order loop? That’s pretty dangerous gap to leave open.”
“I mean, he can’t do it without hurting himself something awful. And it’s not like he uses it to get out of following orders.”
“He’s got problems with authority. We both know this. Not sure what point there is to waiting for him to exploit a problem instead of just solving it here and now.”
“Because it’s not a problem,” she insisted.
“Giving an A.I. room to disagree with you if it so suits them is most definitely a fucking problem, Rox. If you read the books by the people who engineered the Crockertech A.I.—”
“Oh, c’mon, you don’t take their word at face value, do you?”
She clicked the message request. It opened what looked like a BettyBother window, except with a milder color scheme, and fewer pop-ups.
turntechGodhead began pestering tipsyGnostalgic!
TG: ey
TG: this you lalonde
TG: ding dong its the police
TG: youre under arrest for internet crimes
TG: nah jk
TG: its me dave
“I won’t press the point. He’s your visor, after all. But I’m just saying.”
“He’s a person,” she said, but it was distracted. “You can’t just . . . he’s a person.”
“Not saying he isn’t. I respect him as an autonomous being with his own thoughts and opinions, and I respect his right to have them. But seeing as he’s a version of myself, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, even if he were large enough for that metaphor to mean literally anything at all in this situation.”
She responded, belatedly, “Yeah,” before fully processing what he said, and then overcorrecting with a fierce, “No.” Dirk frowned.
“You okay, there?”
“Yeah. Just . . . got a text. One sec.”
TG: strider??
TG: whoa whoa there
TG: lets keep a lid on that little fact nugget for the time being
TG: just call me chapelle
TG: :o
TG: ok
TG: top secret hush hush i geddit
TG: i
TG: wow
TG: yknow if ud told me like a month ago
TG: id be dming hollywood director d strider esq
TG: i mean since itd be u telling me id probably believe u because u r literally that guy
TG: but if anybody ELSE tried id be like lmao whack
TG: can i also have a code name
“Who is it?”
“A friend,” she mumbled. “Someone I met the other day.”
TG: ...like what
TG: marilyn monroe
TG: always thought that was a sick codename
TG: gonna be runnin around doin cool shit and lookin like prime real estate in babe city
TG: might as well have a name to match
TG: really
TG: i mean its not like you have to hide or anything
TG: youre not undercover here
TG: except i guess in the sense that you are
TG: but in the more relevant sense youre still in the public eye as roxy lalonde
TG: if u get to be dave chappelle i get to be marilyn monroe
TG: do yall stand for equality or not
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just. Time sensitive, y’know, he wouldn’t text unless it was important.”
“Nah, s’fine. I’m chill out here. Living on island time. That island, of course, being my house.”
“Thanks. Won’t be a sec.”
TG: aight you know what fine
TG: youre doing us a hefty enough solid you can pick whatever code name you want
TG: hit me up marilyn
TG: awwww yisss
TG: so wdyw
TG: well
TG: not that im not hype as fuck to talk to my favorite kid bodyguard of a world leader
TG: but me and the s.o.l. are in a bind and have a problem thats just chock fucking ripe for solving by aforementioned favorite kid bodyguard of a world leader
TG: that being you girl
TG: mmmkauy
TG: whazzat
“Hey,” she said, “sorry about this, but I think I’m gonna have to sign off? Something’s come up.”
“Sure.” Dirk blinked, evidently confused but not suspicious. “Everything all right? Jane okay?”
“Wh— oh, yeah, of course. It’s not life or death, just something that’d be better off dealt with now than later, you feel me. Um. Talk to you later?”
“Yeah, I — I’d like to. There have been things going on here it’d be ideal for you to know about,” he said. “Things involving — you know how I talked to you about the Seer, a few weeks ago?”
She startled so badly she almost dropped her palmhusk, and ducked out of frame to catch it. While she was down, she caught her breath and took the chance to school her face.
“Yeah. I remember.”
“Well, it’s — nothing dangerous, don’t worry, but — there’s been some rumormongering in town lately. Ain’t serious, yet, but the liberation movement — s’cuse me, insurrectionists, code switching’s a bitch — are closer than they used to be.”
“Are you safe?”
“Course I am,” he said, and she knew he wasn’t.
“Right,” she said, glancing at her palmhusk, to her husktop, pained. “Okay. We are talking about this later, you know that, right? We most definitely are. And you’re gonna tell me everything, and I’ll let you in on some of the shit going on with me, just—”
“Not right now. I get that.” He tilted his head, a movement evocative of an inquisitive bird. “Are you sure you’re all right, Rox?”
Her palmhusk buzzed.
“Yes! All right and really kind of busy at the moment, Dirk, so can I please, please call you back?”
“Let me know if things work o—”
“Coolloveyoubye!”
She hung up.
TG: you know seer cant hit up servers that arent gov bureaucracy right
TG: ya
TG: k so what we need to know is where babys first fortune 500 is gonna be on the night of the 27th
TG: wut
TG: jane
TG: does she have plans that night
TG: and if so what are they
TG: thats kinda creepy dude
TG: like i didnt sign up to help yall peep jcs biz
TG: i thought i was gonna b hackin stuff abt imperial troops n etc
TG: leakin access codes to databases and other official bs
TG: i mean you can still totally do that if you want
TG: but like right now
TG: that first thing is gonna be way more helpful to us personally
TG: le groan!!
TG: what r u usin it 4
TG: thats
TG: tough to say
TG: thats not shady at all
TG: point taken
TG: but like tbf we cant really say what were gonna do until we have that info
TG: causal dependencys all flipped up inverse of the picture you got in your head you dig
TG: what r u tryna get the drop on jane 4! thats not a weird question like
TG: we want to make sure shes safe ok
TG: thats legit all
TG: i promised she wasnt gonna get hurt when you agreed to help and i meant it
TG: oh ok wow that turned out way more threatening than it did in my head aight
TG: take two here goes
TG: of all the things that are currently threatening jane crocker right now
TG: we are by far the least of her problems
TG: urrgggh
TG: still not inspirin shitloads a confidence mr chappelle
TG: but ill buy it bc u should know if ur fuckin with me an janey gets hurt bc of some insurgenty biznez in the near future i WILL beat ur ass to kingdom mcfucking come
TG: she so much as scrapes her knee bc of some shit yall pulled and im comin after u peronsally like i am the worlds most bombdiggityest hunter and its fuckin dave season
TG:
TG: huh
TG: what
TG: sorry you just
TG: reminded me of someone just then
TG: well
TG: do you dig
TG: yeah yeah
TG: i get it
TG: youll flay me alive like im prime pork loin and youre a butcher with a grudge
TG: shits clear as glass
TG: ok
TG: long as thats squared away
TG: shits squared like a trolls love life kid you dont gotta worry about a thing
TG: fabulicious
TG: uhm lemme check my calendare then
She opened the calendar on her husktop. Jane had merged their schedules for convenience’s sake — something about efficiency, something about saving storage space, Roxy hadn’t been paying attention at the time — and her events for the next three weeks showed up on Roxy’s itinerary. All one hundred and thirty of them.
TG: were not gonna be at home on the 27th i knoe that much
TG: gonna be hittin up some crusty ol highblood for a blowout at the operahouse for a ball or smthn
TG: you mean the orphaners shindig
TG: yea thats it
TG: seems like crockers idea of a fun friday night is sittin in a black box watchin some seadwellers warble for a few hrs
TG: dont knock it till youve tried it
TG: and by that i mean knock it profusely after youve tried it because shits easier to make fun of when youve got more material
TG: kids spending her friday night at the operahouse shits downright sad
TG: wheres the god damn humanity in that i ask you
TG: thats what i b SAYIN
TG: right well keep fighting the good fight monroe
TG: i gotta dip now seers been riding my ass like its her own personal pet pony for the past five and we got shit to sort
TG: but thanks for the tip
TG: ur welcome
TG: dont make me regret it
turntechGodhead ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic!
The door to the kitchen slid open. Roxy flung her palmhusk into her sylladex with a movement so graceless that the captchalogue near didn’t take, and she came unnervingly close to vaulting the device across the room.
Marsti stepped into the doorway, regarded her without impressment for a long moment, and then continued about her business. She held a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other, and set about swabbing down the tile with a mindless brutality that suggested the floor had personally wronged her in the recent past.
“Hi,” Roxy said, closing her husktop.
Marsti said, “Miss Lalonde,” without intonation.
“How are you?”
She dumped the mop into the bucket and drew it out, weeping suds. “Perfectly well, Miss Lalonde.”
“Good.”
She wrestled the mop across the floor, eyes down, head low. Roxy tapped her nails on the marble, one-two-three, click-click-click.
Marsti exhaled, short and quick, and then pivoted briskly on her heel to face her.
“Can I help you with something, Miss Lalonde?”
“Me? No. I’m good. About your beeswax, Mars Bar.”
“My last name is Houtek,” she, “if you do not wish to call me by my first, Miss Lalonde.”
“Oh, that’s — it’s just a nickname.”
“I’m aware.”
Roxy stared at the ceiling. Marsti did not move. She was merciless.
“I had a question,” Roxy mumbled, at length.
“Which would be?”
“And you don’t have to answer if you don’t wanna, like. To be clear. If it’s gonna get you in shit with our mutual employer to say.”
“Bold of you to assume that I would risk my job security in order to slake your curiosity in the first place,” Marsti deadpanned, “but thank you.”
“Ha! Was that a joke, Mars?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“No, it was good! Keep making them.”
Marsti said, “You had a question,” but it lacked the bitter exasperation at Roxy’s general existence she had carried with her when she walked in.
“Do you . . . how long have you been here?”
“Four sweeps, eight perigees, nine days.”
“Wow. Down to the day, even, like . . .”
“I’ve kept track.”
“Okay. Well, then.” Roxy’s fingers picked up again, doing a snazzy little number on the countertop. “You would remember Jake, wouldn’t you?”
The expression that gripped Marsti’s face was a hindbrain at work, raw panic and anger and horror, the way that an animal got when something reminded it of pain.
“No,” she said. “No, I never — I never heard the name Jake in my life. Did someone say I had? I swear, I haven’t— I’m loyal— I swear to you, ma’am, on the name of the Empress and on my head be it, I never—”
“Hey, no, what’s up? I was just asking. Nothing serious, here, I didn’t mean anything by it.” Roxy lifted her hands. “You can talk around me. I’m no snitch.”
“Most honorable apologies for the disrespect I’m about to pay you, Miss Lalonde,” said Marsti, “but that doesn’t actually matter.”
“What?”
“Please don’t ask me about people who didn’t exist,” the butler said, a quiet plea, and then bent her head, and went back to work.
“Hold on,” said Roxy, a knot of concern lodging itself in her gut. She slid off her stool. “What are you talking about? Didn’t exist, what? I know the guy’s a family disgrace, but that doesn’t mean you can just will him out of existence.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about. Please believe me.”
“I’m talking about Jake English,” she said, “neé Harley, the guy who lived here for fourteen years and change, a guy you almost definitely interacted with on the regular, and why are you being cagey?”
“Miss Lalonde, if you understood how he—”
Marsti clapped a hand over her mouth. It wasn’t a gesture of regret or self-censure. Her hand moved like a thing apart from her body, sealing over her lips, striking her face with enough force to hurt. The mop clattered to the floor.
Roxy came around the breakfast counter and picked it up, and resting it against the wall.
“. . . Mars?”
A tendon rose taut in Marsti’s neck as she used her left hand to pry her own digits from her mouth. A flush of dark red spread around her black lips, bright and violent below the grey of her skin, where the slap had drawn the blood to her face.
Wordlessly, she hooked a finger around her neckline and drew it down. Roxy drew a breath and choked on it.
A long, ill-hewn scar etched its way over the junction between neck and collarbone, bulging and black, with a crust of dead skin clinging to the uneven seam. It covered the area where her tag should have been. The stitches looked haphazard and painful, but so profusely that it had to have been intentional; wounds of coincidence never healed that ugly. The person who had made it must have wanted her to remember what had been done.
“Please don’t ask me about people who didn’t exist,” she said. “I don’t know anything about them.”
Roxy said, “What the fuck.” Deep, hate-warm anger rooted in her chest.
“Do you require anything else?”
“Yeah, uh, I need you to tell me who the fuck did that to your tag, so I can go and tear out their gonads with a butter knife. What the actual living fuck!”
“That would be treason, Miss Lalonde,” said Marsti, calm and pleasant and with a depth of loathing that took Roxy aback.
“Oh,” she said, because what else could she?
“Do you require anything else?”
She drew her shirt back up, smoothed down the collar. The mop had lilted tremulously to one side, and she righted it.
Roxy shook her head.
“Then with your permission,” she said, “I believe I will finish the floors in here another time.” Planting the mop in the bucket, she wheeled both out of the room with her chin high, not sparing another glance at Roxy.
“Janey,” Roxy said, striding through the door of the gym like a drone on the warpath, “we need to talk, like, right the fuck now.”
The dueling robot took the opportunity offered by Jane’s distraction to twist its hold, tearing the fork from her grip, and followed it up with a backhand that brought the tip of its spear within an inch of her throat.
“Point,” it chimed, with chipper indifference, and then retreated into resting position.
Jane exhaled sharply and stooped to pick up her weapon, deactivating the sparring program with a pinch of the android’s shoulder. She stepped off the square dueling mat and the lights strung along the edge dulled to acknowledge her retirement. “What is it, Roxy?”
“I —” Roxy cut herself off. “What were you doing?”
“Was it really not obvious?” She used the bottom of her tank top to blot some of the sweat off her forehead.
“What is that thing?”
Roxy was eyeing the Crockertech dueling robot with deep unease. Jane paused in getting some water to spare it a look.
“It’s the sparring program,” she said. “Helps me keep in practice.”
“And it gives you a fair fight?”
“Fairer than any living creature would,” Jane pointed out. The adrenaline slowly worked its way out of her system. “Did you have something you wanted?”
“Yeah,” said Roxy, although she still seemed preoccupied with the robot. “I wanted to talk about Marsti.”
“Did she do something wrong?”
“No. That’s the problem.”
Jane set her water back down and frowned. “That’s not typically an issue, when it comes to staff.”
“It’s not — I don’t know how to say this.” Roxy rubbed her temples. “Do you know she doesn’t have a tag?”
Jane sucked a deep breath in and considered her next words carefully.
“Yes,” she settled on, but in a dithering sort of way that suggested an unspoken caveat.
“You did?”
It sounded like betrayal. Jane hurried to backtrack.
“I mean — the whole staff had them removed. Everyone who was there, when — you know. It couldn’t be—”
“On whose authority?”
“—a collective punishment levied to avoid killing them, I had to negotiate, and I urged leniency, but my own position at the time was—”
“On whose authority, Jane? Yours?”
Jane was stunned silent. She stared at Roxy.
“No,” she said, hearing her own voice as if through an echo chamber. “Of course it wasn’t on my orders.”
Roxy deflated with palpable relief. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I figured — I knew it wasn’t.”
Jane felt no similar release of tension. A knot tied itself at the back of her throat.
“Did you actually think that I’d — in a hundred years, did you believe I would order—”
“No, I—”
“—to have people mutilated?” She stepped closer, getting into Roxy’s space, and it was unlike her, a terribly unladylike thing to do — not that she had the height to manage physical intimidation, anyway, but — she was feeling unlike herself. “Did you?”
“No.”
“Roxy.” She almost reached out to touch her, but pinned her hands at her sides. “Did you?”
“Of course not,” Roxy cut across, fiercely. “But I had to ask, didn’t I?”
“Why? If you really believed—”
“Because you were going off about ‘orders’ and ‘negotiations’ and shit instead of answering the question! You were deflecting like a motherfucker, and that’s scary as shit! Would’ve helped if you’d come out swinging with ‘hey, I didn’t do it,’ like—”
“I wasn’t deflecting.”
“Like fuck.”
Jane’s train of thought, which had previously been sailing down a merry track of righteous indignation, swiveled and careened off its rails.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said ‘like fuck,’” Roxy clarified. “As in, ‘like fuck you weren’t deflecting’ and ‘like fuck didn’t act shady about that in ways I’m still not totally feeling great about,’ so I’m assuming there’s a part of that story I don’t have, and you don’t have to, like, tell it, if it’s private biz, but at least telling me that there was some extenuation going on in those circumstances would be much appreciated.”
Jane tried to recall if anyone had spoken to her that way. The Empress, of course. Jake, maybe.
“After Jake ran,” she said, still teasing out her words with care, “the staff was punished for their complicity.”
“What, did they help?”
“They kept his secrets,” she said, repeated what she recalled of the legislacerator’s argument. “They failed to report him. Hard to believe that none of them knew anything about it, or that none of them had the chance to stand in his way.”
“That’s it?”
“Did I say I agreed with it? You asked why it happened; I’m telling you.”
“Can they get them back?”
Jane hesitated. Roxy was earnest and keen.
“No,” she said. “They’re implanted at birth. Beneath the bone, you see, to avoid it coming out with a well-placed cut. Past a certain point, the skeleton firms up, locks it in, and the body gets used to the intrusion. They can’t be removed without a very invasive surgery, and to put them back in . . . the pain alone, I can’t imagine.”
“But you can’t do anything without a tag. You can’t use credit, you can’t register for services, shit, you can’t even leave the city, cuz they scan you at the border — how are they supposed to function?”
“They’re not,” said Jane quietly. “That’s rather the point of it, actually.”
Roxy raked her hands through her hair, knocking out her loose ponytail. “So, what. It’s just like that, for them, now?”
“The alternative was death,” Jane said. Miserably. “I’m sorry. I did what — what I could —”
“You were a fucking fourteen-year-old when it happened,” Roxy snapped. “Stop apologizing, I’m not mad at you.”
She was practically shaking with a thinly veiled current of anger. Roxy’s anger ran hot; that was interesting. Jane didn’t think she’d seen Roxy angry before.
“Careful,” she warned. It wasn’t for her. Roxy didn’t have anything to fear, from her, but then, Jane wasn’t the person Roxy was mad at.
She didn’t think Crocker Estate employed audio surveillance. That didn’t necessarily exclude the possibility.
It seemed to work. Roxy nodded, accepting the warning, and steeled herself. “Okay. I’m gonna . . . I’m gonna blow off some steam. I think. You game for a real fight, Janey?”
She marched up to the sparring mat and shed her jacket with a fluid roll of the shoulders, tossing it over a chair, and Jane lost a good few seconds of clear thought.
“You’re not wearing the right clothes.”
Roxy glanced down at herself. Jane had made sure to equip her with as many suits as there were days of the week, so she never found herself without something appropriately professional for public appearances, but Roxy managed to make them look casual, somehow, anyway. The tie had been done away with, as had the top two buttons of the blouse, and as usual, her hair floated loose around her shoulders. As Jane watched, she unpinned her cuffs and rucked her sleeves up around her elbows.
“I mean, for one thing,” she said, “I’ve fought in way worse than this. And also, as a side note, if these clothes can’t be fought in, I don’t think your bodyguard should be wearing them.”
This was actually a compelling point, to which Jane realized she didn’t have a compelling answer. It also wasn’t as if Roxy couldn’t change, later. One objection yet to be made was that Roxy looked unfairly distracting in her suit, whereas Jane was still in two hour-old exercise gear, but it wasn’t as though she could make that point and not expect to get laughed out of the building.
“Fine,” she said. “Draw your specibus, then.”
Roxy giggled. “And, what, pop you one between the eyes? I’m riflekind. I didn’t pick a sparring strife deck.”
Jane’s brow furrowed. “What do you expect to fight with, then?”
Roxy shook out her hands, and then raised her fists.
Jane’s eyebrows made a bid for the ceiling.
“You want to brawl?”
“Only fair way to do it.” Roxy grinned, the pink slip of her tongue darting between her front teeth. She radiated excitement, twitching with pent-up energy. “You haul that fork around like it’s a toothpick, you’ve totally got the muscle for it.”
Jane captchalogued her specibus and stepped forward. “What form are you suggesting?”
“. . . the kind where you punch?”
“No,” she laughed. “Do you want to box, or wrestle, or what?”
“None of that fancy shit,” Roxy complained. “A fight with rules ain’t a real fight. Just try to hit me, and when you do, don’t pull the punch. Act like you’ve really got it in for me?”
“If I ‘really had it in for you,’” Jane remarks, cautiously mirroring Roxy’s pose, “I think I’d just draw my specibus and be done with it.”
“Boring. Square up.”
“I was under the impression that I already had,” she said, or would have, if in the middle of the sentence Roxy had not vaulted into the air and tried to high-kick her in the head.
It was such a disorienting opener that it nearly worked. Jane swerved and Roxy landed lightly on her feet, coming down hard on the other side of the mat, following up with another quick jab to Jane’s solar plexus. She backed out of the blow’s range again.
“Come on,” Roxy complained. “That’s no fun.”
“Neither is getting hit,” Jane said dryly, but this time, when Roxy tried to punch, she reached out and knocked the blow away with her bare palm. The impact shook her, a little. She hadn’t expected Roxy to pack quite the force she did. But she still had the same edge over Roxy in muscle that Roxy had over her in height, and one was infinitely more useful than the other in a brawl.
She was also fast. Probably not faster than Roxy, but the real advantage that Jane got out of it was that Roxy was unaware of that fact.
A punch came at her stomach, which she dodged. She replied from instinct, and her knuckles met Roxy’s forearm, which had sprung up to guard her face. No real pattern composed the strikes Roxy lobbied at her. She just lashed out with her fists until she made contact, which was, Jane supposed, how real fights went. Form was an instrument of civility, and real fights weren’t civil.
When Roxy tried a roundhouse, Jane caught her ankle and pulled, hard. Her palm burned, but Roxy slipped off her feet and landed hard on her back. Jane dropped and planted her hands on Roxy’s shoulders.
The whole thing lasted less than half a minute.
“Yield?”
“Nah,” Roxy said, panting, and then, curling one leg around Jane’s, flipped the pair of them clean over.
Immediately, she scrambled into place straddling Jane’s stomach, bracing her knees on Jane’s forearms to keep her in place. “There,” she said, with satisfaction. “Owned.”
What an odd choice of words, Jane thought, staring. Roxy’s hair hung down around her face in sweat-tangled strands, her shirt had come partially untucked, and her chest rose and fell sharply as she drew breath. She was a warm weight on Jane’s stomach. Jane wasn’t unused to people touching her, by any means, given her job, but this was . . . qualitatively different.
“If you say so,” she said, which hadn’t been what she’d meant to. “Let me up, will you?”
Roxy’s face did a funny little thing. It wasn’t a smile, precisely, or maybe it was, and just not the kind that Roxy usually wore. It was more restrained, and more unreadable.
“Maybe I won’t,” she said. “What’d you do, then, Heiress?”
If humans could have kismeses, or an equivalent of caliginous romance, it would have been overt to the point of being gauche. It would have been obscene. Jane felt like she was burning.
“Well,” she said, drawing upon years of practice in maintaining her composure and still probably falling short. “I’d have to make you, I suppose.”
“How’re you gonna do that?” Roxy deliberately shifted her weight onto her knees, putting pressure on Jane’s shoulders. “I’ve got you pinned, sweetheart.”
A girl could only be expected to endure so much. Jane was a consummate professional, and she maintained that professionalism to the best of her abilities, except Roxy was smirking like she was the first person in the world to discover what flirting was, and that would not stand.
“My dear,” said Jane. “You aren’t actually that heavy. If I wanted you off, you would be.”
Roxy stuttered over her reply, and it served her right, too. To see her flustered made Jane unreasonably pleased with herself.
When it appeared that there would be no rejoinder, however, the situation took a swift nosedive into awkwardness. “That being said,” Jane said briskly, “I really would like to stand up, and would prefer it not require me to move you by force, so—”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, sure.” Roxy rolled off her, and Jane got to her feet. She tugged out the wrinkles in her shirt, mostly in order to have something to do with her hands. The whole room seemed very quiet. Ought she try and shake her hand? Overly formal, and might come off as an insult. On the other hand, to not attempt it could be a sign of disrespect. There was never this kind of trouble with the dueling robots.
“I have a dinner to get to in an hour,” she said, and struggled to come up with anything less appealing. “With the Chairman of the Board of Trustees. I should be getting ready for it.”
“Yeah?” Roxy didn’t even make an effort to put herself to rights. She got up, stretched, and stuck her hands in her pockets, as if she’d just as readily roll out the door with her hair mussed and her shirt untucked. It was nearly as aggravating as it was endearing. “Chill. Lemme grab a shower, and we can rock and roll.”
“I’ll be ready to leave in thirty minutes, give or take.” Jane paused, and sent her a suspicious side-eye. “You’ll wear a suit, won’t you?”
“Course.”
“A suit which is not the one you are currently wearing?”
Roxy glanced down at herself and frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Except you’ve been tussling in it, and — don’t start, I know for a fact that you have enough outfits to wear more than one a day now, that’s a guilt trip that only works once — there are appearances to maintain, one of which is the facade, however thin, that you are at all moments a composed and dignified member of Crockercorp staff.”
“I’m dignified as fuck.”
“A phrase which all dignified people employ quite often,” Jane said. “I am sure. Half an hour. Wear the green tie; I like it on you.”
She didn’t remember approving that remark before it slipped out, but there was no need to let Roxy know that, so she left quickly after that, in the hopes that she could be gone before it registered.
Alternian wine had an unpleasant viscosity. Thicker than water, thinner than blood, leaving vivid stains of red against the bottom of the glass and a coppery aftertaste at the back of the tongue. Drinking it presented an unfortunate but necessary part of any business luncheon, and Jane had developed several strategies to manage the ordeal without choking it back up. One of them was to try not to breathe while she drank, since if you couldn’t smell the sharp, vinegary tang of tannins older than your civilization, the taste became less potent. Her purse held enough breath mints to make a hoofbeast’s maw smell peppermint fresh. But nothing she could do really mitigated the horror of toasting with a glass of something that, while sublime to any Alternian palette, to the human tongue most resembled drinking straight bleach.
The troll across from her had just polished off his second glass. He had a stovepipe hat and a tailcoat, and his blood was purpler than the dregs in his cup. “It’s been grand,” he said, and she smiled, made a thin-lipped remark about prosperity and future agreements, and picked up the check. This pleased him more than anything she could have said.
She wondered if all seadwellers had a predisposition towards sounding like a 1930’s-era radio announcer. Grand. Splendid. He chewed scenery like a hungry termite, warbled his vowels like he was trying to swallow his own tongue.
“I expect we’ll do this sometime again soon, Heiress. Give my best to the Empress, would you? I haven’t had the chance to speak wiv’ her in a while.”
Leaning on the wall the entrance, Roxy caught her eye and made a lazy jerking-off motion with her hand.
Jane pursed her lips to avoid smiling. She replied, “As you wish, Lord Whelan.”
“An’ I’ll send one of my people to see about the merger.”
“That would be excellent.” She rose and extended her hand to be shaken. “Thank you for the pleasure, sir.”
He glanced at her hand as one might a piece of mold on their food, although to his credit, he at least made an effort to cover lost ground and feign politeness. “Oh,” he said, laughingly. “I forgot how you landdwellers do things. Yes, let’s shake on it. When in New Imperial City, and all that.”
He shook her hand, with the dramatic flair of someone doing something for the first time and enjoying the experiment immensely. “An’ for tradition’s sake,” he added, and swooped in to peck her once on each cheek with cursory affection. His lips were cold as fish skin and equally clammy. To avoid seeming rude, she paid him the same courtesy and gave him a pair of kisses in return.
As highbloods went, Lord Whelan held a place squarely among the least objectionable ones she knew. Virtually everything objectionable about him was a habit picked up by dent of being a seadweller, and not a personal fault or failing that he had developed of his own right. That sounded like damningly faint praise, unless one considered how very unpleasant highbloods were capable of being if they so choose. Whelan, at least, made an effort not to be unpleasant when he could avoid it; the remarks he made about her humanity or blood color were never meant as insults. She got the feeling that he viewed their interactions as a game of sorts, an opportunity for variety.
He offered her his arm as they walked to the entrance, and she took it. He folded his free hand over hers. “I’ve been workin’ on a new model of drone cannon,” he said, and she recalled, after a moment’s confusion, that Whelan was a recreational weapons engineer. Not as his full-time job, but on the side, when he could. The latest model of Imperial Drones were almost entirely of his own design.
“Oh?”
“Tryin’ to make ’em immune to EMP,” he said. “Not that they don’t already buffer most anything what comes their way, but there’s still some higher-level blasts what’ll take ’em out. I’ve been modelin’ them after the psionic shields that Helms use.”
“Doesn’t that require an awfully big power source?”
“Clever girl,” said Whelan, delightedly. “Yes. That’s the trick of it. I’ve tried using internal generators, but they’re just too heavy, and considering how featherweight-model drones already weigh in at a few tons, it’s near impossible to build a generator that’ll allow ’em to get off the ground.”
“Mm. Perplexing.”
“Ain’t it? But I’m presentin’ my current work to the Ministerror of Military Dev tomorrow anyway. Figured I could hand over the blueprints and let ’is scienstiffs sort out the logistical bits, just to get production up an’ running.”
“I hope it goes well.”
“Well, hey, thanks.” Whelan smiled, and despite the rows of jagged incisors, he managed to make it into an innocuous gesture. “Here’s hopin’, ain’t it?”
Roxy fell into step behind them as they left the restaurant. A footman with Whelan’s symbol on his breast pocket immediately darted off to the valet stand, and the lord disengaged from Jane with a pat to her wrist. “You’ll have to come see the prototype,” he encouraged. “It’s a thing a’ beauty. You know, I could make a gift of it. A version right special for human use particular.”
“Would you,” she said, with all enthusiasm it was possible to muster for the subject, since he really did mean it as a kindness. “You’re really quite generous.”
“Ain’t a thing,” he said. “I’ll send your manservant the details. Does she have a Trollian handle?”
“But of course, my lord sire,” Roxy deadpanned under her breath.
Jane wheezed, managing to turn it into a cough at the last minute. “Another time,” she promised hurriedly, and waved Lord Whelan off as he sidled into the lift the valet had drawn up.
At this time of evening, the streets were alive. The Highblood District hummed with tension, a taut excitement that the night brought with it, the rushed release of the workday’s end. But Jane had seen the city at every hour in every season, and the frisson that possessed it now was different from its normal evening surge. There were drones on the horizon and flies on the sidewalks, and people moved with an urgency that belied the time of night. They did not meet each other’s eyes.
A squad of threshecutioners stood on the corner. High-collared black uniforms with scarlet Imperial pins at the hollow of the throat, and chitinous armor, light, almost more ceremonial than functional. A broad sickle strapped to the waist. Two of them had a brownblood in a hornlock, and a third had a tag reader out, scanning where one of them had torn back the kid’s collar. Already, the brownblood sported a wide bruise over the whole left side of his face, and a laceration on his side wept coppery blood down his hip.
And Roxy was sprinting towards them like a woman possessed. Shouting, inaudible over the roar of the crowd, but clearly drawing their attention away from the brownblood and towards her.
The threshecutioner turned to her, breaking the hornlock but not sheathing their sword. Their expression was too distant to see in detail, but they weren’t pleased. Jane was reminded, with a sickening jolt, that interfering with threshecutioner business was a punishable offense.
Pain flared in her temples. Red text flashed, too fast to decipher. The thresher took a step closer to Roxy, and Jane pushed it aside.
“Excuse me,” she said. She broke into a jog. “Excuse me! Sorry! Sir?”
The thresher turned, their hand sliding off the hilt of their sickle. She smiled, deliberately and widely.
“Sir,” she said. “A moment of your time? Sir.”
“Heiress,” said the thresher, a greenblood nearer to teal than jade, and he bowed his head once in formal supplication.
“Thank you ever so. I — sorry, did you have business with my bodyguard?” Jane brushed her fingers over Roxy’s arm.
The thresher’s visor was opaque, completely. But she got the feeling he was staring at her, all the same.
“Not presently,” he said. “Miss Lalonde here addressed me.”
“Oh, she was probably just curious. Sorry to bother you; she’s new in the city, only been here a month, hasn’t seen a threshecutioner before. Wait till she meets her first legislacerator! Thank you, again, sir.”
Roxy said, “Jane—”
“Not now,” said Jane through gritted teeth, “you scamp.”
She grabbed ahold of Roxy’s arm and tugged. Willing or not, Roxy went.
As soon as they were out of the threshecutioner’s sight, she lead them off the main road and into the wide, mostly empty parking lot behind the tower. The sky was dimming, and patches of black ice underfoot turned the asphalt into an obstacle course. She navigated them up under the yellow glare of a streetlight and then, after checking again that they weren’t being followed, dropped Roxy’s arm.
“What the hell was that?”
“I could ask you the same thing!” Roxy brushed off her arm, more irritation than actual pain. Jane hadn’t held on hard enough to hurt. “They weren’t old enough to be making trouble, I’ll bet they were just shoplifting, if that—”
“That doesn’t matter! It’s not your place to interfere!”
“Then whose fucking place is it?” Roxy pushed her, and Jane skid backward. “Yours? Heiress? You weren’t going to do it! Guess that leaves me, then!”
Jane seized Roxy by the collar and wedged her up against the streetlamp.
“You are not the fucking Knight of Time,” she hissed. “You do not have an army behind you, and there is not a thing in this world that will get between you and one of those sickles, if you put yourself in their path. Do you understand? Have you ever dealt with a threshecutioner before? I’d wager the only reason you’re alive is because they were too shocked at your audacity to kill you on sight. A thresher will not stay their hand because you’re my friend, or because of anything you could say to them to make them change their minds. They’re not common flies. You can’t levy star power against them. They don’t care, and they won’t listen.”
“I wasn’t trying to!”
“You had better have been trying to,” she snarled, “because the alternative is that you went into that exchange without a plan as to how you’d survive if they decided not to take your word on good faith.”
“I was going to be fine.”
“Oh, were you.”
“I could have managed it—”
“Can you, now. People who can do that normally don’t go around throwing hands with threshecutioners, but—”
“You’re not the only person in the universe who can take care of themselves!”
Jane opened her mouth, and then snapped it shut.
“Maybe not,” she says brightly. “Maybe I’m a patronizing ass. But until you pull yourself together and stop flinging yourself off cliffs with delusions of flight, I can say with confidence I’m a damn sight better at it than you.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Really! Please, do elab—”
“They were gonna cull him on the street,” Roxy exploded. “Right there. They don’t get the tag reader out unless they’ve got intent to convict, and intent to convict means intent to cull in threshecutioner. You think I don’t know how threshers work? Between the two of us, I’m the only one who ever had to worry about them!”
“Are you,” Jane trilled. “Are you! How do you figure that?”
“Like the Empire’s kid icon had to stress over getting culled—”
“She did.”
Jane didn’t want to think about what her face looked like, just now. If any of it was reflected in Roxy’s expression, it was terrible.
She released Roxy’s collar and gave her a few steps of space. Roxy sagged against the lamppost, massaging her neck. A siren howled from blocks away.
“You mentioned the Knight of Time,” Roxy said.
“I’m sorry?”
“The Knight of Time.” She plunged her hands deep into her pockets. “Guy you name-dropped. Wouldn’t happen to be associated with the Seer of Light, would he.”
Jane dragged her hands down her face, ruining her makeup and not caring. “Let’s both acknowledge that neither of should know either of those names,” she said tiredly, “and move on in mutual understanding of the danger it poses for us to do so.”
“How’d you pick them up?” Roxy pressed her. “What have you been reading?”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing, huh? You up and telepathically gleaned that shit?”
“I know the names of the top two insurgents in the Empire,” Jane whispered fiercely, “because I happen to be one of the top two leaders of the damn thing, and would take it as a dear kindness if you would not insinuate that I am a traitor, given what happens to those, around here.”
Roxy blanched.
“That being?”
Jane gave her a good, hard once-over before realizing that she was serious.
“Death,” she said incredulously. “If you’re very, very lucky, and very, very smart. You die.”
“But if—”
“But if- nothing, even if- nothing, and if- nothing,” she snapped. “In recent history, there has been one traitor in New Chicago to make it out of the city alive, and everyone he ever touched has been paying for it for the last three years.”
A lift rolled past, lights blazing pure white trails on dirty snow. The lit spires of downtown towered over them to the south. Even at a distance, the buildings dominated the horizon, their uppermost floors cloaked in a veil of clouds and smog, and their lowermost in grime and shadow.
“How you know the Knight,” Jane said tiredly, “is the better question, really.”
Roxy shrugged. “My brother lives on the outskirts of the Empire. He picks up things about the lib movement.”
“You mean the insurgency?”
“Yeah,” she said. “That. You know, terminology’s different out there, but they’re one and the same. But I’m . . . I wouldn’t do anything to put us in danger, is what I’m saying. I wouldn’t put you in danger.” She took ahold of Jane’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t ever.”
Jane spluttered, “I’m not worried about me, you ass!”
There was a moment where the words hung in the empty space between them, and Jane felt like curling into a ball and dying on the spot.
Then she found her head pressed into the soft fabric of Roxy’s jacket, with an arm like an iron bar curled around her shoulders and a hand cradling the back of her head.
“What—”
“Shh,” Roxy said. “No words. Only hugs.”
“What are you—?”
“I said no words.”
“And I heard you, but—”
“Shhh,” Roxy insisted, thumbing through Jane’s hair, and the pins holding back Jane’s updo came tumbling out. Her newly freed curls fell to brush gently against the back of her neck.
Jane said, “I’m sorry for being rough with you. I wasn’t certain you’d follow me away, if I asked.”
Roxy laughed, and it hummed against Jane’s cheek. “That ain’t rough,” she said. “I grew up sharing a bedroom with my big brother. That back there was a courtesy hold.”
“But it was uncivil.”
“Uncivil?”
“Unkind, rather. Unpleasant.”
“Think the word you’re going for is ‘wrong.’” Roxy flicked the top of her head. “But it’s forgiven.”
“Yes?” Jane tugged on her lapel. “Then I forgive you for running into danger, I suppose.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, it would be inconvenient to be cross with you. So.”
“So,” Roxy parroted, trying on an abject butchery of Jane’s accent. Jane pulled back to frown at her.
“I don’t sound like that.”
“Like what?”
“You’re still doing it! Stop that.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not Oliver Twist!”
“Course you’re not,” said Roxy. “I mean, to start with, you’re way richer.”
“That’s what you start with?”
“I mean,” drawled Roxy, and Jane drew herself up to her full height.
“I’m going back to the lift.” She started walking. “Would you like to join me?”
“Aw, c’mon, don’t get sore.”
“I’m not.”
Roxy caught up, jostling her. “You totes are.”
“I am not.”
“Sore like a thigh on leg day.”
“Roxanne.”
“Janice.”
“Oh, God, don’t.”
“Janathan?”
“Please.”
“Jannika.”
“Must you be this way?”
“I mean, it’s more of a lifestyle choice than a compulsion, really.”
“And you just admit that?”
“Ouch! Hey, now.”
The last traces of Jane’s headache vanished.
She doubted Roxy noticed. But she took the long way around the block, to the place where the valet parked their lift, instead of going back to the corner where the threshecutioners had been.
TG: threshecutioners
TG: wtf do you mean there are threshecutioners streetside
TG: i mean what i said!
TG: one at least in every district n i get the feeling theres more in places that arent shitass rich
TG: that doesnt make sense
TG: threshecutioners are fucking hard to come by theyre not a dime a dozen
TG: if the eye in the sky wanted to up security around nc why not double fly patrol
TG: what are threshecutioners doing there
TG: idk!
TG: i just know theyre out there
TG: + 1 of them threatened janey and i
TG: what
TG: well more me than janey
TG: but when she got involved he didnt look friendly either
TG: they were comfortable threatening the heiress?
TG: o yeah
TG: mother fucker did not care
TG: how many of them did you see
TG: only like 1 squad in the whole hbd
TG: a squads 7/8 of em right
TG: yeah
TG: yeah thats just the one
TG: so thered be probably around fifty or sixty total in the city right
TG: assuming youre right about the headcount
TG: sure
TG: i mean i can ask but
TG: look i dont
TG:
TG: feel safe here
TG: i dont think janeys safe here
TG: i wanna do smthn thats not twiddling my thumbs and hopin i dont fuck up so bad they go after me
TG: i dont like this city anymore
TG: i thought i did
TG: it was pretty and fun and it had a lot of shit bakersfield sure as fuck never did but
TG: honestly id take bakersfield in a heartbeat
TG: compared to this
TG: i know
TG: shit sucks and its awful i know
TG: the capitol isnt a great place to be for humans even at the best of times
TG: and you kind of vaulted smack dab into the middle of it at the worst possible time in a long while
TG: and i feel like a grade a cut of prime shithead telling you this but
TG: you gotta sit on that shit and bide ok
TG: right now youre most useful as someone they trust and you cant be that if youre going hand to hand with a threshecutioner first chance you get
TG: i know ok im not fuckig stupid
TG: but i wanna
TG: i gotta do SOMETHING
TG: im going to lose my mind just sitting here and WATCHING shit i cant
TG: like no can do commander sorry sir
TG: ok well
TG: how about the stuff youre already doing for us
TG: spying and shit what about that
TG: thats helpful
TG: but its not like
TG: im not saving lives
TG: im not changing anything im just giving u my schedule and shit
TG: how do you know that
TG: what
TG: how do you know youre not saving lives
TG: ig
TG: i mean i guess i dont
TG: but like name ONE thing that changed bc i gave you that info
TG: i cant
TG: why the fuck not
TG: because
TG: look thats how this works right
TG: you knew from the getgo you wouldnt have the whole picture because theres only one person in the whole damn movement who has the whole picture and thats the seer
TG: and she doesnt have the time or inclination to share it so the rest of us gotta content ourselves with getting knowledge bombed on a need to know basis
TG: so this is gonna sound like a prime asshole thing to say but you already know all you need to know
TG: when you agreed to help us i told you we wouldnt do anything to put you or jane in danger and intend to keep that fucking promise
TG: and that includes not giving you information that could put you in a compromising position or make shit any worse for you in the event that we fuck up
TG: there are people who have ways of finding out what you know and getting it out of you
TG: the less you know the safer we are
TG: but more importantly the safer you are
TG: i dont
TG: GOD this is frustrating
TG: preaching to the choir there kid
TG: i wanna believe you
TG: but you realize i have to like
TG: take it on blind faith that ur being real wiht me rn
TG: n not just sayin that so i get off ur ass
TG: no offense
TG: none taken
TG: but i literally dont have anything i can give you to prove im telling you the truth
TG: because of the reasons outlined above
TG: its bad form to expect you to take my word on blind faith but you have all i can safely offer as proof
TG: but more to the point
TG: that between the me and the empire
TG: only one of us is an imminent and clear threat to your safety
TG: and we both know it aint me
TG: so if you have to gamble with blind faith at all then id ask that you give it to the person that at least hasnt irrefutably proved himself undeserving of it
TG: i mean
TG: i still dont know that ur intentions are good here
TG: im not saying i wont keep helping u and the seer but
TG: if u could even lmk if things r gonna start changing sometime soon i
TG: itd make me feel better
TG: and i know thats childish and silly and shit but
TG: its not
TG: thats one thing i can promise
TG: you wont have to wait long roxy you have my word
TG: things are gonna start changing
TG: were gonna make god damn sure of it
|
It’s chilly, so there’s not many people around. That and it’s a strange time of day to come to the sculpture park. I’m not sure what brought me out here. I just started walking, then got on a tram, and kept walking some more. Now I’m out here, on the water, sun starting to cradle on the horizon.
I watch some tourists take a picture of Eyes. Eyes. Right. That’s what we all think they are. The tourists sniggering as they look at their phone tells me that we’re on the same page.
I lean on the cane as I walk towards the water. I shouldn’t sit down. It’s going to be hard to get up again. But I don’t think I can stay on my feet much longer.
Every day, I try to walk for at least an hour. Not an hour straight. I can make it maybe a half hour before taking a break, then walking back to the flat. Mom didn’t believe me that I didn’t need a physiotherapist when I moved back here. After all, she’s my mother, and after 26 years she can recognize when I’m lying. It made her feel better to see me go for walks, though, and that I wasn’t pushing myself too hard.
The thing is, I do push myself too hard. I have enough to deal with. Limping for the rest of my life is not going to be one of those things.
Sometimes I remember that time I actually made Isak think Sonja had a prosthetic foot. He didn’t know me then, didn’t know that I lied so much, and he believed me. It seemed funny then. In the hospital, after the accident, I remembered that the first time I was left alone, and it didn’t seem funny at all.
Okay, time to sit. It snowed last week, but it melted as soon as it fell. The ground is cold and the grass feels brittle, and I drop on my ass a little harder than I intended. I lay the cane down beside me, like it’s a companion, then lean back on my hands.
It is beautiful here. I’ve never lived anywhere ugly, per se—Stockholm is nice enough, and even Karlstad isn’t terrible—but this is where I was born, and so it has a kind of magic. These are the hills and streets and even the water I know. I know this exact shade of blue-grey that is only here, only at this time of year, if I look out onto the fjord. I know how the air tastes, how it feels on my skin. Maybe it’s a disappointment to me, that I’ve retreated to where I started, but it’s good too. To be where things are written on my bones.
Six months.
I wonder what he’d say. I can imagine it, actually. He’d be infuriated. That Mette made her main character bipolar. Asvald always hated Mette anyways. I never liked that about him, even as close as we were. He hated anyone who wasn’t like us, and I didn’t realize that until things went as far as they did.
We ended up on a beach one time. I have no idea the name or even exactly where it was. Sometimes we would just get in a car and drive. Depending on how far we went, sometimes we’d come back to the city. Other times we’d sleep in the vehicle or outside. I learned to bring a sleeping bag on those trips.
The water was clear enough there that when I put my hand into the lake I couldn’t see where the surface was, only feel it. “It’s beautiful here.”
“It’s not bad.”
I turned to him, mouth agape. “Was that almost a compliment?”
He shoved me and I ended up with water in my boots.
Six months. I don’t even know how that happened.
This is a decision I have to make on my own. My whole life, I’ve struggled with letting other people make my decisions. People who don’t really know me, they think I’m independent, that I’m confident and sure, but a lot of the time, when I’m able to think clearly, I’m scared shitless. I’d do what my parents wanted, then Sonja, then Isak, and then I was just sort of a disaster for awhile.
It’s fucked up, but when I’m sick, it’s like the only time I make decisions that are solely my own. Except I’m not sick right now. I might be in a few months, because I choose to be—because even medicated, apparently I’m a crazy person—but in this moment it’s up to me to decide.
Jesus, what else am I doing? The disability keeps me afloat, but I don’t care for that. The last few years, it’s what I’ve lived on, because I’ve been too up and down to keep a steady job. I’ve written a lot, and made my little movies, and composed songs, and drawn comics, and that’s fine, but is that what I want to do forever?
It’s not. I know it’s not.
Part of me wishes I had someone to talk about this with. Of course there’s Irene. That’s literally what she’s there for. But I’ve always had a near impossible time talking about important things with people. Even the people I’m most intimate with, it’s like trying to crack open a wall inside myself to tell the unvarnished truth.
The only person I was ever able to really do that with was Isak, and even then it was like pulling teeth. It’s so much easier to communicate with people through lyrics and lines from movies. Other people have said what I want to say so much better. With him, though, I could sometimes find it in myself to actually say what I didn’t want to, but needed to.
But that’s long passed. I’ve been thinking about him more just because I’m back in the city again. It’s been four years since I’ve seen him, talked to him. I don’t talk to people who know him.
I wriggle my toes inside my boots. My leg is sore, but it’s not unbearable. I’m getting stronger, every day. I must remember that. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I’m a strong person.
Oh, fuck it. What else am I doing with my life?
I pull out my phone. Before I can change my mind, I text Mette.
‘Can I meet Offerdal? If he’s hot, I’ll put more consideration into this.’
I press send. I regret it, but that’s just what I’m like now. Not for long. I must keep that in mind.
It’s okay to look at the parts of myself I don’t like. It’s okay if other people see those parts. It’s not the end of the world. I’ve survived the end of the world a few times now. At this point, it will take a hell of a lot more than public disdain to stop me.
I tell myself that, but who knows if I believe it. I drop on my back and watch the clouds laze their way across the sky.
|
Sam crept out to the Impala after stealing the keys from Dean with no small amount of trepidation. He pulls the demon knife out of the trunk guiltily, Michael's reminder of 'no fighting!' flashing in his head. 'Well, sorry Michael. I don't intend to start the fight, but if they start one I intend to be able to defend myself.'
"Whatcha doing?"
Sam nearly jumps out of his skin, slamming the Impala's hood and turning to lie to Gabriel. "Nothing."
Gabriel reaches over, rucking up Sam's shirt and stealing Ruby's knife in one swift move. "You little rebel. I knew you were perfect for me, but this is too much."
"Give it back," Sam requests evenly.
Gabriel hands it back without argument, still laughing. "Perfect," he repeats. "Come back inside, little rebel."
"Where's Lucifer?" Sam asks curiously, noting that the tall brooding archangel isn't with his brother.
"Why, do you miss him?"
"Not really, I was just curious."
This is absolutely the wrong thing to say to a trickster, especially one that goes by the name of Gabriel. They hardly make it within the front door of the lobby before Gabriel is screaming "Lucifer!" like he's about to be murdered. Actually, Sam has watched Gabriel be murdered several times, and he never once reached this volume. Gabriel yells again, this time complete with echoing reverberations throughout the entire hotel. Sam cringes and tries to slip out of the hotel again. Somehow Gabriel anticipates this and catches him, slinging an arm around his back and propelling him forward.
Lucifer looks up from where he's standing over by the elevator, clearly deep in conversation with Michael and several other angels. "Gabriel, what is this?" he asks, heading over to them.
'Sam missed you!' flashing fireworks announce cheerily as Gabriel snaps his fingers.
Lucifer stares at them both like they have taken leave of their senses.
"I just asked where you were," Sam defends himself, "and he overreacted."
"He typically does," Lucifer remarks dryly. He smiles at Sam, which makes him nervous. He knows several smiles of Lucifer's- 'I am evil,' 'I just killed a man whoopsie,' 'I just manipulated you,' and 'Hi, I'm marrying your son, Mary Winchester.' This smile is none of those, and it makes him nervous. "Come join us."
Sam shoots Gabriel a glare that promises retribution and obediently follows. "You too, Gabriel," Lucifer calls, reaching for his brother's hand. Sam smirks as Gabriel pouts dramatically, though he links his fingers through his brother's.
Michael looks up as they approach, smiling politely at them. He says something to his angel companion, a young woman with bright blonde hair, so blonde it's nearly white, and she watches the group approach with interest.
"Hello, Samuel," Michael says.
"It's Sam, Michael. If you're going to be my brother-in-law, you should call me by the right name," he jokes.
The white-blonde angel laughs. "Hello, Sam. My name is Aurora. I can see already you are going to be a problem for me, aren't you?"
Sam gapes at her. It has been a very long time since he was greeted in such a manner by an angel-actually, come to think of it the last one was probably Cas with his "Sam Winchester, the boy with demon blood" comment.
"It's alright," she tells him gently, "I enjoy the challenge."
Michael smirks. "Aurora is the angel of peace, Sam."
Sam makes a sound in acknowledgement, finally understanding the angel's light teasing."What makes you think I'll be the problem?"
"I grew up with your future husbands. They are both trouble, which must mean you are, too," she informs him.
"Excuse you! I was a delight as a child!" Gabriel cuts in.
"You were as delightful as an angry honey-badger, Gabriel," retorts Aurora.
"And twice as much trouble with your pranks," Lucifer adds.
"You've got your hands full, don't you honey?" Aurora asks Sam.
He shrugs helplessly. "Any advice?"
"Don't let them push you around."
Sam laughs outright at that. "There are only two people on Earth I have ever left push me around: my father, and even then I fought him frequently on it, and my brother. I don't take people's bullying well."
"He tried to stake me several times when I was a trickster," Gabriel adds, "one time stalking me for six months to accomplish it. Oh, and he sasses Lucifer."
"Brave," Aurora comments.
"Or incredibly stupid," Sam corrects. "Jury's out."
Aurora says something else but Sam isn't listening any more. His keen ears have heard a howl, and he turns slowly toward the sound, legs tensed to launch him toward it if he hears it again. A second howl, accompanied by a person's scream, is all it takes to have Sam hurtling out the door.
"Help!" the man screams, and Sam charges toward him.
"Andy!" he calls out, "Get inside! Get Dean to help you, I'll take care of this."
Adrenaline pumping cheerily through his body as though he's not about to die, Sam stares down the hellhound. Distantly, he notes that he can see the hellhound without the use of any kind of device to see it- a fact which would probably be way more important if not for the fact that he's about to die. The hellhound is snarling, glaring at Sam as Andy disappears inside the Elysian Fields hotel, but it doesn't move toward him.
Several other hellhounds join the first one, the group of them snarling as they stare Sam down. He puts his hand on the demon knife in his belt and pulls it out, knowing it's slim protection against the creatures. Still they wait, snarling and pacing, but not attacking.
A lone hellhound launches itself at Sam and he falls to the ground with the force of the onslaught. He scrambles for the demon knife and drives it into the thing's neck. It catches on an artery, or perhaps a ligament, it doesn't really matter because the knife is torn from Sam's hand and falls to the ground too far away for him to reach.
'This is it, this is how I'll die,' Sam thinks. 'It's fairly ironic, for the past two days I've thought that it would probably be Lucifer who would eventually kill me, and instead it's going to be a hellhound. I hope Gabriel is prepared to deal with Lucifer on his own.' The thought inexplicably enrages him. 'Gabriel is most likely not prepared to deal with him. He died once before at his brother's hand, I need to be there so it doesn't happen a second time.'
He stares down the hellhound's skeletal body and has an insane idea. 'If I break off a piece of its rib, I wonder if that's sharp enough to pierce his heart?' The hellhound lashes out with sharp claws, ripping the tender skin of Sam's abdomen into bloody ribbons, but he doesn't feel it. He reaches out, dragging the hellhound closer to him through sheer force of will, and wraps his hand around the ribs. He forces the ribs to stretch, pushes all of his strength into separating the ribcage farther. There is a loud crack, and Sam laughs as the rib cracks off into his hand. Without a moment to spare, he thrusts the piece of broken rib into the hellhound's heart.
Blood begins pulsing everywhere, black sulfur-smelling foul blood that stings and burns where it lands on Sam. He pushes the hellhound off of him and it collapses to the ground with lifeless eyes. Sam snarls at the other hellhounds, lips pulled back to bare his teeth. To his surprise, they slink down to the ground, baring their necks for him.
Sam doesn't acknowledge their submission. He finds his demon knife and picks it up, sliding it back into his pants. Then he registers the mocking clapping, and he turns cautiously toward the sound, hand still on Ruby's knife.
"Well would you look at that? Little Sammy is all grown up now, and killing hellhounds with his bare hands!"
"Hello, Lilith," Sam returns evenly. "You should keep your mutts under control, or I'll be forced to take them off your hands."
"They recognize his soul, escaped from hell."
"Andy Gallagher went to hell? Why?"
"Thanks to Azazel, he had demon blood flowing through his veins just like you did. Between that and his mind-control ability, it wasn't difficult to make an argument for his soul to end up in our clutches."
"My goodness, you're so much better than I ever imagined!" Azazel exclaims. "Taking on a hellhound with your bare hands and winning," he shakes his head, "you must be awfully pleased, My Lord."
Sam turns, tracking Azazel's gaze and surprised to see both Gabriel and Lucifer followed him outside. Blood boiling, he snarks, "Thanks for all your help, guys."
"You had it under control," Lucifer says.
Gabriel huffs. "Told you we should have helped." He walks forward until he's with Sam, then extends two fingers toward his arm. Heat travels up Sam's arm and down his abdomen, entire body thrumming as it knits itself back together under Gabriel's magic. He didn't realize how much pain he was in until it's gone, banished by Gabriel's healing.
"Thanks," Sam mutters.
Gabriel's hand comes up to trace Sam's jawline, fingers dancing tenderly across it for a brief moment before his lips meet Sam's. Sam gasps, somehow he hadn't expected this. Gabriel kisses a bit harder, stubble scratching on Sam's cheek, and Sam's hands fly up to tangle themselves in Gabriel's hair. The outside world falls away, nothing exists but Gabriel. He kisses back harder, hands forcing Gabriel to stay in place, but he doesn't seem to mind. His hands wrap around Sam's waist, tugging him closer so there's no space between their bodies. It's strange, kissing Gabriel like this. His lips are sugary sweet, obviously the result of a snack he had just eaten. For Sam's first kiss with a male, it's not bad; and it's nice that Gabriel is keeping it chaste.
The moment is broken as Dean screams, "Ew!" Sam's brain loses control of his hands, and they fly of their own accord to Gabriel's shoulders to push him away. "Could you be any more gay?" Dean gripes.
"At least I kept my tongue in my own mouth, unlike you and Cas yesterday."
"Shut it, B***h. Andy told us there was a hellhound, you need help?"
"No, I killed it," Sam tells his brother. "I took its rib and drove it into its heart."
Dean scrunches his nose. "And you know that because?"
Sam takes a deep breath. "Because I could see it."
Dean stares at him, then turns and walks to the Impala. He roots in the trunk without a word, reemerging with a bottle full of holy water. He uncaps it and casually dumps it over his brother's head. "Well, you're not possessed by a demon," he announces, throwing the bottle back into the trunk and throwing his arms up in the air in celebration as it actually lands in the trunk. "So what are you, then?"
"He's transitioning," Ruby replies.
Dean stares at Sam speculatively for a moment. "Dude, are you turning into a chick?"
"No Dean, not that kind of transition. He's not changing from male to female, he's changing from human to, well, I'm not sure what, exactly. Something more."
"And why is he changing into the mystical 'something more?'"
"That's probably my fault," volunteers Lucifer.
"Not even surprised," Sam mumbles, and Gabriel snickers quietly.
"As a potential ruler of hell, Sam needs to be a bit different than what he is now. He needs to be able to see the hellhounds, so he can. His body will keep changing as it tries to keep up with the demands, so you'll change into something a bit different. It's the same reason why Dean will soon be growing wings."
"I'm sorry, Dean will be doing what now?" Dean demands.
"What did my father tell you two about this whole marriage scheme of his?"
"Just that we'd be getting married," Sam answers.
"Back to me growing wings," Dean cuts in impatiently.
"As a ruler of heaven, it would be prudent for you to have a way to get to heaven. So, you're going to grow wings. I'm surprised you haven't felt them already. They'll grow under your skin first, then Michael and Castiel will cut them out. It'll hurt, but I imagine you'll be fine, you're a Winchester after all. Then we'll teach you to fly."
"I DON'T LIKE HEIGHTS!"
"You just found out you will literally be sprouting wings and that's your first concern?" Sam questions his brother.
Then he turns to Lucifer, "Wait. I'm not going to sprout horns, am I?"
"No."
"Wonderful."
Gabriel cocks his head to the side, listening intently. "We have to go back inside, they're looking for us."
Sam gestures to the demons. "After you three."
"What a gentleman," Lilith purrs.
Sam smirks. "No, I'd just rather not take a knife to the back courtesy of one of you three. I've done that before thanks to Azazel and Jake, and I'd rather not do it again."
"Even we have enough sense not to attack you. Our Lord would be displeased," Azazel remarks, but he loops his arms through Ruby's and Lilith's and sets off for the door.
"Azazel, one other thing," calls Sam, and he waits until the demon is facing him before he says, "stay away from my mother."
His response is a mocking laugh.
Castiel is waiting for them in the doorway of the hotel, blocking the demons' entrance. Sam can hear loud yelling spilling out into the parking lot. "Sam, stay out here for a minute. You too, Dean."
"What's going on, Cas?"
"A man arrived who is being vocal in his desire to kill you, Sam. He rants loudly about demon blood. Your mother and Bobby are trying to calm him."
Sam growls and stalks past Cas, shoving the three demons out of the way. In the lobby, Gordon Walker is screaming for Sam's death. "He's a monster!" Gordon argues. "He drinks demon blood, just let me put him down."
"Hey!" Sam shouts, cutting off whatever angry retort his mother was going to give. He stalks forward until he's toe to toe with the other hunter. "You want to kill me?" He spreads his arms wide. "Go ahead."
"If you kill my son, Gordon Walker, you can expect not to live very long."
Sam winces slightly and turns toward his father, who had obviously entered the hotel behind him and Dean. "Winchester family reunion. Yay," he hears Gabriel intone sarcastically.
"Your boy's a monster, John, and killing monsters is what I do for a living."
"My son is no monster."
"There's demon blood flowing through his veins, pumping through his monstrous heart right this second."
Lucifer shakes his head in denial. "Sam was cured of the demon blood and its subsequent addiction years ago. His blood is normal human blood."
"Who are you?" Gordon demands furiously.
Lucifer leers. "Lucifer."
Gordon's response is instantaneous- he reaches into his pocket and hurls holy water at him. Lucifer growls, advancing toward Gordon until Sam grabs the back of his shirt as he passes and physically yanks him up short.
"Release me, Sam. No one may express a desire to kill my husband and live."
"No way. You're not killing Gordon, I won't let you."
Lucifer lunges forward in an attempt to break Sam's grip and attack. Miraculously Sam restrains him. He's so distracted with Lucifer he misses Gabriel stalking by then both with fire in his eyes. Fortunately Cas is more alert and grabs Gabriel, twisting both arms behind his back to hold him.
"Stop it, both of you stop!" Sam orders. "It's no big deal."
"He wants to kill you! That's kinda a big deal!" Gabriel argues furiously, eyes glowing white.
"So did both of you. And my dad. And my brother. He can just join the club."
Lucifer turns a terrifying glare on Gordon. "So be it. You are only living because my husband, the same man you would name a monster, wishes it. If you cross us again, you will not be allowed to live if you express a desire to kill him again, whether he begs for your life or not. I will not be this merciful a second time."
Gordon stares down Lucifer but clearly recognizes the man's power because he pushes past John and exits the hotel.
"Thank you," Sam whispers quietly, and Lucifer nods.
"So," John begins, "you're Lucifer."
"Dad," Dean attempts to interrupt.
At the same time, Mary reprimands, "John."
"Yes sir," Lucifer answers, actually respectful for once.
"You mistreat my son and I'll kill you myself, you understand me? I don't care if you're the devil or not."
"Yes sir."
"You too," he tells Gabriel.
"Right back atcha."
John does a double take. "What did you just say to me?"
"That I hope we understand each other. You will kill me if I hurt your son, and I will kill you if you hurt him."
"You're gutsy, boy. I like you."
Gabriel smiles. "Thank you."
John walks by, smacking Cas on the back. "Good to see you again, Castiel. Sam, when you get a moment I'd like to speak to you and your brother in private. Tomorrow, though, not today. I have something important to do now." He approaches Mary, holding one hand out to her. "Will you come with me? I would like to tell you several things."
Mary smiles and takes his hand. The two go into the elevator, heads bent together. The door closes and Sam spends several seconds watching the closed door, mentally replaying the scene of his parents together for the first time in years.
Dean frowns. "When did you meet my dad, Cas?"
"In heaven, before I pulled you from hell. He knew we were going and begged me to get you out."
"Strange," Dean mutters, and Sam wholeheartedly agrees.
|
Jiang Cheng jerks awake when the door to his room is flung open. He blinks against the dark, his blanket still safely over his head, and even though there’s the tiniest spark of anger that someone dared to barge into his room like that, he can’t sustain it.
It’s so much easier to simply lay here, just like that.
“Jiang Wanyin!” Nie Huaisang says, and just by his tone Jiang Cheng can tell that he’s mad.
Really mad. Room-worthy mad.
It’s still not enough to get Jiang Cheng to move.
“What?” he gets out at least, though he’s not even sure if Nie Huaisang can hear him, buried under his blanket as he is.
“What ‘what’? You were supposed to help me with my project and instead you’re still sleeping? What is going on?” Nie Huaisang demands to know and now the spark of anger comes back.
“We were supposed to talk about your project this afternoon, so what the fuck do you want now?” Jiang Cheng snaps out, angry enough to push the blanket down, even though it’s not quite enough to sit up and face Nie Huaisang.
“It is afternoon,” Nie Huaisang hisses and Jiang Cheng freezes.
He just woke up. He woke up, saw that it was too early to be awake on a Saturday morning and just closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t even properly sleep, he’s sure of that, so how can it already be afternoon.
“Well, maybe I decided I don’t want to help you,” Jiang Cheng says, meaner than he really means to, but his voice is shaking and his mind is whirring and he doesn’t know how to be anything else anyways.
“You’re a real asshole,” Nie Huaisang says, and just the fact that there is no anger in his voice let’s Jiang Cheng know just how truly angry he really is.
He’ll probably have to go back to the room with Nie Huaisang later and just the thought of that makes Jiang Cheng want to cry.
“Go away,” Jiang Cheng says, even though there’s some nagging guilt in his stomach, because he did promise Nie Huaisang to help him, and he had every intention do to so, but just the thought of getting up and doing actual things and having to talk to people is exhausting enough that Jiang Cheng sinks back into his bed and pulls his blanket up again.
He feels like his thoughts should be running like crazy, but all he can manage is a weary exhaustion because this was inevitable, wasn’t it?
Of course his depression would come back with a vengeance, just when he thought everything was going well again.
He still could be wrong about this, too, but in hindsight everything makes sense. His listlessness to do anything—even the things he loves—and his bad mood of course, followed by bouts of fighting back tears. His exhaustion at having to talk to people—of having to do literally anything—and his inability to sleep; it all makes sense.
“Fuck,” Jiang Cheng mutters and presses his eyes closed as hot tears slide down his cheeks.
And he was doing so well, too; he’s going to classes he actually likes, this house feels more like home than anything else, and the Nie’s were starting to feel like a real family.
It makes no sense for Jiang Cheng to fall back into this and he hates himself for still doing it.
He startles again when there’s a knock at his door and this time he fishes for his phone to check the time before someone can catch him off-guard again.
He lost another hour.
Fuck.
“Can I come in?” Nie Mingjue asks him and Jiang Cheng tenses.
He’s here because Nie Huaisang told him what he said. He’s here to scold Jiang Cheng and he feels like crying just thinking about that but he can’t send Nie Mingjue away either, because then he’ll be mad and it’s already bad enough that Nie Huaisang is mad at him.
The thoughts make Jiang Cheng freeze, unable to do or say anything, and Nie Mingjue has to knock a second time.
“Wanyin?” he asks and now he sounds worried, which Jiang Cheng never wanted and doesn’t deserve and it’s enough to make him sob.
“I’m coming in,” Nie Mingjue decides, because clearly he must have heard Jiang Cheng.
Jiang Cheng can’t find it in him to face Nie Mingjue, so he continues to lay in his bed with his back to the room. It’s easier like that. He can’t see the disappointment on Nie Mingjue’s face like that.
“Wanyin, what’s going on?” Nie Mingjue asks, and his voice is soft as he sits down on Jiang Cheng’s chair at his desk.
“Nothing,” Jiang Cheng gets out, though he still sounds choked up and there’s no doubt in the world that he has been crying.
“There’s no need to lie to me. Something is going on.”
“And what if it is?” Jiang Cheng snaps out even though his voice still wobbles.
“Won’t you tell us? It’s not like you to snap at Huaisang like that.”
“Maybe you just don’t know me,” Jiang Cheng gives back, because it’s easier than admitting to what is really wrong with him.
“I know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t go back on your word like that. If you truly did not want to help him, then you would have said so earlier. And it’s not like you to miss a meeting or appointment either. So what is going on?”
Jiang Cheng let’s his words wash over him, staring blankly at the wall in front of him, but just Nie Mingjue’s tone is enough to bring tears to his eyes again.
He doesn’t deserve this kindness; for once there’s nothing wrong in his life and there is absolutely no reason why his depression should come back at this moment.
It’s not fair.
“Nothing is going on,” Jiang Cheng finally gets out, and he hates, hates how emotional he is, because he’s crying again.
Or maybe he never stopped, he’s not even sure anymore.
“Do you want to talk to someone else? Should I get Xuanyu or your sister maybe?” Nie Mingjue asks and Jiang Cheng shakes his head.
The thought of his siblings makes guilt sink into his gut again, because he hasn’t checked his phone since yesterday, finding every kind of interaction too draining to even read the messages they surely have sent him.
The thought that he disappointed them on top of everything else is so crippling that Jiang Cheng smashes his face into his pillow and then simply stays there.
It’s easier not to do anything, because even more crying feels like too much of a strain at the moment.
“I’ll come back with dinner,” Nie Mingjue says after a long while and Jiang Cheng doesn’t react to his words.
He doesn’t feel like eating at all, but he wants to tell Nie Mingjue that even less, so he simply stays where he is.
Once he’s gone, Jiang Cheng turns onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
There are a thousand things he should do, and like a hundred he could do, but just thinking about doing anything is exhausting and Jiang Cheng doesn’t manage to move a muscle. He stays on his back, staring at nothing until Nie Mingjue comes back.
“I brought dinner,” he says, putting a plate on Jiang Cheng’s desk, but Jiang Cheng only blinks.
“I’m not hungry,” he gives back and finds that it’s true. He hasn’t eaten at all today, but his stomach doesn’t make a single sound, not even when the smell of the food hits him.
Fuck. He’s really deep in already.
“Wanyin, please. Just talk to me. We can figure out whatever is going on,” Nie Mingjue tries after a long moment and Jiang Cheng sighs before he heaves himself up.
He doesn’t remember sitting to be this exhausting.
“What’s wrong?” Nie Mingjue asks him again when Jiang Cheng doesn’t say anything and Jiang Cheng hates to see the worry on Nie Mingjue’s face.
Jiang Cheng is surprised to find that he hates worrying Nie Mingjue so much, that he actually thinks about telling Nie Mingjue everything and he knows he will when Nie Mingjue just patiently waits for him to answer.
“I’m prone to depression,” Jiang Cheng eventually forces out. “It’s happened in the past and I think it’s what’s going on now,” he says and he can’t quite meet Nie Mingjue’s eyes.
He would hate to see the same disappointment and disinterest that he saw in his parents the first time around.
“Okay,” Nie Mingjue says and comes over to sit at the edge of Jiang Cheng’s bed. “What do we do?” he asks him and it’s surprising enough that Jiang Cheng bursts into tears again.
He’s so sick and tired of crying.
“Can I hug you?” Nie Mingjue asks and Jiang Cheng is sobbing too hard to answer him, so he leans closer and hopes that Nie Mingjue understands his meaning.
Luckily he does, because strong arms come around Jiang Cheng’s shoulders and then he’s being pressed to Nie Mingjue’s chest and just being held like this helps immensely somehow.
“I’m sorry,” Jiang Cheng finally chokes out when he calmed down a bit and he feels how Nie Mingjue shakes his head.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he immediately says and pushes Jiang Cheng away. “There is nothing you have to apologize for.”
“I should probably apologize to Huaisang,” Jiang Cheng sniffles because he was rather mean, and Nie Mingjue gives him a wry smile.
“Is a bad temper a symptom too?”
“I guess,” Jiang Cheng says with a shrug. “It’s usually listed on the internet.”
“On the internet,” Nie Mingjue repeats. “You said you had it before? Did you not get proper help?” he wants to know but Jiang Cheng can tell that he knows the answer before he even finishes his question.
“My parents, they—at first they thought it was something physical because I wasn’t eating right and I wasn’t sleeping much either. They yelled at me in the beginning but then my grades started to slip,” Jiang Cheng confesses and he looks at his hands rather than at Nie Mingjue directly.
It’s easier that way.
“That’s when they figured that something must be really wrong with me and they dragged me to a doctor. He did a check-up but couldn’t find a physical reason for it so he suggested that I should see a psychologist.”
“Your parents didn’t like that idea,” Nie Mingjue guesses and he sounds angry.
Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath to remind himself that Nie Mingjue is not angry with him, but with his parents.
“They didn’t,” Jiang Cheng agrees. “They wouldn’t let me go and just told me to get it together since there’s nothing really wrong with me.”
“I am so sorry,” Nie Mingjue says and Jiang Cheng shrugs.
“It is what it is,” he awkwardly says. “A-jie called the doctor again to inquire after the diagnosis he would give me, but he was reluctant to since that’s not his area of expertise. He said the best guess he could make was depression, but that we really needed to have it confirmed by a psychologist.”
“But you never went to one,” Nie Mingjue says and Jiang Cheng nods.
“I read a lot on the internet and I went to the school’s counsellor a few times before my parents found out about it and made me stop.”
“Meetings with the counsellor are supposed to be confidential,” Nie Mingjue says with a deep breath and Jiang Cheng manages a bitter laugh.
“When is anything ever really confidential in my family,” he bitterly mutters and only relaxes again when Nie Mingjue squeezes his shoulder.
“What did you do last time?” Nie Mingjue asks him and Jiang Cheng twists his fingers together.
“I think I out-stubborned it. My parents expected good grades so I had to study. I told myself over and over again that nothing is really wrong and that there’s no reason for me to be depressed. I went to bed at a set time and no matter the day I woke up at the same time, too. I forced myself to study, to not slack off with my training and in the end it somehow worked. A-jie was there, too, of course but sometimes—” he trails off here, because he cannot admit that her fretting and concerned looks made it that much harder sometimes. “I managed to get over it,” he finally says.
Jiang Cheng thinks back to all these weeks and months were he didn’t feel like doing anything; where even the thought of getting up in the morning felt like an insurmountable obstacle, not even to mention everything that came after it, but somehow he had done it.
He had felt bone-deep exhausted the whole time, and he had lost weight and friends, but he had done it.
“I later read that a fixed schedule can help; just like any kind of sport. I got lucky I think,” he admits because not everyone comes out of it as easy as he did.
Well, easy in retrospect. At the time it had felt like the most difficult thing of his entire life, and it was starting to feel like that again.
“We’re not going to do it like that, this time,” Nie Mingjue suddenly says and Jiang Cheng jerks at his words.
“What do you mean?” he whispers, too afraid to hope that maybe this time he doesn’t have to do it all on his own again.
“First of all, you’re not going to ‘get over it’,” Nie Mingjue decisively says. “Depression is a serious illness and we’re going to treat it accordingly. I know a psychologist we can call to see if she has time for you, if you want that.”
Jiang Cheng blinks at him, because he didn’t think that Nie Mingjue would insist on this. Jiang Cheng was expecting some understanding; the Nies are not his parents after all, but this—
This is almost too much.
“I can’t possibly—” he starts, but Nie Mingjue doesn’t let him talk.
“Whatever it is you want to say stop it,” he gently scolds him. “You’re not an imposition, and you’re not taking too much. I won’t force you to go, of course, but I think it would help much more than just powering through it alone and with how your family life was before—maybe we should have thought about this earlier,” Nie Mingjue admits and Jiang Cheng really is so damn sick of crying, but he can’t help it.
“Thank you,” he whispers out, because no matter if he gets professional help this time around or not, Nie Mingjue is already so much more supportive than his parents ever were.
“Not for that,” Nie Mingjue lowly gives back and pulls Jiang Cheng into a hug again.
“And it’s nothing to be ashamed of either, you hear me?” he asks Jiang Cheng who tenses at his words.
Of course he wasn’t allowed to talk about his ‘supposed affliction’ before; his parents didn’t want to hear a single word about it, always pretending that Jiang Cheng chose to be difficult on purpose rather than admitting that it might be something more.
“Isn’t it?” Jiang Cheng whispers and he fists his hand in Nie Mingjue’s shirt. “There’s no reason for me to be depressed; you gave me a home and I’m happy here. There’s no reason for me to be like this.”
“Maybe it is because you finally can relax,” Nie Mingjue muses and starts to stroke his hand up and down Jiang Cheng’s back. “Maybe there’s no reason at all for it; it doesn’t matter. You can be happy and healthy one day and then contract a severe illness the next one. Why should this be any different?”
Jiang Cheng has to admit that he never really gave this any thought, but thinking too much about this right now hurts his head, so he doesn’t.
“I have to apologize to Huaisang,” Jiang Cheng says when he finally moves away from Nie Mingjue who sighs.
“You probably should, but I think it’s more important that you explain. If you go to see a psychologist we’re not going to keep it a secret here; that’s not how we work.”
Cold fear settles in Jiang Cheng’s stomach, more instinctual than anything else, before he forcefully breathes it away. There is no reason to be afraid of anyone’s reaction here; they are a family, much more so than Jiang Cheng and his parents ever were and of course they needed to know.
“Alright,” Jiang Cheng agrees even though the thought of that discussion leaves him drained.
“Not today, Wanyin,” Nie Mingjue gently tells him and flicks his forehead. “Quit your worrying. You’re going to eat a little bit and then I’ll leave you be. We can talk about it tomorrow and see if you want to meet with the psychologist and once we have that settled we can think about telling the others, okay?”
“Okay,” Jiang Cheng agrees and then forces a smile on his face. “Thank you.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Nie Mingjue immediately tells him, just like Jiang Cheng was expecting. “Eat what you can, okay? And drink something, I think that’s more important.”
“I will,” Jiang Cheng promises and reaches for his water to prove his point.
“Alright. Try to sleep and then we’ll see about everything else tomorrow, yes?”
“Thank you,” Jiang Cheng says again, because Nie Mingjue didn’t say that he might feel better tomorrow, or that he’s being stupid and dramatic and just lazy and faking it to get out of doing things, and Jiang Cheng never realized how badly all of his parents barbs grated on him in the past.
“You’re welcome,” Nie Mingjue says this time, clearly understanding that this goes deeper than just a simple thank you and then he’s gone again.
Jiang Cheng flops back on his bed, before he remembers that he’s supposed to eat and drink something first.
He forces himself back up, manages to eat half the plate of food Nie Mingjue brought him and then he washes it all down with water. Only then does he allow himself to crawl back under his blanket.
Jiang Cheng is absolutely not looking forward to having to fight this again, but he thinks that maybe with his family having his back, it will be easier this time around.
|
Angelina
She spun around expecting to come face to face with someone... anyone! But yet again no one was there. She could swear someone was right behind her. She could feel their eyes on her body. She could feel their hands on her skin. She knew better than to walk through this park after night, especially on a full moon. What the hell was she thinking? It had been one of the worse days in her life and here she was making another bad decision. That eerie feeling just kept crawling across her skin. She just wanted to make it home safely. Heat her up some of her favorite tea, and curl up in bed. "Please God, just let me get home" was the only thought in her mind right now. Then a snap of a branch makes her jump. She spins around yet again and screams from the top of her lungs. "What the hell is that?" was the last thought she could remember!
Joseph
I had her scent. I had always had her scent. It had been in my dreams for the last two years. I could remember the way her hair would fall across her naked breast. How she would smile when I nuzzled her neck. The way she would giggle as I tickled her. The way my tongue felt against her skin. The sound of her voice as I pressed my hairy body against her soft skin was like music. Just thinking about it made my dick so hard I wanted to cry.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I get her off my mind? I don't even know the damn girl. I just had been dreaming about her for about two years now. I knew her smell, her taste, her voice, and her eyes. How do you dream of someone you never met? I am sure that I have never had met her. I would remember those beautiful brown eyes. They were so dark they were almost black. Every time I thought of her my blood would boil and I could feel myself start to change. My body would start to rock and my senses start to sharp. I would normal pull back but not tonight. The full moon had too much control and I just stood there in the opening of my secluded home and let the change take me over. "Damn this hurt" was my last coherent thought as a man.
I hit the ground running. Knowing every inch of the 25 acres I had surrounding my home. God I love this feeling. The feeling of power just under my skin... well maybe fur would be more accurate. My change had happened about 3 years ago on my 21st birthday. I was just sitting here in my back yard staring at the full moon when I dropped to my knees in pain. I had never felt anything like it. I crawled over to the pond that I had installed a few months back and about passed out at the sight of my face. My mouth pulled tight from pain was starting to transform into a long dog like snout. Looking at my hands I saw golden blonde fur start to stretch across my slightly tanned skin. That was the last thing I remember before I gave my conscience over to the pain and everything went black. When I came to I went to sit up but found myself sitting at a crouch. Looking into the pond an astonishingly huge golden color wolf stared back at me. "Oh my god" was my first thought. Then I felt the urge to run, and run I did. For almost 3 hours that is all I did. I couldn't believe the feeling of freedom, of power, of absolute ecstasy that rolled through my veins. I was hooked like a drug, and I couldn't imagine not having this power in me.
That had been three years ago. And I have learned how to control that power. But I soon realized that along with the power came a need to feed. As horrendous as it sounds, I prefer everything raw. I mean the bloodier the better. I guess it is the animal in me. And tonight I felt the need to feed more than ever. So I took off running, moving almost too fast for human eyes to see. I was halfway through my hunt when I smelt it; that amazing scent from my dreams. I had to be imaging it, didn't I? She didn't exist, but I was drawn in the direction it was coming from. My dick getting harder and harder the closer I got. Oh my god, what the hell is going on? I let out a low growl of pleasure and pain as I feel myself start to feel my throbbing cock want to bury itself in the source of the scent. Could this really be happening? Could my dreams really be coming true?
Then I catch another scent. Now a growl of anger and possessiveness scrapes past my sharp canines. Another wolf had caught her scent and was on the move to claim her either as his meal or as his mate. I couldn't let that happened. I had no real right to her, but she was my dream. I wouldn't let anyone do anything to her. She was MINE! Trying very hard to focus on what I was going to do was very difficult as my body struggled against my mind for control. I would find them in just a few seconds and I had to figure out what I was going to do. They were in the park. I could see him stalking behind her. She keeps turning to see if she is followed. Very smart cookie, my dream girl. A branch snaps causing her to turn again right as the black wolf comes into view teeth bare. I pull my muscles and spring across the air and land hard into his side as he starts to jump at her. She screams, so painfully loud it hurts my ears, but I have to keep her safe. I have to. She was all that mattered now that I found her. I was going to make her love me.
The black wolf senses my strength and leaves with his tail between his legs. I turn to see her. She had passed out in her fear. I pad my way over to her, trying against all hope to keep my body under control. God she is beautiful, more so than in my dreams. I softly brush the hair away from her face with my nose, the scent of it causing my dick to harden yet again tonight. I couldn't help myself as I press my tongue against her neck. I just had to taste her. "Oh my god, bad idea" I think to myself. What the hell am I suppose to do now? I look up and come face to face with the full moon.
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Extraordinary
Chapter 1: When I Lie
Christina Henderson is standing in the center of the stone circle naked and in pain. Shed doesn't want to be here and she's afraid of what is supposed to happen. Afraid is not a strong enough word to describe how she is feeling, perhaps panic or paralyzing terror is more accurate. She takes a ragged breath as she scans the area around the stone circle hoping to see anyone she might recognize, but all she sees is the faceless monsters only psychopaths could ever dream up.
Christina has no clue why she of all people is being thrust into this unbelievable situation but she can pin point the start of what led up to this horrific moment. It all started when she lied, nothing ever good happens when she lies. See, she is not quite twenty-one yet. With her unique fashion sense that usually consisted of mismatched, whimsical clothing that messily draped over her lanky frame and naturally high-pitched voice she could easily pass as an awkward freshman in high school. It should not come as a surprise that she was a wee bit nervous to buy her first fake id.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
"Chrissy come on, you're almost twenty-one. I promise no one will notice." Christina's best friend Lilly said with a hint of annoyance in her voice. Since childhood Lilly had been such a troublemaker she actually thought her name was "No" until she was five years old. Now at the age of twenty-two she was a force of nature. She had become friends with Christina in third grade when Nick Samuelson pulled Lilly's platinum blonde piggy tails. Nick had pulled her hair so hard that Lilly had fallen over and hit her head against the merry-go-round. Christina had marched right up to Nick and poured glue on him and called him a booger head. Ever since that day they had been best friends or partners in crime as their parents liked to say.
"I think the id looks great, now quit whining and come on before you make us late. " Rem said anxiously while shoving Christina's purse into her hands. Rem had recently been hired as the new CNA at the nursing home Lilly and Christina work at and all three had instantly clicked. It was easy to get along with Rem's sweet personality but there was just something about her that was a little quirky that had endeared her to Lilly and Christina.
The three friends were going to a new club called Undertones which already had rave reviews. As the girls walked up to the door to the club Christina couldn't shake the dread creeping up her spine, leaving the hair on the back her neck on end. She was nervous about the fake id sure, but to her this felt like she was in danger. When she stopped Rem turned around and cocked her head with a look of compassion and curiosity written in her eyes.
"What's wrong now?" Rem said as she walked up to Christina's side and sighed when the only response she got was a mere shrug. With an encouraging and reassuring tug on her hand Rem practically dragged a nervous Christina to the bouncer.
At the bar Lilly ordered some fruity drinks and started to chat about all the hotties that were at the club that night. When Christina didn't put her two cents in the other two girls glared at her with growing annoyance. She mumbled something incoherent to appease her friends but was trying to hatch a plan to leave early. She was more a home body anyways; she would rather curl up on her overstuffed chair reading a good book then to be crammed in a small club like sardines with strangers.
When the drinks finally arrived the small group found a table near the back to occupy. It had the best view of the crowd and assured that Christina wouldn't bolt for the door when the others weren't paying attention.
Christina had just begun to relax when a fight broke out in front of her table. Two huge men were rolling around on the floor as a large crowd started to form around them. To Christina it looked like the smaller man was losing, he had blood coming out of his nose with a black eye already forming while the other man looked to be relatively unharmed. Just then the larger man picked up a chair and slammed it over his opponent's head, as it splintered the girls all winced and grabbed their drink just in case.
While Christina was getting up Rem nudged her side and pointed to a rather large man making his way through the crowd. This man made everyone in the whole club look like midgets in comparison. Rem had an expression of apprehension and adoration across her face while she literally stared at the man. Christina on the other hand felt like an ant in his presence, he was nearly seven feet tall with muscles on top of his muscles which just emphasized her petite, sleek frame.
The mammoth of a man made it to the fighting men just as they both rose to their feet. He stepped in between them intent on breaking up the fight. This only angered the smaller man and he tried to lash out at the intruder and was surprised when he missed. The whole club was shocked when he not only missed but overshot his target and instead landed the blow on Christina's mouth as he toppled over the flimsy table.
It only took a few seconds for the man and table to be pulled off but it felt centuries to her. When she was finally in a sitting position with every eye in the club on her she closed her eyes fighting the dizzy feeling threatening to overwhelm her. A pair of plate sized hands steadied her and the man who broke up the fight came into her vision when she opened her eyes.
"I'm deeply sorry for what happened. Does your head hurt?" he said with a concerned frown. She actually had to think about that as she lifted her hand to her head, wincing when she touches the goose egg on the back of her head.
He easily cradled Christina in his arms while he carried her through the crowd. An electrified sensation coursed through her body as her hand briefly touched his neck. They keep an almost intimate eye contact for a few moments in frozen suspension before he found a path leading to an office. He laid her down as if she would break on a dark brown leather couch making sure not to touch her bare skin again. He found his feet and began to leave but not before he frowned once more at Christina.
Just a few moments later a tall exquisite woman with legs up to her neck came in followed by Rem and Lilly. The tall woman introduced herself as Heather and pressed some ice wrapped in a towel to Christina's swollen and bleeding lip. They started to talk at the same time as Christina looked dazedly into space, barely hearing a word of what is said. When it got quiet she realized Lilly just asked her a question.
"What?" Christina sheepishly smiles at her friends. This only made all three of the women start talking at the same time at a faster rate.
The man who had carried Christina came in looking annoyed. "You're hurting her with your exasperating chatter. Why don't you three go outside and wait for the ambulance, I'll look after her." Lilly looked at Christina's face and actually appeared guilty. Christina couldn't remember a time she had ever seen her best friend look guilty before. Lilly nodded and without saying a word pulled Rem behind her leaving the frowning man alone with a slightly dazed Christina.
He slowly stalked to the couch like one might imagine a lion stalking a gazelle. He kneeled beside the couch so that he was eye level with her while he quietly introduced himself, "I am Axel Craigler, I'm the owner of the club and I can't express how sorry I am you got hurt."
He lifted his deep mocha eyes to her face with a raised eyebrow when she remained silent with her arms crossed over her chest as if she could ward off all the wickedness of the world. With measured movements he lifted his hand to lower the towel from her injured lip; gently he brushed her lower lip with his thumb sending electricity shooting through both of their bodies again.
With surprise he retracted his hand and slowly said, "You've got a pretty nasty split lip and your eyes aren't tracking movement well. We've called an ambulance, they'll be here soon. Do you need anything?"When she just shook her head he stared at her in the hope that she would eventually get the hint to speak.
Christina opened her mouth to say she was fine but froze when he lowered his head and leaned closer to her in order to sniff at her neck.She had never been sniffed like that before which caused her to bolt up and started rubbing her neck where he had just been. This offended him and his frown grew into a glare causing inexplicable fear to jolt through her.
She found herself running haphazardly through the crowd while being dizzy and unable to see well, but none of that stopped her racing heart or the pounding of her feet against the floor in a dead sprint. She didn't even stop when she made it outside and Rem and Lilly started calling her name, she heard the sirens of the ambulance and the shouting of her friends but the need to flee was too great to ignore.
She was utterly out of breath and truly exhausted when she randomly sat down and took the time to look around. She was in someone's front yard in a neighborhood she didn't recognize but she finally felt safe. She flopped back onto the soft grass while panting trying to recover her breath. She covered her eyes with her arm when she heard a door open somewhere behind her.
Even with the knowledge that she was not alone she knew she was not in danger but more importantly she felt as if she was being stared at. She let out a startled yelp when she lifted her arm and opened her eyes to see a craggy old face smiling down at her; the face was so close she could see her own startled expression in the eyes of her watcher.
"You're late."
She had a twisted, confused expression upon her round face so the elderly man proceeded to help her up before he ushered her to the front door of the house right behind them.
He tried to ease her confusion, "You must try not to be late in the future." This command was met with soft chuckling, Christina truly thought she was starting to lose what little mind she had but the old man chuckled along with her, only this deepened the confusion for now she wondered what they were laughing at.
Inside the little house she sat down on a rickety old chair and looked around the room while the old man poured her a cup of tea. It looked like a library had grown up here and was now uncomfortably living in a space too small; thousands of books lined every surface and every wall the space could afford.
When he handed her a cup of tea he introduced himself, "I am Jerry Homefield. I am your guide, welcome to my home." She took a sip of the bitter tea and smiled half-heartedly at him before she opened her mouth to speak he interrupted her, "Yes I know you are Christina. I've been waiting a long time for you." She was truly tired of being interrupted so the fact that he knew her name didn't seem to matter at the moment.
"Why does everyone keep interrupting me? I would like to speak." She said with a little flash of anger.
Jerry smiled at her patiently, "What would you like to say dear?" She frowned into her teacup and couldn't think of anything to say so she just huffed. This made Jerry chuckle, "Why don't you get some rest and we'll talk in the morning." She shrugged and asked him to call me a cab.
This is the first time Jerry frowned, "You just got here. You can't go home."
Christina stood up and countered him, "Watch me."
He turned on a TV that was hidden in between to stacks of thick books and quickly found the news channel.
He turned up the volume so she could hear as she walked towards the front door, "Luckily the resident Christina Henderson was not home. Witnesses say that a group of men broke into the home and left as the house was engulfed in flames..."
Christina stood speechless as she watched her home burn to the ground.
|
Between the motion and the act.
When she gasped awake this time, she wasn't sure if it was because of the dream, or because of the distant shudder she could feel shaking the walls, the bunk. Even close to the ground, the vibrations travelled up, up, into the frame of the cot, into her bones.
It stopped, and there was only dripping and the sound of fast, shallow breaths.
“Doctor,” she said, struggling up onto her elbows, shadows and blurs clearing into shapes as her vision slowly sharpened. Not a looming silhouette this time, but a crumpled, lonesome shape in the corner by the door. Blue like the early sky. “Oh, god,” she said quietly. “Doctor, is that—are you—”
The Doctor lifted her head, hood falling behind her. Her tangled hair caught green and she was bone white in the gloom, eyes wide and dark. She blinked, slowly.
“Yaz,” she said, after a long moment. Like she'd had to dig herself out of her own head. She smiled delicately, and it stretched thinly over whatever was underneath. “Dreamin' again?”
That was the question, wasn't it.
“Yeah,” she said. “It's alright, though. Are you—d’you want a bunk?”
“Wasn't sleeping,” the Doctor said mildly, struggling to her feet. Warm, green light fell across her in haphazard stripes and illuminated the fine layer of dust settled across her coat, caught in her hair. Windswept.
“What were you doing, then?”
“Oh. Thinking. I suppose.” She trailed her fingers absently across the wall, approaching quietly. They didn't move quite right. Her wrist was still broken. She'd freed it from Ryan's makeshift sling. Out of necessity, maybe, but—it made Yaz wince to think about. “You know,” she breathed, stopping at the hole in the wall, still fixated. “In my head, I got us all out of this two days ago. Everything just—fell into place, like it always does, and we—” Her hand dropped from the wall. “I'm so sorry, Yaz. I'm still workin' on it. Promise.”
She looked stretched thin, though. Defeated. So dripping in guilt she was wearing it like a cape. It drenched everything else away from her, scalded away the optimism and the hope and the belligerence. All the things they relied on her for.
“It's okay,” Yaz said, as bright as she could manage, quiet in deference to Ryan and Graham. Trying to recapture some of what was missing, but it wasn't as convincing, coming from her. “We're—we're trying, too. Talking to people. There's gotta be some way the four of us can—”
But she trailed off, unsure.
“What do you dream about?” the Doctor asked, evading, dodging. Switching subjects, because that was what she did best, but it was less chaotic in the dark, when it was just the two of them alone.
“The universe.” Yaz indulged her, after a moment of consideration. The Doctor was hard to lie to, even when probably it would have been kinder. “Whole galaxies, stretched out in front of me. It's beautiful. But I’m—drowning in it.”
“I'm sorry,” she whispered. She stepped closer, until her face was in the gloom again.
“Why?” Yaz sat up carefully, sheets rustling. “It's not your fault.”
The Doctor crouched beside her, coat fluttering, worn and singed like its owner.
“Isn't it?”
No, she wanted to say. Of course it's not. But the words wouldn't leave her throat.
“Are you alright?” she asked instead, staring into those eyes. “Really?”
“I should be asking you that.”
“I don’t—” Yaz frowned. “I'm fine. We all are. We're non-collateral, just like you asked for.”
“Not—not like that, that's not—”
“What do you mean, then?” she asked, frustrated.
“Your face,” she tried, mouth twisting, hands hovering around Yaz's cheekbones like she might reach out and touch but couldn't quite manage it. Awkward and hesitant. Just like always. “It's all—flat. Even before we came here, it was—you were—did I do that?” she asked breathlessly, brow creased. Her eyes were shining, dark and glassy against the sickly pallor of her face, but she was confused. Like she knew it was her fault but couldn't figure out how. “I've been thinking. I've been—watching. You were so bright,” she whispered, tapping her on the nose gently, pained. “You've gone all—flat and sharp and—sad. Is that what that is?” Those eyes searched her own. “Sad?”
“Of course I was sad,” Yaz said. “You left.”
I was gonna come back. She waited for that familiar refrain, even though it became less believable every time she spouted it. Less believable to her, as well, and maybe that was what made it so hard to swallow. But she didn't bother, this time.
And maybe that was even worse, then.
“You have a life,” the Doctor whispered. “A family, a job, a sofa, a—a place in the universe. You were gonna be fine. You were gonna be magnificent.”
“Is that really what you thought?” Her voice was cracking, but for once she didn't care. It wasn't like she could stop it. And the Doctor was right, wasn't she, it was all sharp and flat and sad, dragged up her throat like gravel, but she couldn't stop that either. “You showed us the entire universe, and then you dumped us back in South Yorkshire. How could that ever be enough, after all that? For anyone? I love my family, I miss my family, I—believed in my job, in what I was doing, but it's all so small,” she said, awful pressure building behind her eyes, terrible, embarrassing, unexpected. “It's so small. And you left me trapped there,” she said through tears. “You left me trapped there and you didn't even say goodbye and I missed you—”
But she bit back the rest of the words, cornered them in the back of her mouth, behind her teeth.
“How could I not want more?” she whispered. “How could I? How could anyone?”
“Yaz,” the Doctor said, carefully, dismayed. But none of it mattered.
“And I got more, didn't I,” she said bitterly. Homesickness, sour at the back of her throat. Guilt. “I got more. And now we're going to die here, millions of miles from home, and I still can’t—can't decide if I regret it or not. I think it might be worth it,” she breathed. “The universe. You. I think it might be worth all this.”
The Doctor only looked at her dully, dismayed.
“When I asked you to believe in me,” she said. “That's not what I meant.”
Yaz gazed back at her, eyes feeling puffy, mouth tense. “Isn't it?” she asked quietly. “I don’t—that's not a judgement. It's not for me to judge, it won't ever be for me. But what do you expect? You're amazin',” she said. “You're like a miracle. You're not at all what I thought you were, once, but it still doesn't matter to me, not really. You talk in circles and you think you know better than everyone else. You hide yourself from yourself and from us. You break your own rules, but you expect everyone else to uphold them. You abandoned us the second you got a bit scared. And it hurt, and I'm cross, but I don't care.” She breathed shallowly, feeling far away from herself. Untethered. “I don't care. And I think that should probably scare me, but it doesn't.”
“It's not that I think I'm any better than you,” the Doctor said, pained, trying, trying. “Or that I think I'm somehow exempt, that's not—that's not—who do you think the rules are for?” she demanded, unexpected, and her eyes were wet now too, shining damply in the gloom. “I'm not what you think I am, I don't want faith that's unconditional, I need—”
She swallowed, recalculating.
“People like you and Ryan and Graham don't need rules,” she tried again, gesturing, “you just need guidance. You don't have,” her breath hitched, horrible, “the experience that I do, that means you have an excuse. It means you still have a chance.”
“A chance for what?” Yaz asked, and in the silent breath between them she could have reached out, could have touched. She didn't.
“A chance to—a chance to avoid—” The Doctor swallowed, looking strained. “Taking a life is not—” she tried, scattered. She took a shuddering breath. “I tried to explain, earlier. It's not something that goes away.” She snatched at Yaz's right hand without warning, fumbled it into a fist and pressed it against Yaz's own heart. “It sits,” she said, her eyes still damp and insistent, her grip cool against Yaz's own. “Right there. Forever. Death doesn't take it away. Nothing does. And I would do anything to spare you that. If I could spare the whole universe of it, I would.”
“But that's not your job,” Yaz said, dismayed. She felt her heart pound hollowly through the bones of her ribcage. Distant and far away, like maybe it was someone else's heartbeat. But even detached from it all, even against the untethered thought that they were having two separate conversations, somehow, she could still understand. This was what made the Doctor dangerous. Wasn't it? Not any of the rest of it, not her fear, or her anger, or her hypocrisy, or whatever else had tangled together and made Graham cross. It was her guilt. The leftovers of it, anyway. No one else should ever have to feel like this, and what did that mean, in practice? Where did it lead? Where did it stop?
If all the rest of them could still be saved, then where did that leave her, at the end of it?
Yaz felt the back of her neck chill, felt cold fill her lungs. Already lost, she thought, distant, answering the question for herself. Understanding things she hadn't understood before, context sliding in with a final, sickening thump. And with her finger on the button.
“Isn't it? I tried counting them all, you know,” the Doctor said, bruised fingers still gripped around Yaz's fist, pressed up against her chest. “All those lives. All those children. It turned me into a monster. And then I tried to forget them and it did just the same.” A tear traced a thin line down the curve of her cheek, but she didn't move, not a muscle. “And then it had never happened at all, but I still remember it and it all still just—sits. And I can't forget, but I can't sit and count them all, and so all I can do is—is—”
Run, she didn't say, but it was written there, behind her eyes. Darting like a fish between reeds.
“That's why I had to go. I thought maybe I could be what you thought I was, but I kept getting it wrong. And then there was the Dalek, and then—and then I put you in danger, real danger, and I nearly—I nearly lost you. All of you.” Her voice cracked. “And you would have sat there, with all the rest. But I never meant to hurt you,” she whispered, red-eyed and sincere and terrible. “I never meant to lie to you, I was just trying to live up to a promise I made to myself. To you, even if you didn't know it. I was just trying to keep you safe. That's all I ever mean to do. Can you—can you—”
But she couldn't even bring herself to ask.
“There's nothing to forgive,” Yaz whispered. “Don't be stupid,” she begged, even though it wasn't quite exact enough, wasn't quite what she knew she needed to say. It was too dark, here. They were all too tired. “We're best friends, all of us. Graham's right, we made a choice to travel with you, we knew what we were getting into. Have you ever stopped to think maybe we're looking out for you as well? That we want you safe just as badly as you want us to be?”
She was so, so close to getting it. Yaz could see it in her eyes. But there was a distant clang at the door and her head turned, away.
“No, please, please don't leave.” She tangled her fingers open, clasped the Doctor's hands in her own. And it edged too close to begging, again, selfish, childish, but she couldn't stop herself. “Please. I don't want to have dreamed you, I just want you to be here.”
“I am here,” the Doctor whispered. Desperation leaked out from behind her eyes, but resignation smothered it. Exhaustion. “I promise.”
“Then stay. Let us help.”
“You're not gonna die here, Yasmin Khan.” She withdrew from Yaz's grip and stood from her crouch, wincing. “Just—just give me a little more time. I’ve got an idea.”
“Doctor, please,” she said, but those cold fingers were at her temple again, and she felt calm slip over her like a cool sheet, unnatural. Felt the tears cool on her cheeks, felt her hands still on her lap. Sleep weighing her down like a blanket, and she couldn't fight it, couldn't stop it. “Please,” she whispered, eyelids heavy. “Be careful.”
Bony hands caught her as she went limp and helped her back onto the mattress. They gingerly smoothed away the hair from her face, tugged the sheet up to her neck. “It's alright. Brave heart,” she heard as she drifted away. “Brave heart.”
“We've got to do something,” she told Ryan and Graham over breakfast, sticking her fork emphatically into her pile of mush, fingers aching. “We can't just keep waiting.”
“Isn't that what the Doctor basically told you to do, though?” Ryan asked, skeptical. Worried. “This is just what she does, isn't it, she ducks in and out without telling you anything, and then it all comes together when you least expect it. You said she said she had an idea.”
“She doesn't plan,” she protested, worry kicking at her heart, thrumming at the base of her throat. Inaction, unease, settled there, sour. “She told us herself, she's just—making this up. She shouldn't have to do it alone. It's not—”
She swallowed, knuckles whitening around her fork.
“It's not good for her to be here,” she said, which sounded ridiculous out loud. It wasn't good for any of them to be here. It wasn't good for the people that lived here to be here.
“Of course it's not,” Ryan said, face still twisted with worry. “If she's Topside, she's in more danger than all of us. I don't know about what your old ladies are saying, Yaz, but the blokes behind the counter seem to think we're a few days away from being blown off the face of the earth. Of the—Tropos. Of the planet. We're in trouble, basically. There's been loads more breeches they're coverin' up.”
Yaz looked to him miserably. “I know,” she said. Though the danger felt muffled, in the trenches. It was all shakes and rumbles from above, and very little in the way of present threat, even though the idea of it lingered.
He looked back at her. “So, what are we gonna do?”
“I don’t—” She took in an unsteady breath. “I’m not in charge. And we can’t—”
Her hand went to her neck, unbidden. The three of them glanced up, into the walls, into the wires just beyond, but the Computer remained silent.
“I’m not sure what we can do,” she whispered, waiting for a warning jolt that never came.
“We’ll just have to keep on, love,” Graham said, reaching across to cover her hands with his own. “Nothing we can accomplish over breakfast, anyhow.”
He wasn’t wrong. But it stung all the same.
“I feel useless,” she said, knowing it was a pointless, obvious complaint. There was worry lodged permanently under her throat now, the echo of cold hands on her cheekbones.
“You’re far from useless,” Yose pointed out, having crept up behind her shoulder. “You’re assisting in the war effort, after all.”
All three of them jumped in their seats.
“For god’s sake,” Graham protested, expression souring. “There’s no need to sneak up like that.”
Yose, to his credit, did look rather sheepish. A hand scraped absently at the back of his unkept hair. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “I’m here to escort you all to your posts again.”
“Is your great, omniscient babysitter not up to the task of enforcement?” Graham muttered, standing with a muffled groan. Yose winced at the term, but the Computer didn’t react.
“Not programmed for insults, maybe,” Ryan said to her quietly as they stood to join him, filing in behind Yose as he lead them through the mess hall. Their discussion had been interrupted, but it was clearly far from over. “Don’t worry, Yaz,” he said, turning to the kitchens with grim resignation. “We’ll sort it.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” she muttered in reply, raising a hand in acknowledgment. The back of Yose’s nervous shoulders beckoned. “See you at dinner.”
Polish, reset, repeat. Roz’s eyes burned into her back as she worked, worry lodged under her throat, until her fingers were cramped and burning. The silence was even more thick today, tense with something no one would talk about, until it came to a horrific boil a few minutes before dinner.
There was a painful screeching, a rolling shudder that shook the entire trench. In the distance, Yaz heard a mournful alarm begin to wail.
“Another section breech,” Roz murmured to her, nudging her gently with a bony elbow when she paused. She went back to work numbly, mind spinning. “Closer every day.”
“Those alarms—” Yaz ventured quietly.
“Mean there were people involved in the breech. They’ll have been salvaged, hopefully.” Roz sighed. “Dear me.”
Yaz finished the rest of her shift in silence, hands tingling numbly, worry sick in the pit of her stomach. The mess hall, when she stumbled blearily in, was thrumming with a nervous energy. Word of the breech had spread, evidently. But the truth was hard to come by when you were an outsider.
“We need to move faster,” she told the others over dinner, scrubbing her hands down her face. “We need to know more, we need to do somethin'. We're no good like this, all split up, we're trapped, like the rest of them.”
“You said the Doctor told you to give her more time, though.” Ryan frowned. “If you even saw her. You're sure you didn't just imagine it all? Why didn't she talk to the rest of us?”
“You were sleeping,” she protested. “It was just—coincidence. I think. Besides, I would have dreamed her different. Better. She was,” she tried, fingers twisting into a fist, white-knuckled. “She's not—”
“She was off even before we got here, love,” Graham pointed out, washed out in the gloom, exhausted. “And I'm sure it's not easy, but you've got to remember, it's the Doc. She's more than she's been letting on, clearly. And I don't have to like all of it, but one thing I'm sure of is that she's much tougher than she looks.”
“Not by herself,” Yaz insisted. “Not when she's alone.”
“She's not alone. We're right here.” Graham set down his fork. “We're doing all we can, which is just holdin' on, for now. Just like she asked.”
“Okay, but,” Ryan said, a hand scraping the back of his head, almost sheepishly. Frowning, like he was considering something. “Can't believe I'm sayin' this, actually,” he muttered. “Not to flip on you, Gramps, but—what if Yaz is right? What if—what if you were right? A bit. Don't think too much of it. Isn't the point of all this maybe that our days of doing what the Doctor says without questioning any of it are over?”
He had no immediate reply to that. He picked his fork up and dragged it through his own pile of mush, thinking. “Maybe that is the lesson,” he muttered, after a moment. “Don't worry, I won't let it go to my head. Right, then. I'm all ears.” He looked up at the two of them, worn and kind and complicated.
“Gramps,” Ryan said, frowning.
“Oh, don't,” he protested. “I'm tired and I don't know what I think. All I can think, is that I'm worried about the two of you. And the Doc. And that your nan would want me to keep you safe, no matter what, and I—well, I haven't done a very good job of that, now have I.”
“You've done the best you could.”
“Have I? Some days I wonder.” He shook his head. “It were right of us to go off on an adventure. I don't regret that one bit. Grace would have wanted that for you, I know she would have. But it's all turned out a bit more complicated than that, hasn't it. She wouldn't have wanted you here. She wouldn't have wanted you in danger. And the Doctor—well, it's complicated. Right?” He pushed his plate away, still piled high with sludge. The chip in his neck glinted as he moved. “It's complicated, and that's alright. Maybe we should have asked more questions, right from the start.”
“She would have answered them, I think,” Ryan said quietly. “But she were just as happy not to.”
They'd all been a bit too happy not to dig too deeply, Yaz thought, slumping in her chair, arms crossed. Tuning out the mix of voices and the constant dripping tiredly, feeling an ache start to blossom behind her eyes. A bit too happy to ride along, a bit too happy to play the part of tourists, to let the Doctor settle into the part of tour guide, when really she was something else. Something more, something—indefinable. Something complicated. She understood a bit better now, she thought.
It hadn't been a dream. That conversation. It had woven and shook a bit like a dream had, but it had felt real. Tangible. Terrible. And somehow—private. A secret. She'd kept its contents for herself, but she wasn't sure whether it was to protect herself or the Doctor.
“We're all a bit right,” she whispered, straightening with a concentrated effort. Jaw clenching. “And we're all we've got, here. It's not just your job, Graham, or just the Doctor's. We have to look out for each other.”
“That means the Doctor, too.” Ryan drummed his fingers against the table. She could hear his foot tapping, underneath. “So what are we gonna do? Graham?”
“I told you, I'm all ears,” he said. “Don't defer to me 'cos I'm old. I'm perfectly happy to be told what to do, so long as it involves a lunch break.”
Yaz smiled, though the corners of her mouth felt dry and uncomfortable.
“I think—” she started, tension coiled tightly at the back of her throat, worry that was burrowed deep, sour, but a shadow fell across their table, still. For a moment, her heart jumped to her throat, the treacherous thought that they'd been caught after all crossing her mind before she could stop it, that the Computer had suddenly taken exception to them after all. She looked up, pulse pounding loudly in her ears. Over the din, over the dripping, over the distant shudder of the front's encroach.
“I think,” Major Stet said, white-faced, eyes wide and dark. “That you had better come.”
|
Water striders are seemingly magical insects that "stride" along the surface of water. The secret to this ability lies in their legs - multiple tiny hairs that capture air, buoying them above the water. It works for them particularly because water molecules attract each other and bond together, creating this delicate membrane at the surface with the air above and the water below. Water striders glide across this membrane, staying upright and surprisingly dry.
So maybe it isn't magic. But science is its own brand of fascination, illuminating the hows and whys of the world around us the best it can with the tools we currently have. Doesn't make the magical seeming things any less valuable, or less profound. Understanding how small beings walk on water as if it were as solid as the ground, or how water behaves under different conditions, can lead us to a world of wonder.
It's in the details: wonder. It's all in the details.
After Saturday yoga with Jo and Peri, Greg rushed home to vacuum his floors and make his bed with fresh sheets. A pile of cat puke on the sofa surprised him - are you fucking kidding me? - but Scratch seemed otherwise himself, so he pushed the worry from his mind and scrubbed the couch cushion clean. Followed with a shower, Greg decided to forgo shaving and dress simply in cargo shorts and a navy polo.
A salad he made the night before sat in the fridge. He figured the man would appreciate it after he noticed Mycroft’s lighter fare in the meal photos they’d shared.
The chicken was on the grill by the time his doorbell rang.
Mycroft looked relaxed in a white button up and slim fitting khakis, offering up a bottle of white wine with a fancy looking label.
Greg grinned. “Another Connecticut wine?”
Mycroft bowed his head. “This is a new favorite of mine from France. The Chevalier Montrachet Grand Cru , with hints of chestnut and limeflower. Exquisite and light on the palate. I think we shall enjoy it.”
Greg stood back to let him in. “Sounds delicious. Why don’t you open it up and I’ll get the chicken from the grill. The wine glasses are in the cabinet by the fridge.”
“Of course.”
Damn, his voice is just perfect. He walked out the back door to the grill with a slow smolder in his groin. “There’s time for that later,” he told himself. The telltale arousal crept over his body anyhow. Mycroft looked good , all tall and summery in his light colored outfit. Stylish shoes, too.
He got the food off the grill and onto a plate, turned off the grill, and readied himself mentally. A nuthatch flew past and landed on the trunk of a tree, performing its miraculous little feat of walking down the trunk while facing the ground, as if gravity was of no concern. He watched the bird, letting his mind sink into the peace of the moment.
The distraction worked as his arousal cooled and he went back into the house feeling able to get through dinner without jumping the man’s bones.
Except no.
Mycroft stood with a wine glass in each hand, a soft smile on his face, and a hungry look in his eyes that had nothing to do with the plate of chicken Greg held. Arousal flushed his system again almost instantly.
Mycroft arched an eyebrow at Greg’s plate. “Chicken? Though, what’s that bit there?”
“That is fake chicken,” Greg laughed, his eyes on the bit of exposed collarbone at the top of Mycroft’s shirt. “It’s made from mushrooms.”
The hungry look disappeared from Mycroft’s face. “Why not just eat actual chicken?”
“This is healthier for me and for the planet,” Greg said simply. He placed the plate on the counter and gave Mycroft a challenging stare. “You’re not one of those people that likes to give vegetarians a hard time, are you?”
“Not at all, Greg. Forgive my impertinence. May I placate you with a glass of a very fine wine?”
“Now you’re talking.” Greg accepted the glass and took a sip. “Mmm. Delicious.”
“How long have you been a vegetarian?”
“Oh, about twenty years,” Greg said. “But, as I’ve said before, I eat meat a couple times a year. So, I’m not particularly strict.”
Why are we talking about this? The chicken’s off the grill. The salad can wait.
He stepped closer to Mycroft, who caught the movement and swept an appreciative glance up and down Greg’s body. A charge built in the stretch of air between them.
“Yes,” Mycroft said to some unspoken question. Greg took his wine glass and set both glasses on the table. He pressed his body against Mycroft’s and backed him up against the refrigerator, their mouths meeting, lipping at one another.
He sucked on Mycroft’s lower lip and the answering moan hit Greg like a lightning bolt. He rubbed his erection against Mycroft’s and Mycroft spread his legs, which lowered him just a bit and lined them up perfectly to slide shaft to shaft.
“Jesus Christ, this feels good,” Greg said as he moved to Mycroft’s neck to suck and kiss and nip.
“Yes,” Mycroft hissed and moved his hips against Greg’s.
Greg popped open the buttons of Mycroft’s shirt. He kissed that length of collarbone he was eyeing earlier, followed the planes of his pecs, and bit softly on Mycroft’s nipples.
“Oh God,” Mycroft breathed, and tangled his hands in Greg’s hair.
Greg dropped to his knees. His hands smoothed up Mycroft’s torso, found his nipples, and kept playing, stroking, pinching. He buried his face next to Mycroft’s zipper, rubbing his cheek alongside the man’s impressive length, pushing his nose into the crease of his khakis.
He heard Mycroft gasp, and he looked up to meet blue-grey eyes, looking at him with just the slightest hint of wonder.
“Yeah?” Greg said as he brought one hand down to Mycroft’s zipper.
Mycroft nodded, his eyes wide.
Greg unbuckled his belt and undid the button. He used his teeth to ease the zipper down. Mycroft watched the whole time, and licked his lips with a slow movement of his tongue.
Greg’s arousal burned low in his belly. His cock pressed against his shorts. The kitchen linoleum was unforgiving on his knees, but he couldn’t be bothered, not with the prize set before him.
A thin bit of silky material parted him from the hot, rigid flesh of Mycroft’s erection. Greg ran his hands along Mycroft’s thighs, fisted the material, and pulled the khakis down past his hips. The outline of Mycroft’s long, slender cock showed perfectly though pale blue silk briefs. Greg mouthed the shape, the warmth and scent of Mycroft’s cock clear through the material. Mycroft made small, needy noises in his throat.
Greg yanked the briefs down and swallowed his cock nearly whole. He inhaled the pleasant odor of Mycroft’s most intimate place - all musk, soap, and more musk. The cockhead hit the back of his throat. He relaxed the muscles as much as possible while his tongue worked along the bottom. He looked up just in time to see Mycroft slam his head back against the fridge. Greg watched him as he bobbed up and down. Mycroft’s hand went into his hair.
“Condom?” he said.
Greg pulled off with a pop. “Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Wait here.” His head spun as he shot up to a stand.
Mycroft’s hands grabbed his shoulders. “You alright?”
“Yeah, just dizzy for a minute,” Greg laughed as his head cleared. “I’ll get the condom.”
He ran up the stairs and into his bedroom to grab the box. Rushing back, he nearly tripped over the carpet in the living room.
Mycroft was still leaning against the fridge, his hands partially obscuring Greg’s view of his cock hanging out of his briefs. A slight flush and a bashful smile marked his face.
Greg grinned. “You’re gorgeous.”
Mycroft’s blush deepened. “Come here.”
Greg rushed him, their mouths smashing together in hungry, open kisses. He slid in a slow sinuous move to the floor, kissing Mycroft along his belly and the tip of his uncut cock. He moved the foreskin back and forth, watching the glistening head appear and disappear. Licked it again and smiled when Mycroft let out a gasp. He ripped open the condom packet and rolled it down, sliding that hard flesh back into his mouth. Mycroft’s fingers tunneled through Greg’s hair, and Greg hummed. His fingers tightened, but didn’t move Greg’s head for him, just held it, which zipped straight to Greg’s cock. Greg held the base of Mycroft’s shaft as he sucked and licked and tightened his lips around the head. Mycroft whined and moaned and squeezed his fingers in the roots of Greg’s hair.
Greg opened the front of his own shorts and pulled out his cock, fisting it with a tight grip.
“God, Greg, this feels fantastic.” Mycroft thrust his hips lightly and Greg hummed in answer. “Your mouth is incredible.”
Greg swallowed down as much as he could. The spongy head hit the back of his palate. He pulled off as he gagged. “Oh, sorry, but I love doing this,” he said roughly and sucked Mycroft’s cock back into his mouth to try again.
“Ah, God, Greg.” Mycroft whimpered. “Oh, I am, I’m…”
Greg’s dick stiffened further. A pleasurable tension escalated in his groin, and he jacked his cock as the pleasure spun tighter, compressing inward and then spiraling outward, rippling across his body in a sweet burst, his come spurting across the floor and hitting the lower edge of the refrigerator. He released his cock and looked up at Mycroft, who watched him with wide eyes as he lifted his hand so Mycroft could see drops of his semen smeared across his forefinger and thumb. He moved off Mycroft’s cock just long enough to lick his own come from his hand.
Mycroft breathed hard and heavy, licked his lips. “Oh, fuck.”
Greg grinned and went back down on the man’s cock. He went for the gold, bobbing his head up and down and sucking hard. His hand, wet from saliva, slid between Mycroft’s thighs and cradled his balls. Mycroft made a noise like he was releasing air with a loud grunt and his body went rigid. Greg hummed around his cock again as the man came in the condom with a long groan.
When Mycroft twitched from sensitivity, Greg backed off. He looked up with a wide grin as he tucked his cock back inside his boxers and buttoned himself up. Mycroft leaned down with one hand on his shoulder. “That was...the most provocative thing I have seen in some time.”
Greg chuckled. “Good. I loved it.” He grabbed the edge of the counter next to the refrigerator and pulled himself up, leaning Mycroft up against the fridge as he did. They kissed. Greg removed the condom and tied it, tossing it into the kitchen trash can.
Mycroft zipped up.
“Oops, watch where you’re stepping there,” Greg said.
“Oh, my.” Mycroft stepped away from the refrigerator.
Greg giggled nervously and grabbed a paper towel. “I’ll just clean it up.”
“I’m going to, uh, wash up. And then I suppose we’ll actually have lunch?”
“The chicken should be at the perfect temp to join the salad,” Greg said, chortling a bit as he kneeled to wipe up the floor. And the fridge.
Mycroft winked at him. “Perfect.”
Greg washed his hands at the sink. He got out two large bowls, and retrieved the salad from the refrigerator.
The salad was delicious, and the chicken - and his fake chicken - were indeed at the perfect temperature.
They chose a local sushi place for dinner. Mycroft told Greg about his travels to Japan and the various delicacies he tried while there. Greg ate an avocado roll and a sweet potato tempura roll, and listened with different levels of horror as Mycroft described some of his meals.
“You’re serious?”
“Very.”
“Listen, I don’t normally yuck someone’s yum, but I’m kind of grossed out.”
Mycroft laughed, like a clear ringing of a deep bell. “I beg your pardon? Did you say ‘yuck someone’s yum’?”
“Yeah, it's something we say to the summer camp kids. All sorts of opinions being tossed everywhere, and kids can get mean, y’know?” Greg added some pickled ginger and wasabi to his next piece of avocado roll. “So we say, ‘don’t yuck my yum.’ A kind of camp rule.”
“Sounds sensible.” Mycroft ate another piece of his sashimi. “Does Sherlock provide a role in your summer camp?”
“Sherlock is surprisingly good with kids. And, they like him. A lot. So he helps out on some activities. Usually involving rotten log hotel or pollinator catching.”
“Rotten log hotel?”
“All rotting logs are intricate ecosystems and homes for a lot of little critters. Sherlock helps identify a lot of the invertebrates, but also mosses, algae, and fungi. He makes it sound really fascinating. One of the games the kids like to play is ‘Stump Sherlock.’ They try to find things he can’t identify. It sends him into a tizzy that gets all the kids laughing.”
“Laughing?” Mycroft looked both surprised and delighted. “Is that so? I must admit I am relieved it seems to have worked out so well for him here. Mummy sending him out here to ‘the sticks’ of Connecticut, as Mrs. Hudson puts it, seemed a bit...excessive as a preventative measure.”
Greg’s curiosity piqued - one, for what could have possibly sent Sherlock packing to Connecticut, and two, the disbelief that the word “mummy” was just uttered from Mycroft’s mouth. “Um...I won’t ask you for details, but I hope he wasn’t in any kind of trouble.”
“Nothing to worry you. Our mother is very taken with public appearance and how one should act. Sherlock didn’t meet her standards.”
Greg’s heart squeezed to think of Sherlock cast out like that. “Harsh.”
“Quite.”
“And...Mummy, was it?”
“Yes.” Mycroft patted his lips with the cloth napkin.
Okay then. “What’s she like?”
“Overbearing matriarch of a dying branch of the aristocracy.”
“Oh. That’s, quite the description.” Aristocracy?
Mycroft smiled, though he wasn't happy. “Quite.”
“And your dad?”
“Father is at her beck and call. He’s a musician and painter. He was a bit of a spendthrift before he married Mummy, or so I’m told. She put him on the straight and narrow. Gave up her career to support his, and to have us - the heir and the spare, and to flourish as a socialite.”
“ The heir and the spare? Is that still a thing?”
“In some places.” Mycroft’s mouth quirked.
“Are you close to them?”
“Not remotely, though I do see them from time to time in London. I usually try to take up the hours with museums...and musicals.” He shuddered as he said it.
“Not a fan of musicals, then?” Greg’s tongue stuck out between his teeth as he gave a teasing grin.
“I think some musicals are exquisite. Unfortunately, my taste and my mother’s are not on par with one another.”
“Peri’s really into musicals. She listens over and over and over to her favorite soundtracks. Drives Jo and I crazy.”
“I am almost afraid to ask.”
“ Rent and Les Mis .”
“Dear Lord, if I have to hear Les Mis one more time…”
Greg laughed. “Lately, she’s started listening to Into the Woods .”
“A Sondheim fan, then?” Mycroft smiled. “Acceptable.”
“Right now, yeah. By the end of the summer I might throw her speakers out the window.”
Mycroft chuckled. A moment passed where they ate in silence. Nothing awkward or heavy. Simply enjoyable.
“And, your parents?” Mycroft said, almost tentatively as his eyes shifted up to Greg’s and then away.
“Well, I never knew my dad. He left when I was a baby.”
“My apologies.”
“‘S okay. Mom did her best in raising us. My brother Dan is two years older. He doesn’t remember him. So, just the three of us, and I think we turned out just fine.” Except for the lack of family unity, but so what.
“And what does Dan do?”
“He’s a mechanic. Opened his own shop in the town we grew up in. Got married to his high school sweetheart. Has two kids, Nate and Evie.” He chewed his bite and swallowed. “His wife died while they were young. Breast cancer.”
“You mentioned that. Losing a spouse is an unfathomable thing.” His voice was somber.
“Yeah. He was never quite the same after, but mom helped him raise the kids.”
“How old are they?”
“Nate just turned eighteen. Evie turns thirteen this year.”
“And Peregrine is fifteen?”
“Yeah.”
“I might infer from your demeanor they were not too happy about your situation with Jo at the time.”
“Nah. And the difference is, they never quite got over it.” Greg’s stomach turned with the thought of them judging him over his life choices. “My brother and I used to talk a lot, but when I came out, we talked less. He was never...overly bigoted about it, but he wasn’t outwardly supportive either.” He stared at the last piece of avocado roll. “My mother thought it was a sign that I do like women, and she thought I could work it out with another woman.”
“Another woman? Not Jo?”
“No. Jo is...not my mother’s first choice,” Greg said.
Mycroft snapped his head back. “Oh?”
The old, conflicted feelings bubbled up.
“She’s...complicated,” Greg breathed out. “And ignorant. She’s never lived outside the town, and it’s a tiny town in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere. Lots and lots of white people. Lots and lots of straight, white people. They say things like ‘I’m not racist but,’ and ‘I’m not a bigot, but…’ It’s an epidemic of apologetic racism.” He looked out over the other tables, wondering if anyone could hear him. “Not to say Connecticut doesn’t have racism. Sammy got pulled over in some rich, white neighborhood once and they searched his car just to fuck with him. His mom was always on him about staying close to home. She’s afraid he’s going to get shot.” Greg met Mycroft’s eyes. “Connecticut has deep pockets of racism that have a lot to do with class and money. Here, you can see institutionalized racism at work. Where my mom lives, it’s a lack of exposure to people who aren’t white and to people who weren’t brought up the same way everyone’s been brought up in that town.”
Mycroft watched him with soft eyes. “Do you fear for your daughter?”
“Sometimes. It’s bad enough that as a woman, she’ll face challenges I never have to face. And as a black woman?” Greg shook his head. “She’ll have to work even harder.”
Mycroft nodded. “I am at a loss as to what to say, Greg. However, I imagine it is some comfort to Peregrine that her father is in her corner, as they say.”
Greg smiled, though it didn’t quite ease the small pain and fear that hid in a nook of his chest. “Always. It’s what a good father does.”
Mycroft lay his hand across Greg’s forearm and squeezed.
Greg didn’t want the evening to end. They’d talked all day about all sorts of things, like American football and British rugby - Mycroft explained the game to Greg. Greg talked his ear off about how he started in falconry and what the licensing process was. They shared a love for film noir - both having been captured by L.A. Confidential as teens, and then working their way backwards through the classics of previous decades. Greg was reading the books his daughter was reading, he admitted with a sheepish laugh, but then defended his choices as the dystopian trends of YA fiction spoke to very real human fears regarding climate change, zoonotic disease, nuclear war, broadening fascism, and the rise of A.I. Mycroft preferred to read memoirs and biographies.
It wasn’t long before the check was paid - by Mycroft who insisted - and the two were headed back to Greg’s house in his car. They drove home in relative quiet, the car speakers softly playing music from Greg’s phone.
“What band are we listening to?”
“Avett Brothers. I’m a big fan. Saw them a few months ago with Jo and Peri. Brandi Carlile opened for them. Great show.”
“Mm. They are rather skilled with their craft, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. We didn’t talk music, did we?”
“No, we didn’t.”
“I used to be all classic rock and 80’s. I’ve since taken a nosedive into folk and indie.”
“I don’t listen to music very often. I might listen to opera or a classical composer from time to time, but I prefer...silence, to be honest.”
“Oh. Should I turn it off?”
“Not on my account. I like to see you enjoying yourself.”
“Oh.” Greg’s insides warmed at that. “Okay. Good.”
It wasn’t long before they pulled into Greg’s driveway. The Lexus Mycroft drove gleamed in the headlights. Greg turned the engine off and the two men got out.
“So, um, I had a really good time today,” Greg said. “But, uh, would you like to come in?”
“I think I can be convinced,” and Mycroft’s voice dripped with ardor.
Greg's cock plumped. He grabbed Mycroft’s hand and nearly pulled him along to the front door. Scratch meowed at them in greeting. Greg ignored him and yanked Mycroft toward the bedroom.
They went wild with one another’s clothes. Greg might have popped one of Mycroft’s buttons and tripped over the corner of the bed, bumping his hip so hard hot pain flared in an outward spiral. Mycroft landed on the bed, laughing, while Greg swore and held his hip.
“Are you quite alright?” he said, wiping one corner of his eyes.
“Jesus, fuck, that corner’s sharp!”
Mycroft snorted with laughter again, so Greg jumped him, pushed him down on the bed and dove in for a kiss. They bumped noses but as soon as their mouths were properly aligned, they pressed their hips together and frotted velvet-skinned cock against velvet-skinned cock. Mouth on mouth, tongues tangled, grunts and passionate groans, and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting as their dicks slid together.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” Greg broke free to say.
“Greg,” Mycroft whined.
“You feel so good, god, so good. Where do you want me to touch you?”
“Just keep doing this, just keep pushing against me.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yes.”
Greg slid his hand over Mycroft’s chin and his fingers into his mouth. “Suck,” he ordered. Mycroft sucked, and twirled his tongue over the tips. Greg groaned and thrust against him, their skin warmed and sweaty as they pushed their hips together. “Oh, fuck, oh fuck.”
He pulled his fingers from Mycroft’s mouth and encircled their cocks. “You like this?”
“Oh, yes, oh yes, yes, yes.”
“You like the feel of my hand on your cock, huh? Like it when I touch you like this? God, Mycroft, you’re so big. That first time, when you fucked me, I was so full of you, I could feel you up in my stomach. You stretched me open so good and you dicked me so well, I felt like I could have come all over you without touching my cock.”
Mycroft let out a whine, his eyes squeezed shut and his head tossed back, hitting the mattress.
“You gonna come for me? God, I bet you’ll get us both so wet, I’ll be able to jerk my cock covered in your come.”
Mycroft cried out. Greg could feel warm liquid spill over his hand. He let go of Mycroft’s and grabbed his own, jerking hard, thinking of the man laid out beneath him.
“Talk to me,” he said.
Mycroft panted. “God, Greg, my - I can’t think.”
“Yeah, cuz I just made you come all over yourself, and now I’m going to cover you -” Greg’s vision whited out and his mouth opened in a soundless cry as he spurted, once, twice, and a third time, semen streaking across Mycroft’s torso. He continued stroking himself, and got one last aftershock as more dribbled out.
“Jesus Christ,” Greg said as he rolled over onto his side on the mattress.
“Indeed,” Mycroft replied.
Greg panted and laughed. “Yeah.”
“Yes.”
Greg grabbed some tissues and helped Mycroft to clean up.
Do I invite him to stay?
You’re lovely. Stay. Stay with me, please.
He turned his head to look at the beautiful man in his bed.
Mycroft’s chest rose up and down. He sat up. “Greg. Thank you.”
Greg lifted his brows.
“This has been...wonderful. I’m afraid I must take my leave.”
Greg was reminded of their first date, when Mycroft disappeared for almost two weeks.
Because it’s sex. It’s just sex and companionship and that’s it. Grow up and get over it.
He put on a smile and sat up in the bed. “Okay. Thanks for today. Stay in touch?”
Mycroft looked at him. “Yes. We’ll text.”
“Great,” he said as he flopped back in bed and put his arms behind his head.
Mycroft pulled on his clothes, and Greg watched, appreciating the slim length of the man.
Once he was all tucked and belted and buttoned, Greg got up from the bed and slipped on his bathrobe. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
As he walked down the stairs, Scratch rushed past his ankles. Mycroft tripped on the steps behind him and Greg caught him. “Jeez, you okay?”
“It was the cat!”
“The cat?”
“I uh, he was on the step.”
“Yeah, I felt him pass.”
“Apologies. Thanks for catching me.” His voice was quiet, embarrassed.
“Anytime,” Greg said.
At the front door, Greg thought about throwing his arms around Mycroft and kissing him goodbye. But that was a couple thing, wasn’t it? And they weren’t a couple, right?
“Thank you for a lovely time,” Mycroft said in that polished voice of his.
“My pleasure,” was Greg’s automatic reply. He opened the door.
Mycroft paused for a moment, but then darted out the door. “Goodnight, Greg,” he said.
It was all very awkward.
“Goodnight, Mycroft.” His heart squeezed.
Greg let out his breath in a rush, and shut the door, leaning his forehead against it.
|
Draco's POV
"Daco... Dacooo... Daco wake uh! Wake uh my Daco!"
I open my eyes slightly to see bright green eyes in front of mine, not even an inch away. My eyes widen and I had to remember that he's a baby, so if I screamed then he would probably be frightened.
He giggled and planted a drool filled kiss on my nose, then pushed himself off of my chest and sat up next to my face on the bed.
"Hi my Daco! You was sleepy so I wait. You up now! Hi!"
I sit up and rub my eyes. I look over to Harry and my eyes widen again. He's slightly bigger than yesterday, his hair is slightly longer. His black onesie looks too tight on him. Did he really grow that much over night?
I get out of the bed and walk over to the bathroom, turning on the water to start a bath. I hear small footsteps and look back in the room to see Harry slowly, wobbly, walking over to me. He looks like a penguin, tilting slightly with every step. How had he learned to walk? Just yesterday he could barely crawl.
I walked back in the bathroom and turned off the water, I put a few bubbles in, using my hand to mix it with the water.
"Come here, Potter. I forgot to bathe you last night." I turn towards him, and he stops toddling and looks up at me, angry. He sits down where he stood and crosses his small arms over his chest.
"Hawwy. I is Hawwy, you is my Daco. Hawwy. Hawwy. Hawwy! I is Hawwy! No pot'! Hawwy!" He screamed, his face turning red. Is there ever a time when he isn't crying?
I run over to him and pick him up before the tears start to fall. "Okay Harry, let's get you in the bath, yeah? There's bubbles. Do you like bubbles?" I asked, trying to get him to forget about his almost-fit.
It worked. "Yeah! I wuv bubbles, my Daco! I wuv bubbles an' I wuv you!"
My face turned to stone, although I'm not sure why. He's just a baby, and I'm taking care of him. Of course he would say that he loved me, right? Right.
I don't respond to him, I just take off his too tight onesie and his nappy and put him in the water that's only about two inches deep. He splashes and picks up some of the foamy bubbles. I lean down to pick up one of the few sponges on the side of the tub, and he puts bubbles in my hair.
I turn to face him quickly, anger evident on my face, but stop cold when he noticed me, fear trickling into his happy expression.
I frown slightly, befuddled by his awareness of my emotions. I smirk and put some bubbles in his own hair-- not enough to drip off, though.
"Ohhhh!" He coos, clapping his bubbly hands and spraying us both with the white foam.
I chuckle slightly, picking up the sponge and washing him. The whole time he was babbling incoherent words and playing with the bubbles.
Soon I got him out of the bath and dried him, then I tried to brush through his hair but decided to give up when nothing happened. I took him to his own room and slipped him in a fresh nappy. I looked through his clothes and immediately found a Slytherin green onesie and slipped him into it, too lazy to look through his other clothes. The clothes in the dresser seemed to have grown as much as he did, because he fits them all perfectly.
I head back to my room with Harry carefully walking beside me. He goes straight to my bed and struggles to pull himself upon it, but succeeds after only a couple attempts. I grab my wand from my pocket-- I must have slept with it-- and with one wave all of my clothes are off. Harry's a baby, he won't know what's going on. I go to my closet and pull out some underwear and a black muggle t-shirt and jeans.
"Ooooh!" I hear from behind me, and see Harry pointing at me. I role my eyes and hurriedly put the clothes on, hoping that he won't remember that when he's back to his regular age.
I walk over to the bed and hold open my arms to him. He smiles a cute toothy smile and practically jumps into my arms. I hold him in one arm on my hip and head to the kitchen.
I place him gently into the high chair and just as I turn around I feel a tug on my sleeve. I turn to face the baby.
"Daco I wan' snake."
I stare at him for a second. What snake was he talking about? "Come again?"
"Snake! Snake! Toy snake, Daco! I wan my snake!" He yelled excitedly, pointing towards his play pen that held all of his toys. Oh. That snake. I walk over to his pen and pull out the green and blue stuffed snake, damp from all of his drool.
"This is just revolting, Harry. It's covered in your saliva."
He squinted his eyes and reached out for the toy. "Gimme my snake, Daco! I wan' my snake!"
I walked over to him and held out the snake, but just as he reached for it I pulled it up higher in the air, just out of reach from his grasp.
He looked at me angrily, causing me to chuckle. "Daco! Snake! Mines!" He screamed, almost as loud as when he cried, but instead of sadness in his yells there was anger.
"I don't know, Harry, this snake looks really fun. I think I'll keep it." I placed the snake in my back pocket. " Yeah, I'm going to keep this. Now, are you hungry?"
Harry growled, yes, growled, under his breath and let out a a loud ear shattering scream. He tarted kicking his legs and hitting the small table of his high chair. His eyes began to water and his cheeks turned bright red.
His screams were loud and piercing, "My snake, Daco! Wan' my snake! Mines! Mines!"
"Why can't I have it? I want the snake too. Won't you share, Pot-- Harry?" I said, forgetting for a second that he dislikes the name Potter.
A few tears began to fall and he started crying lightly, but his screams were still loud. "My snake my baby Daco! Snake is baby Daco! I wan' baby Daco snake! Mines! Mines!"
Then he stopped thrashing and let out a heart breaking sob, letting his small head drop down to his chest. I took the snake out of my pocket, holding it in front of his face.
"This is your 'baby Draco'? I suppose you can have it back..." I pushed it to his chest, and he closes his arms around it, hugging it close to his chest, almost as tight as he holds onto me when he's in my arms.
"My snake, my snake, my snake... I wuv my baby Daco snake. Mines!" He whispers, wiping his tears with his little clenched fist.
Honestly, it's... Cute... That he calls his snake 'baby Draco', and I understand that he's a baby and he doesn't understand it, but... I hope he grows out of claiming that he loves certain things.
"How adorable," I hear a familiar, annoying voice say from behind me. "He named his snake Baby Draco. Only a day and he's already naming his things after you. You're doing pretty well, Drake."
I turn around to see none other than Pansy Parkinson, the chubby faced, snake tongued female that I claim as my best friend. In her hand she holds a small bowl of green mush, and a small spoon.
She walks over and hands it to me. "Here's some baby food. I was told to tell you that if you ever needed food, just call a house elf, or go to the Great Hall, like a normal person." She looked over to the still red faced Harry. " He's actually not the ugliest baby in the world... Can I hold him?"
"Pans', he's not my kid. I'm just watching him. By all means, hold him if he lets you."
"If he lets me?" She looks at me quizzically as she steps towards him. As soon as her hand touches him he screams and presses himself against the back of the chair, eyes wide.
"No! I no wan' you! No, no, no!" He screams, hugging his snake tighter to his chest.
Pansy backed up a step and put her hand to her chest in mock shock, her mouth hanging open. "Why do you only want Draco? I just want to hold you, Potter."
Harry's head snapped up, and he huffed loudly, sighing dramatically. "I Hawwy! Hawwy! No Pot'! Right, Daco?" He looked at me expectantly and I just laughed. His vocabulary had grown drastically since yesterday. I suppose that's a good thing, seeing as though he was growing an entire year in one week.
"Yeah Pans', he likes to be called Harry." He smiles at me and reaches his arms in my direction.
"Uh, Daco?" He pokes his lip out for extra effect I assume.
I pull a chair to the front of his high chair and sit his bowl and spoon down on the mini table attached to it. "No, you need to eat first."
"Eat, 'den uh?"
"Yes, eat then I'll pick you up."
He smiles and picks up the spoon, the small utensil barely held in his grasp. He scoops up the green mush, placing it into his mouth and dropping half of it on his clothes in the process.
He continues to eat as I turn to Pansy and began to talk to her.
"He likes you... A lot." She says, her eyes trained on him as he makes a mess of his food, half spilling on him and the other half somehow managing to make it in his mouth. I'm going to have to change his clothes when he's done...
"What makes you say that?" I absentmindedly wipe some of the green mush off of his cheek, rubbing it off on his shirt.
"As far as I've seen, he only likes it when you touch him. That says a lot for a... Wait, how old is he?" We both turn our heads to him expectantly.
"Two. I two." He holds up to fingers in front of his face, grinning from ear two ear. He looked over both of us, waiting for praise from us, I suppose, so I put my hand out and sort of pet his head-- awkwardly.
He giggled and continued to eat his food while Pansy and I spoke. After a few minutes he cheerfully put down his spoon and screamed "I done now, Daco!" So Pansy left and I changed his clothes to a plain red onesie.
I was now lounging lazily on the couch, watching him play, not knowing what to do, but thankful that it was a Saturday. It was most likely snowing today, since it was late November, so I decided to take Harry out to play. I put a thick jacket on him, a pair of cotton pants, and small boots-- his feet weren't even as long as my finger.
I picked him up and began making my way out of the dungeons, heading to the lake near the Forbidden Forest.
Harry had his head resting on my shoulders, his small arms wrapped around my neck. "Where we goin', my Daco? Why we leavin' for?"
"Don't you want to play in the snow?"
His face lit up and he smiled brightly at me. "Yes, yes, yes! Tank you my Daco, I wuv you a lot a lot!" He brought his face to mine and kissed my cheek, leaving a trail of drool dripping down my face when he pulled away.
I wiped away the drool, slightly disgusted by it. He giggled at the scowl on my face causing me to smile and pet his head.
Once we were outside I put him down in the snow and he immediately took off, throwing snow this way and that way, making snowballs and failing to hit me with them. After he tired out a little I built a small snowman with him, which he crushed immediately after I finished it.
"Why'd you do that? I thought I did amazing on it." I laughed at him as he sat back on the ground breathless from his nonstop running around.
"I no know!" He giggled.
He lift his head up to look at me, but his eyes looked behind me towards something in the distance. I turned around and saw two devastatingly familiar Gryffindors. Granger and Weasely made their way over to where Harry and I sat.
"Granger, Weasely." I said darkly, picking Harry up and beginning to walk away, he lay his head on my shoulder, exhausted from today.
Weasely grabbed my arm and attempted to turn me around, but I snatched my arm away.
I turned toward him quickly, "Do not touch me. Just because I have to take care of Harry doesn't mean that I have to deal with you lot."
He spoke up then, "Oh, so he's Harry to you now? What happened to Potter?"
Harry's head shot up from my shoulder then. "I Hawwy! I Hawwy! No Pot'! Right, my Daco?"
I inwardly cringed at the nickname he gave me, and by the look on her face, so did Granger.
"His Draco?" She squeaked, her voice cracking a bit. "Why would you tell him that you're his Draco? What if he remembers this when he's back to normal?"
Weasely grabbed her hand and began walking away, muttering something about 'I've got some explaining to do' and 'if he remembers he won't exactly be upset about it'.
When they were back inside the castle out of view, Harry put his head back on my shoulder and closed his eyes half way. By now it was sunset, so it would be as good a time as any to get him to bed.
I made my way back to the castle and into our dorm. Once inside I quickly bathed him and put him in another black onesie, hoping that it wouldn't stretch out over night as he grew like the previous one.
I went in his room to put him in his crib, but he wouldn't unwrap his fingers from around my neck.
"No Daco I wan' sleepy with you!" He said in a tired voice, sounding near tears.
I sighed but didn't respond, holding him properly in my arms and walking to my room, where I lay him down next to me on the bed. Just as I was about to fall asleep I feel a light weight settle down on my chest. I open my eyes and see him laying on me. His eyes closed.
"Night night Daco." He said tiredly.
"Goodnight, Harry." I absentmindedly replied before I fell asleep.
|
Cas knew the redeye to New York was a necessity but that didn’t stop him from hating it. He slept through most of the flight, except for an hour near the middle where he felt like the rest of the plane was under a sleeping spell only he had broken out of. He’d fallen asleep with his fingers entangled in Dean’s and Dean’s head was on his shoulder. For an hour, he’d done his best not to move as he stared blankly at the silent TV screen in front of him.
Chuck rushed them both through the airport with a slew of instructions that Cas barely caught – something about them not needing to get their own luggage, the paparazzi being tipped off for the wrong airport, and an hour in the hotel until go time. Cas spent most of his speech blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Without Charlie there, he felt like he was missing a limb.
Their luggage arrived at the hotel before they did. Despite Chuck’s insistence that he’d given the tabloids all the wrong information, cameras still greeted them at the hotel doors. Cas ducked his head along with Dean as they were shuffled inside by men in black suits. That was another thing Cas was sure he’d never get used to – the sudden influx of security.
He’d tried to convince Dean they didn’t need it, but between the confrontation with the paparazzi and Sam’s insistence that things would only get worse leading up to the movie premiere, Cas dropped the argument sooner than he would have liked to. He agreed to have security meet them in New York and fly with them for the rest of the tour. He’d managed to barely blink an eye when Dean had requested two people be on the team – Benny and Donna. Cas had never heard of either of them.
As they entered the hotel room, Cas stuttered to a stop. A woman was on the floor by the bed, poking around under the mattress. Dean bumped into him from behind.
The woman popped up, saw them, and smiled brightly. Cas stepped away just as Dean shifted to move around him. Before the woman even got a word out, Dean gave her a hug. “Thanks for coming, Donna.”
“My pleasure,” she said, beaming up at him. Then she offered her hand to Cas. “You must be the boyfriend. Don’t you worry, this room is in tip-top shape. Nothing out of place. All secure.”
“Uh... thank you.” Cas shook her hand.
As she headed out, Cas turned back to Dean with a doubtful look.
Dean smiled, looking relaxed for the first time in weeks, and Cas felt the tension drain out of his feet. Dean stepped forward and took Cas’ shoulders. “I know you’re not used to the security,” he said, “but they’re a big help when you need them. Donna’s pulled me out of packed clubs before, even saved my life.”
Cas nodded. “I’m sure she’s great.” He couldn’t shake the feeling that they should switch rooms, even knowing Donna was on their security team. He scratched the back of his neck, looking around for something to do, but their bags had already been unpacked. He sat down on the bed.
Dean sat down beside him. He leaned close and whispered, “Three... two... one.”
As he pointed at the door, Chuck walked through it. “What are you doing? Didn’t you hear me? You have an interview in half an hour. Up, up, up.”
Dean laughed as Cas got to his feet. He turned back at the last second to kiss Dean, then followed Chuck out into the hallway. Two men in suits immediately stepped away from the wall to follow them. Cas felt chills run up his back but tried to shake them off as Chuck rattled on about this being the premiere out of town interview, how the interviewers were likely to go easy on them both, and then added, almost out of nowhere, “Just don’t let Balthazar push you into a fight.”
Cas blinked. Balthazar. He had almost forgotten that he’d have to deal with the other man at all, yet alone right away. Charlie would have warned him, would have whispered in his ear for days, but she was off in Geneva with some troubled rock star client of hers who’d checked himself into rehab without the help of a publicist. The whole story sounded like bullshit to Cas, like an easy way for her to ditch him when he was on tour with the boyfriend she hated, but he wished her and her rock star well all the same.
Cas got through hair and makeup without incident. A clean-cut PA with a Napoleon complex led him through the schedule step-by-step and handed him a paper copy of the interview questions the studio had emailed him last night. Cas almost asked if most of the stars the PA dealt with needed such detailed instructions but he held his tongue. The kid was good at his job and there was no need to embarrass him for being thorough.
Following the PA to the stage, Cas recited his answers under his breath. He practiced his press smile until his cheeks ached and then stretched out his jaw. As he rounded a corner, he spotted Balthazar already perched in a cream armchair, his long legs crossed, and a cheery smile on his lips as he flirted with a nearby PA. Cas rolled his eyes to get it out of the way before he sat down on the couch.
“Castiel, old sport,” Balthazar said as he turned to look at him. His eyes barely flicked onto his before he redirected his attention to the security team waiting just beyond the cameras. “Did your boyfriend hire people to punch me this time?”
“I think pissing on your star was enough for him.”
Balthazar laughed. “Now that was a good little stunt. The city called to ask if I wanted them to press formal vandalism charges and I just laughed and laughed. What a character he is.”
Cas bit down on his tongue as his skin prickled.
“Do you think I’m his type?”
He gave Balthazar a blank look. As loose as Balthazar played it, as much as he winked at everything that moved, he was straight as a board and Cas knew it well. But he forced himself to shrug and say, “Why not take a shot? We both know how much he likes to cheat on me on tour.”
Balthazar’s smile flickered so fast Cas wasn’t sure he’d even seen it. But yes, just for a moment, that patented asshole smirk had faded in the face of Cas’ easy retort. He felt his own smile widen, become more genuine, even as Balthazar said, “Maybe I will. Would you give me his number?”
Without blinking, Cas recited Dean’s number. Or, rather, he said seven numbers in a row preceded by an L.A. area code and hoped Balthazar didn’t have the balls to call it. He had no need to memorize Dean’s phone number. It had been in his contacts since before they were even friends, since Charlie had put it in and said, “Just in case you ever need to know where he is.”
Balthazar kept up a steady stream of updates on his life and thinly veiled insults until the host joined them on set. Cas shook her hand and Balthazar kissed her knuckles. She went through the questions with them briefly, along with what she planned to say around them, and told them both to have fun and loosen up. Cas smiled back at her, relaxing in the face of her easy likeability, not too afraid that she’d blindside him.
The interview went off without a hitch. A few times, they re-taped sequences where the host messed up the wording or Cas accidentally swore or Balthazar stepped away from the party line. At one point, completely unprompted, Balthazar said, “Of course, it was odd to work with Cas without his wife around. Even odder to be in bed with him and not her.”
To which Cas replied, “We all know you would have preferred a threesome.”
Balthazar had turned to stare at him, face completely blank, and the host had laughed.
“You have some claws now, don’t you?” she said.
Cas had shrugged.
As he left the studio, the Napoleonic PA reappeared to go over the promotion contract with him and Cas nodded along even though he stopped listening to him. He reached the door but, before he could grab the handle, one of the security guards stepped in front of him. Cas flinched backwards.
“Sorry,” he said as the guard turned. “I’m just... not used to it.”
The man smiled. He had the kind of sharp smile that both radiated kindness and warned people away at the same time. Salt and pepper stubble grew on his round chin, about the same length and thickness as the hair on his head. All the same, he didn’t seem much older than Cas himself, if he was older at all.
“No worries, Mr. Novak.” He offered his hand. “I’m Benny Lafitte, head of your security team.”
“Benny,” Cas repeated. “Didn’t Dean request you for his team?”
“He requested me for your team. Donna heads his team. Always has, always will.”
Cas nodded as he gave the man a quick and, he hoped, surreptitious once-over. He wasn’t particularly tall but he had a solid build and seemed intimidating enough to keep overzealous paparazzi at bay. And, Cas supposed, if Dean trusted him, that was good enough for him.
“So what do I do?” Cas asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do I wait for you to go outside first? Do I call you before I go out? How does this work?”
Benny laughed. “I am at your beck and call, Mr. Novak. Either me or my team will be around for all your official events, we’ll cover the perimeter and make sure you’re safe in between your building and the car, but other than that, what we do is completely up to you. If you want to leave the hotel alone, we won’t stop you.”
“But you probably should.”
“Probably. But only if you want us to. We work for you.”
Cas nodded, thinking through what that meant going forward. “Okay,” he said finally. He gestured at the door. “Let’s go.”
Benny stepped through the door, looked around, and then held the door open for Cas. Cas tried to figure out what he was looking for – paparazzi? fans? danger? – but saw nothing on the backstreet except for his idling car. He let Benny open the car door for him and slid in. Benny sat down beside him, closed the door, and then rapped his fist on the divider to let the driver know they were good to go. A woman dressed from head to toe in black sat across from them on her phone and neither she nor Benny made a move to introduce her as the car moved forward.
Cas let this slide for approximately thirty seconds before he said, “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“Meg,” she said without looking up.
Cas pursed his lips.
“Meg is your secret weapon,” Benny explained. “Me and one of the guys will always be with you, unless we run into a situation where we’re too conspicuous or we need to move you quicker than intended. If such a thing happens, Meg steps in and pulls you away.”
He kicked Meg in the leg. “Look up, he needs to know your face.”
She looked up, dark curls bouncing away from her round face. When she smiled, it felt like getting slapped at a bar for being too friendly. “Hi,” she said, then looked right back down at her phone.
Cas wished he felt safer. Instead, he just felt more awkward. He looked forward to his alone time in the back of cars, the quiet he kept to himself when walking from place to place in a new city, and the happy rush of a sudden group of adoring fans crowding him on the street. All of that stopped with the security team in place.
As Cas pulled out his phone, he considered texting Dean and talking to him about it. But security had been Dean’s idea and these people were the closest thing he had to friends, or at least it seemed that way. So, instead, Cas clicked the button to call Jack and waited for the phone to ring.
Voicemail. Of course.
“Hi, honey,” Cas said. He looked out the window and tried to force away the feeling of being watched. He tried to force the tired and the sad right out of his voice. “You wanted me to call when I landed and, well, I’ve landed. Safe and sound. I hope you’re having a good day at school. Call me when you can. Love you. Bye.”
|
“Good Morning,” the man said as he walked into the class. He stood with a nervous look about him as he made his way to the front of the room.
Japanese class was a small one, only about twenty members in the class, total. They all looked as the man walked to the front of the classroom.
The man, their teacher, was of average height and on the skinny side of normal weight. Although it was hard to tell with the rather large but admittedly comfortable looking jumper that he had on. It was grey and resembled a sheep. It looked worn with age, but everyone could tell why. It looked like you would be walking around in a cloud when you wore it.
The man had large, blue-framed glasses on that dominated most of his face. His black hair was short and messy around his face. His brown eyes looked nervously before the group of students.
It was safe to say that each member of the classroom felt instant affection for the man that stood before the whiteboard. They looked with wide eyes as he tugged nervously at the sleeves of the baggy jumper. The teacher gave a small smile as he looked out of the class.
“Welcome to introductory Japanese class.”
They were all hooked. The smile. That was all it took. In that moment any of them would have died for Yuuri Katsuki.
Sam ended up sitting at a table with three others. After a quick explanation as to the method of introducing ones self to others in Japanese, he quickly set about on the task of learning about the other people at the table. Maria, Jess and Cameron, call me Cam, sat at the table with him. The three others were in the same boat as him, having only been at University for the last three days.
“Right.” The teacher, Katsuki-Sensei, as they had been told to call him, drew their attention back, “Now that you know each other’s names, we’re going to move on”
He stood before the board. Every eye was on him.
“There are three systems of writing within the Japanese language, 4 if you count Romanji, which is the English letters. Additionally there are Katakana, Hiragana and Kanji. For the two months we will be learning Hiragana.”
The lesson went rapidly after that. They learnt the difference between the main three writing systems as well as learning the first five letters of Hiragana. They spent the rest of the lesson practicing writing them out.
“I want you all to have your self-introductions ready next week. You are just going to introduce yourself to the class.”
Sam watched as the Japanese teacher rushed off to, what he assumed, would be a next class. He was so…
“Adorable, right?” Maria was smiling at him. Can’t wait till next week. Cameron could only nod in agreement. It had been two hours, and he was sure that he was already slightly in love with the Japanese man.
It had been six months. Christmas break had been followed by exams. It had meant nearly two months without seeing the Japanese professor. It seemed that every member of the class had been missing him. That was why almost all of them had arrived fifteen minutes early to class.
On some occasions if they turned up early enough, or if they begged for revision sessions hard enough, they were able to spend some more time with Katsuki-Sensei. Sometimes they got to see a nervous smile. Or they could see when he was so lost in a subject that his face lit up with interest. However, it seemed that the whole class arriving early was not something that Katsuki-Sensei was expecting.
Sitting at the front of the classroom was a blonde haired teen. He looked around eighteen or nineteen. Behind him, Katsuki-Sensei was plaiting his hair into a tight french ponytail. It started at his hairline and appeared to be around halfway finished.
It seemed that they had interrupted the pair in the middle of a conversation. However, the words were lost to all of them.
It seemed that the blonde was talking in Japanese, while Katsuki-Sensei was talking in a different language entirely. He seemed to be speaking in something that resembled Russian. Although none of them could tell for sure.
“Good afternoon everyone” Katsuki-Sensei smiled as his students entered the room.
Why don’t you all take a seat? I’ll be with you in a minute”
The classes nodded, dumbfounded, and sat down at their desks. Some took out their books. But most were just too in awe by the Japanese-Russian conversation that was going on with a boy that looked no older than themselves.
How was it that the eighteen-year-old was so close with the Japanese teacher? Why was Katsuki-Sensei doing the young man’s hair? Were they dating? How did they know each other?
The whole class was drawn from their confused stream of thoughts as the blonde temporarily changed into rapid Russian. He attempted to turn his head. A sound of disapproval came from Katsuki-Sensei.
The blonde repeated a phrase in Russian several times, waiting for Katsuki-Sensei to repeat the words after him. It seemed that the blonde was…teaching? He was teaching Katsuki-Sensei Russian. This had to be the weirdest thing that any of them had seen in a long time.
After that the hair was quickly finished; the result looking perfect. Not a strand was out of place. The young blonde stood up.
“Ganbatte Yurio” Katsuki-Sensei called out as the young man made to walk from the room. The blonde only gave a wave before he shut the door behind him.
“Sorry about that” Katsuki-Sensei smiled “Let’s start class.”
It was another two weeks before anyone saw the blonde again. It was only by chance that they did. Cam who was a Law major, had to take additional modules on his course that were not law ones, so to ‘round his education’ as the University put it. The first module that he had taken was a Philosophy module and was just awful. He barely understood a thing that they were talking about. So, two weeks into the new term, he had decided that he would swap, instead, taking an Economics module.
It was there that he had seen the blonde, Yurio. The boy had been sitting at the back of the class and Cam would not have noticed him if not for the rather hideous tiger sweater that he had on and the fact that he was so far back in his seat that he may as well have been asleep. The boy had left halfway through the lecture; looking at the clock and quickly shouldering his bag. The lecturer hadn’t seemed to care.
Over the next few weeks, the only thing that Cam had learned about the young man was that his real name was Yuri, not Yurio and that he more often than not missed classes. He seemed to attend the first hour and then leave with no explanation. However, Cam was no closer to having any idea how it was that he knew Katsuki-Sensei.
####
A month after their first unexpected guest they had another. However, this time it was not in the form of a human. Instead it was a large and fluffy poodle. The dog had greying brown fur and seemed to be happily sitting in a dog bed in the corner of the room. Katsuki-Sensei was standing by the dog, scratching it between the ears.
After all the students had arrived Katsuki-Sensei removed his hand from the dog and moved toward the middle of the whiteboard, standing in front of the class. The dog let out a small whine.
“Makka, no” the voice was gentle. The dog quickly lay down and curled itself into a ball. It seemed to have fallen asleep within seconds.
“As you can see” Katsuki-Sensei spoke. “we have a visitor. Please just ignore Makkachin. She will not cause a fuss. She knows to stay in her bed during class.”
So the lesson continued. They were taught about the way in which to conjugate the -te form verbs and how to create a sentence using them. Makkachin did, as predicted, stay in her bed for the entirety of Yuuri’s explanation.
As the second half of the lesson progressed, the students were set to do group work. As they were doing their work, Katsuki-Sensei walked over to the dog and ran a hand through the soft fur. The poodle snuffled slightly and nudged the hand. She seemed to enjoy the contact.
The lesson ended without incident. However, Sam, Cam, Maria and several other of the students stayed behind as the rest of the members filed out.
“Katsuki-Sensei,” Sam asked nervously “Could we pet your dog?”
Katsuki-Sensei smiled. They knew the answer already.
“Of course, she’d appreciate it.”
That was how the group met yet another person that seemed far too close with Yuuri.
A man entered the room around five minutes after the lesson had ended with a heart-shaped smile and looking far too energetic to be on a University campus.
“Yuuri” he nearly yelled as he entered the room. However, he stopped as he saw the five students that were gathered around Makkachin. The dog gave the man a small bark of acknowledgement.
“Victor” Yuuri said with a smile. A smile that none of his students had ever seen on his face before. It was a smile filled with love. Each of them could feel as their hearts broke just a little. It seemed that their Sensei was a taken man. That look said enough.
“You are ready to go?” the man, Victor, asked. He looked like a movie star; the hair, the clothes, the posture. None of the students would have been surprised if they had seen him on TV or on movie posters. They would also not be surprised if Yuuri had leapt into his eyes and let himself be carried off into the sunset with the look he gave him.
“You ready, love?” Victor’s smile was so indulgent, so filled with affection that the students were unsure whether to be sick or to melt.
“Yurio’s got his skates fixed?”
“Yeah, the shop was really good about it. But, then again, when Victor Nikiforov and Yuri Plisetsky walk into a skate shop with a broken blade, you get it fixed. I think the poor man behind the counter nearly had a heart attack.” Victor was laughing as he spoke.
The students only stared in confusion. The man was making it sound as though he were famous. As though the blonde Yurio kid was famous too. What was going on?
“Okay Vitya, let’s be off.” Katsuki-Sensei rubbed a hand behind his glasses. He sighed before speaking again. “I hate long-haul flights.” Yuri sighed.
“It’s only Paris Yuuri. You’ve been further.”
“I know, I know.”
Yuuri turned his attention back to his students once more.
“I have to go. I hope you all have a good weekend. Practice your -te form.”
“Yes, Katsuki-Sensei” the students chorused.
Yuuri picked up the dog bed. Makkachin walked by his side. Victor took Yuuri’s free hand tightly in his, the gold ring cold against Yuuri’s fingers.
The students only watched in awe, envy and confusion.
It wasn’t until later that day that they thought to google Victor Nikiforov. It was only a matter of seconds to find Yuuri Katsuki from there.
They were not ashamed to say that they had spent hours watching skating videos and that they had contacted every member of the class with their favourite links. Their group chat had talked of nothing else for days.
Every member of the Japanese class sat a little straighter as they took their seats for their next lesson. They were still in shock. They couldn’t believe who it was that was really teaching them Japanese.
|
The edge of the Planasene Forest is less than a day's travel eastward when Isabela looks to one side. "We're close."
"Close to what?" asks Teeth, picking a leaf from his hair with his bound hands.
Fenris scowls and says nothing; Varric glances at Hawke. "Aveline stayed back with Anders and Merrill," he says. "We weren't sure what they wanted with mages, between you and the boy. I guess we know now."
"The boy?" says Hawke, and a black-haired blur cannons into her chest so hard she is almost knocked from her feet.
"You're alive!" Aleron cries, the shortened ends of his black hair swinging loose at his jaw. He throws back his head and laughs, barely noticing in his delight when Fenris pulls him away from Hawke by the scruff of his neck. "I knew it! I knew it!"
"Aleron," Hawke says, and over his shoulder she sees Merrill, and Anders and Aveline as well, all hurrying towards her with broad smiles and, in Merrill's case, happy tears. Merrill reaches her first and her hug is almost as enthusiastic as Aleron's; Aveline follows, her embrace harder but no less sincere; and Anders comes last, as genuinely pleased and relieved as she has seen him in a year. It is a pity, she thinks, that it will not last long—even as he pulls away, his eyebrows are drawn together, his smile less spreading and bright, his happiness sapped by the somber faces arrayed behind her.
He says, "Hawke?"
Varric steps forward, opens one hand in explanation. "Blondie—" he starts, gently—and then Fenris sucks in a sudden hissing breath, his eyes wide when they all look at him.
He takes two long strides towards Anders and fists one hand in his collar. "You can bring her back," he says, and breathes not in accusation but in epiphany: "Abomination."
"What?" says Anders, his eyes hard and narrowed, one hand wrapped around Fenris's metal wrist.
"You can bring her back." His words trip over each other, too hurried and hope-starved for sense. "She—I saw you, in the Chantry, years ago—with that man. That mage. You brought him back—you brought him back. You can do that for Hawke."
The color begins to drain from Anders' face as he leans back, head turned, as if he has glimpsed a truth too terrible to face full-on. "What are you talking about?"
"They made her Tranquil," says Varric, his voice gentle, and the wind lifts Hawke's hair away from the branded sun.
Anders sags in Fenris's grip for only an instant—and then his slack mouth opens and his eyes light a brilliant blue and a voice that is not his voice but Vengeance says, "I will slay the ones who did this."
Teeth lets out a startled oath and Fenris staggers back, releasing Anders' robe, his eyes going from the mage's Fade-fissured skin to Hawke in painful eagerness. She can see Aveline standing behind him, pale enough to turn her freckles dark, one hand unmoving on her sword; Merrill's tear-tracks are frozen on her face.
Anders steps closer. His hands come up empty and crackling with magic, sheer power leaping between his fingertips in acrid sparks of lightning, so steeped in pure Fade that the pine needles blister under his feet, that Fenris's lyrium catches with sporadic flickers of light like struck flint.
"Champion," he says in the low rumble of distant thunder.
"Justice," says Hawke.
She feels nothing.
There is no Fade in her, no wild clear leaping song to snare her heart and open her magic, no twist of gold light to blaze the fire in her fingertips. She is safe and small and hidden in the smooth polished walls of her river-stone heart, curled and sleeping behind silence so thick that Justice's call recoils like rain on glass, sliding away quick and clean and without resistance. He calls again and the song dies sooner, a wave breaking on the wind to leave nothing behind but breeze-whipped froth and the swift glancing of sunlight off the sea.
The Fade sings; she does not answer. Justice brings her light; she tucks her head into her shoulder in the stone, like a bird in the grip of a storm, and waits for it to pass.
"Champion," says Justice, confused and angry. "Where are you?"
Hawke lifts her chin, the sun-scar on her forehead bare and blazing. "I am empty," she tells him in both apology and explanation.
"You do not answer."
"I have no answers to offer," she says, her voice calm and final in the way that an iron door slamming shut is final. She cannot change her heart; she cannot speak through stone, either.
The light fades; the cracks in Anders' skin close over, the hot pressure of the Fade easing away from the clearing as Justice pulls back into himself to leave Anders only, gasping, gulping sobs down like air. He stumbles back a pace, and then two—and Fenris grasps him by both shoulders.
"Mage," he says, the lines of fury and despair deep on his face. "Mage. Don't stop. Bring her back—bring back the spirit—Justice—"
"There's nothing," Anders gasps, his arms locked around Fenris's like desperate anchors, his head bent between them like he might crack in two if he tried to lift it. "There's—nothing. She's gone. Like Karl. Oh, Maker—let go—"
He yanks away from Fenris, both hands pressed hard over his face; three steps and he disappears into the trees and a moment later, they hear the thick-dead thump of knees on earth and the low, muffled cry of unchained sorrow. Fenris turns away, the muscles of his clenched jaw jumping; Isabela exchanges a glance with Varric and follows after Anders, her steps light and silent on the forest floor, and the trees swallow her without a sound.
The two of them do not return until hours later, well after Aleron has sparked the fire and Varric has found the rations. The camp is as quiet as Hawke has become accustomed to: Fenris across the fire and alone, Teeth slumped against the base of a tree in sleep, Aleron sitting at her feet with his face buried in his arms. Aveline tries a few conversations with Hawke, the only one who does, but her responses do not encourage their once-easy friendship and when Aveline gives up at last, her hair lit copper in the little glow of the fire, Hawke catches the sheen of standing tears in her eyes. She regrets that, in the way she regrets hurting Fenris, but she cannot be anything other than what she has become, and she thinks that the sooner they are back to Kirkwall, and the sooner that her friends may be free of their stone burden, the better.
Then Merrill comes to her side, her slim hands cupped in front of her and her face calm and ungrieving. She says, "I wanted to give you this as a welcome-home present. It doesn't feel quite right, now, to celebrate like that, but—here." Her fingers unfurl, and Hawke sees a delicate, carefully-woven bracelet resting on her palms. The stems are thin-bladed grass, green and waxy; tiny white flowers peek through at regular intervals, enfolded in elegant curves of dark, bent bark laced through with silver wire. "I made it for you," she says. "So you should have it."
"Thank you," says Hawke, holding out her hand. The bracelet makes a sharp contrast with her rough and blade-scarred hands; still, she slips it on and Merrill smiles to see it on her wrist, and she supposes that is enough.
Then a twig cracks at the edge of the camp, and they look up to see Anders emerging from the dusk-thick shadows and Isabela close at his shoulder. His face is steady and composed, if pale; he crosses to Hawke without hesitation and kneels in front of her, both hands lifting to settle carefully on her wrists. "You're wounded," he says, and his voice does not waver. "I should have taken care of that earlier."
"You were distressed," Hawke says. "I understood."
"No excuses for a poor healer," says Anders, and then his magic washes over her in a clean, cool burst of blue light.
It has always fascinated Hawke, the difference between Anders' healing and hers: she was good, she knows, serviceable in the broad, blunt way that a hammer is serviceable—but Anders is a natural, potent and piercing, and in a matter of moments the long-standing aches in her ribs and her shoulder vanish completely, the taste of blood in her mouth swallowed at last, the knife-edged throb in her forehead and her fingertips and her cheek easing to a mere breath of pain—and then an twinge—and then nothing.
Empty—and whole.
Anders leans back and rests his elbows on his knees, his brow furrowed and faintly sweating. "They really worked you over, didn't they?" he says, too quietly for Fenris to hear. His eyes flick to the brand on her forehead and stay there.
"Yes," she says.
"Well. You're better now."
"Yes."
He winces, then forces a smile and pushes to his feet. "Get some rest, Hawke," he sighs, and drags a hand down his face. "We'll make it back to Kirkwall tomorrow."
"All right."
She waits a moment more as he puts his hands to the small of his back and stretches, turning with the stiffness of an old man to tend Isabela's wounds and Fenris's and then to find his own bedroll by the meager fire. Aleron lifts his head, watching him go, and then he looks at Hawke and says, "I knew I shouldn't have gone without you."
"I do not think anything would have ended differently, save that you would be branded too."
He blinks, one hand coming up to tug on a braid that is no longer there. His fingers close around nothing—then he drops his head into his arms folded over his bent knees. "Sorry I took so long," comes muffled through his elbow, and one grey eye meets hers through the dark fringe of hastily-chopped hair.
Hawke says, "I thought you were dead. I see I was mistaken."
"A branch caught me by the hair as I was going up a tree when the Black Hoods were after me. I used your knife to cut it off. Then I waited until dawn and did just what you said until I got back into the city."
"You had no trouble, then."
"No," he says, shaking his head. "As soon as I showed the knife to the elf—um, Fenris—he came right away. He took me straight to Lowtown until we found that dwarf, and then we were coming back this way as soon as we could."
"You must be tired," Hawke says, because it is a lot of walking and she knows Fenris would not have set an easy pace, regardless of the boy's strength.
He lifts his chin at that. "I'm okay."
"All right," she says peaceably, and when he says nothing more she lies down on her bedroll, face turned up to the unseen stars behind the night-dark leaves. "Good night."
"Good night, ser," he says, his voice almost lost in the crackling of the fire, and she hears him pull his own blanket into place.
Hawke closes her eyes, and she does not dream.
They emerge at last from the green-lit shadows of the Planasene Forest less than a day later. The rolling grass-spare hills spread out before them, Kirkwall rising on its rocky tor in the distance—and halfway back, in the little stone clearing where she'd first found herself outside the city, lie the charred black ashes of her father's staff. She tells Varric the story, when he notices her gaze, but for a storyteller he does not seem to enjoy it. They do not speak much otherwise, especially for a group of their size; still, Hawke finds that she does not mind the quiet. It matches the deep emptiness in her mind, the blank and black-laced stillness that muffles her limbs and her heart alike, coursing through each corner of her thoughts the way a dark and rock-choked pool rises to cover the broken walls of a cave.
She is drowning inside herself, and she cannot even open her mouth to breathe.
Kirkwall's side gate opens to them a little before sunset, long black shadows twice their height stretching out before them like black arrows, guiding them back to the city that offers neither sanctuary nor respite from suffering. It takes only a moment to hand Teeth off to the ungentle care of one of Aveline's lieutenants; he goes without complaint and without farewell, looking neither at the lieutenant nor at Hawke, as if she by her very presence has made him Tranquil too. She says, "Goodbye, Thom," and he does not answer.
Anders is the first of her friends to break away when they pass by the street that leads to Darktown; Aleron follows him in after one last brief embrace, his eyes low, and something in Hawke recognizes that even now Anders would not sentence an apostate to the uncertain mercy of the Gallows, even one as accidental as Aleron. Isabela goes next, smiling, when the warm and noisy light of The Hanged Man spills over their feet, and Merrill pauses in her wake long enough to embrace Hawke with fierce, unflinching affection. "Come talk to me sometime, lethallan," she says, holding both Hawke's hands in hers. Her thumb brushes against the woven-grass bracelet. "You know, if you'd like to. I've always been curious to know what it feels like not to feel anything. If you don't mind talking about it, of course."
"Of course," says Hawke, and Merrill slips away like a breeze into the night.
Varric and Aveline linger a while longer, walking with them until they are nearly at the door to Hawke's estate; then Varric touches his hand to his forehead in gentle warmth before smiling. "I'll see you around, Hawke," he says, and then to Fenris: "Don't worry, elf. We'll figure something out. We always do."
Fenris looks away as Aveline embraces Hawke before heading for the barracks. Varric sighs, rebuffed but not surprised, and then, with a wave to Aveline, he turns and vanishes into the dark. For an instant, starlight streaks silver down Bianca's taut-stretched string where it arcs across his back, as if to say—goodbye.
Fenris opens the door. She hears Orana cry out in welcome, and then Bodahn's voice joins hers with audible excitement—and she regrets that, because she knows the pain they will suffer, soon, and at her hands, and because Fenris knows better than Varric that hope has no place in a body that cannot feel.
She steps inside, into the hearth-lit warmth. Quietly, Fenris says, "Exspectata domus."
Welcome home.
-.-
Routine comes quickly in Kirkwall, more quickly to the Tranquil, and Hawke settles into the new and steady reality of her resumed life in a matter of days. Orana keeps close to her—almost too close, she would think, if she cared for things like that now—but Orana is careful to keep her questions separate from her gentle suggestions, fiercely protective of both Hawke's muted decisions and her privacy. She turns away more than one well-wisher-cum-voyeur at the door, as unimpressed by titled presumption as Hawke had been, before—
Before she was made Tranquil.
Hawke does not remember it well, truthfully, that giddy gold light and the glorious beat of a racing heart, the swelling waves of emotion that caught her up and carried her, as light as air and as strong as steel-cast nails. She knows objectively that she felt things once, outside her glass-smooth stone, but the memories are faint and sun-faded, a painting left too long in a shaft of light until there is nothing left but smeared color and the impression of a onetime image. Her friends provide her all the emotion she needs, anyway; Merrill comes frequently with daisies and bright bluebells and brighter stories to fill the empty corners of the estate, her laughter mingling with Orana's giggles and Bodahn's heartier chuckles until they can almost forget the emptiness left where Hawke used to be. Aveline stops by too, with Isabela as often as not, bringing food and cheer as if they might break through her walls with sheer force of will; Varric laughs often, with grieving eyes; and when Anders visits to check her healing and her heart even he tries to muster up a cheerful smile, though she feels the blue-hot simmer of Justice burning in his touch.
In truth, the only one who does not smile for her is Fenris.
She does not mind this, she finds; it is almost easier to bare what is left of herself to him when she does not need to suffer the inconvenience of weeping. She supposes the heartache is understandable, when it forces itself out in Merrill's tears or Varric's sudden pauses or Aveline's stone-faced sorrow, but there are more useful things for her to be doing than reassuring her friends of her sanity and her satisfaction with her emptiness, and it is—satisfying that Fenris does not require such assistance. Three days pass, and then a week, each day beginning like the one before it, and ending like the one before it, and Hawke finds herself, if not happy—at peace.
Then one day Fenris comes, in the middle of the morning as he always comes, and his face is not the calm enduring mask that it has been since the forest but heavy, and old, and lined so deeply with grief and anger so that he might have been carved from rock. He finds her sitting quietly in a straight-backed chair beside the desk in her room, waiting in patient stillness for a task to be given or a need to be expressed, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes half-shut in Tranquility. She looks up when he enters, notes his distress, says nothing when he stops in the doorway and only looks at her.
"I cannot do this," he says without preamble, softly, as if he is not sure whether he is speaking to her or to himself.
Hawke does not know whether he refers to their once-relationship, her Tranquility, or some other yet-unnamed thing that weighs too heavily on his mind. She says, "I do not understand what you mean."
Fenris swallows, hard. His hands open and close at his sides, the metal of his clawed fingers flashing bright in the morning sun and dark again. "Hawke, you…I promised you something, once. A long time ago. Do you remember?"
"No," she says, because she does not—and then a glancing flame of memory flares in the back of her mind, swift and soft with age: she remembers a shadowed alcove of the Chantry, a hundred red candles aglow on a stair-stepped altar, handfuls of thrown light shivering pale and gold across fingers, and throats, and slender silver lines of lyrium—and her own voice, whispering please, and never like that, and swear you'll do for me what Anders did for—
"I remember," says Hawke, so she is not surprised when Fenris pulls from his belt the narrow shining blade she'd lent to Aleron more than a lifetime ago.
"You said," Fenris starts, but something in him is not steady and he clenches his fist around the hilt of the knife. "I told you—I swore—"
"Yes," she says. "I had forgotten. I apologize."
"Stop that," he snarls, taking two quick steps towards her—then his face changes again and he draws back, aghast. "Hawke, I—"
"I do not fear death," she offers, and tips her head back and to one side, away from her heart. "I understand if you wish to keep your promise."
"Wish to—wish—" He draws close again, suddenly, his eyes narrowed and hurting and his mouth a slash of tight-pressed pain. "Hawke, you think I wish for this? You think I desire to stand here with your blade in my hand, weighing the life of the one person—the one person whom I—" he stops himself mid-word, draws in a breath, straightens. His gaze turns inward, looking back over some distant, cherished, painful memory. He murmurs, "I should not have presumed to hope."
"You swore an oath to me at my request. I would not object to its fulfillment."
His face settles into something opaque and wooden. "You would throw your life away so easily?"
"I would prefer to live," she tells him frankly, then adds, "I would prefer more to be useful. If this is the best use of my life, then I have no qualms about giving it."
"You make this too simple," he snaps, and crosses to her with quick steps until he can brace his free hand over her on the back of her chair. "This is no easy thing, Hawke—"
"I am trying to clarify a clouded issue," she says, her voice impassive, and then she reaches out and grasps his knife-bearing fingers in her own, drawing his hand up and towards her chest until the sharp and gleaming blade-tip rests just under the swell of her breast. "A short upward thrust here would be the most efficient."
Fenris stares at her, his eyebrows lifted in dark shock, his fingers clenched hard around the leather-wrapped hilt of the knife—but he does not struggle, and he does not pull away, and when Hawke allows her hands to drop back into her lap his own stay where she has placed them against her chest, stable and unwavering.
The knife rests there, rising and falling with her breath, fixed as the one-two beat of her heart. The morning sun falls bright and thick across his gauntlets and the blade, washing halos of steel-brushed silver into her eyes until they are almost too bright to see, too painful in the unflinching light—so she looks up instead, into the softer green of his eyes, and to the heavy black brows drawn down in concentration and in grief, and to the jumping in his jaw under his white hair as his eyes fix on the silver line of the knife. A single thrust, and it will be over; a single bunching of his muscles and the blade will slide through her skin as cleanly as a pear, as quick as a glance to the sky—one push and—
He looks up, at her face, and at the brand on her forehead.
Now the knife wavers, and now the fingers tremble, clench and reclench around the hilt, his thumb sliding up to the handguard and down again as if to tear the leather braiding from the haft—his eyes are locked to the sun-scar as hers had been to the firelit brand, unblinking and unable to look away, as trapped as a hare in the piercing gaze of a falcon. Fenris shifts his weight and the hand on the back of her chair slides free, to her shoulder, and then to the thin white scar on her throat; he traces it with the cold steel tips of his gauntlets, following its riverbed winding up over her jaw and her cheek to where it ends on the rise of bone under her eye. She blinks and he flinches, just slightly—and then, as if bracing himself for the sharp red burning of flame, he lifts his hand and for the first time—
Fenris touches the scarred flesh of her brand.
It is a glancing brush, at first, a light touch made lighter by the deadened skin that rises in a perfect rayed circle between her eyes; then he touches it again, more deliberately, more delicately, finding with his fingertips the places where the raised and thicker flesh, proud flesh, meets the softer paler skin beside it, following the curving edge from the outside in until he has traced out all the lines of the sun in their dark-lifting glory. He passes his thumb over it from bottom to top once in a long smooth stroke, and even Hawke can feel the intent behind that touch—and then he spreads his hand wholly over the mark, the bare skin of his palm pressed against her skin, warm and yielding where the metal of his gauntlets was cool, closing away the sun and the sight of it from his eyes, from the world that passes them by with neither interest nor pity.
"I apologize," Hawke says then, gently, because she feels somehow that she should; Fenris closes his eyes in a deep-seated pain that she can only cause and not relieve and she thinks: perhaps her death will better serve him after all—
—and then his eyes open again in a sudden green flaring of glass-sharp anguish and he leans towards her, all the strength of his arm tensing behind the knife that still presses point-first against her breast, driving it—forward—
—and away, the blade falling from his fingers until the sharpened tip scores deep into the dark-oak wood of the floor by her feet, until the leather handle falls with a soft and hollow thump to rest, bloodless, against her heel.
Fenris says, choking, as pale as death, "No."
He sags slowly, like a cliffside being washed away by the sea, his knees giving way under him, first one, and then the other, the hand that had held the knife gripping the side of her chair with a locked elbow, a brittle brace for a body that can no longer stand in the storm. His other hand drops heavily from her forehead to her shoulder, and from her shoulder to her thigh—and then, all at once, he buckles like a blow has felled him and goes hard to his knees in front of her. His head bows forward until it rests against her knees, one hand fisted against his forehead in despair; he twines the fingers of the other into the loose fabric of her trousers as if searching for an anchor, futile and wind-beaten and without hope.
"Forgive me," he says, his voice thick and broken, his shoulders catching in quick, shallow jerks of breath. "Hawke, I cannot—forgive me."
His hair is very white, she thinks, against the blackness of her trousers and the deep tan of his skin. She says, "I forgive you."
He shudders deeply, his head bending farther into her knees, far enough that she can see the place where the twin lines of lyrium start at the top of his spine and, she knows, wind their way down his back in straight and gleaming paths of silver ink. His hand clenches harder by her knee, by his forehead, all prickling pointed armor and the sharp glint of sunlight on steel.
Hawke wishes, suddenly, surprisingly, to comfort him.
It is a peculiar sensation because this grief is the same grief that the others have shown her and she has not once wished to comfort them; all the same, it is Fenris's head on her lap and Fenris's sorrow in her hands, and in the stone-smoothed spaces of her heart she finds a desire to ease his pain for nothing but the sake of it. She is no Chantry mother and Fenris is soul-sick from something no confession can soothe, but still Hawke finds herself lifting her hand the way the sisters used to for her and resting it, gently, on his head.
"I forgive you," she says again, uncertain. His hair is softer than she remembers, sliding like cornsilk over her scarred knuckles, snagging on her callused skin in a way that would have embarrassed her in another life.
Then he turns his face into the palm of her hand and his fingers catch on her wrist, and something sounds inside her like the striking of a harp-string in a deep and full-voiced chord, something wild and sweet and piercing that has no place in the crag-sharp corners of her heart, no place in a soul made out of stone. She blinks, surprised at herself; Fenris does not notice, and a moment later his face slips away from her skin, returning to the safe, cloth-clad sanctuary of her knees.
Her hand stills; the blackness curls softly around her again. The harp-note dies, mute.
They do not move for a long time. When Fenris departs at last, he leaves the knife behind him. Hawke picks it up, sharpens it, cleans the thumbprints from the blade, and places it in a drawer with Merrill's woven-grass bracelet. She does not think of it again.
-.-
Fenris does not visit for days after that. Hawke suspects he feels some sort of shame for the sorrow he showed, or anger at his own weakness, and she would tell him he need not feel either but he does not come and so she cannot. Then, at last, he does, his face composed and his back straight when Orana lets him in, and she decides that if he will not speak of it then neither will she. They fall into their new-old routine without further missteps over the next few weeks, though she finds herself thinking often of that struck-harp moment—and wondering, in the half-dimmed seconds before sleep, if there will ever be another.
Then, one day, there is.
The moment, when the moment comes, is precious little more than the space between one second and the next, unremarkable in any way save that it occurs at all. Fenris is seated at her desk, his back turned to her as he goes through the growing stack of her neglected correspondence, answering some himself but leaving the majority for her attention. The sun marks just past noon, a gold afternoon glow lazing up the side of the dark-polished legs of the chairs, along the bared lyrium twining up his forearms, touching strands of his white hair with a fine-tipped brush of liquid light as he bends his head over her letters.
Hawke watches him from the edge of the bed, dressed and placid in her usual habits, her eyes following absently the awkward grace of his hand as he grips the pen with muscles unused to such fine work. His handwriting is cramped and narrow, but elegant in a way that suits him, a match to the sharp and prickly delicacy that she has always loved seeing in the privacy of his few tender moments. She can still recall the first time she'd tried to hold his hand—he'd waited expectantly for her to pull him somewhere and she'd laughed and said no, this is all, and he'd looked down to their linked fingers and frowned as if offended—and then, hesitantly, his fingers had relaxed, and his thumb had stroked over her thumb, and it had been so blasted sweet she'd ended up holding his hand all night just to see that defensive warmth ease through the gaps in his armor—
And then, suddenly, like a wild thing startled from sleep, her heart skips forward a full beat.
"Oh," says Hawke, stunned, and puts a hand to her chest where it hurts.
Fenris half-turns when she speaks, his pen not quite lifting from the page. "Is something wrong?"
"No. Yes. Fenris—"
"Hawke?"
"I love you," she says, her eyes wide, and the stone around her heart cracks wide open.
There is an instant's silence when he draws in a sharp breath and her heart thumps once against her ribs, hard, and then the river roars in her ears and she puts both hands to her face, fists clenched, trying desperately to make sense of the sudden senseless surging in her chest. Her heartbeat will not settle—it leaps forward and slams against the stone she has built to cage it, over and over, racing madly in the unleashed storm brewing inside her and striking each painful blow with the desperation of a trapped deer sensing freedom. She is aware, distantly, that Fenris has said her name more than once, but she ignores him, ignores the gasping breaths scraping from her own throat, ignores everything but the savage crush of emotion that swallows her whole.
She loves Fenris.
She loves him, and—she is angry—and she grieves—and she is so unbearably afraid—
The dam breaks all at once; the stone shatters like glass under the unbearable pressure that is her heartbeat. Everything she has felt, everything she has kept so carefully tucked away since that last hopeless instant before the fired sun touched her skin—it all comes out in a towering wave, thundering with white-flecked foam and cold, as cold as ice, cold enough to strike the breath from her lungs and make her double over in agony. Fenris's hands are on her hands, pulling, grasping, his voice frantic with worry—
She realizes that she is weeping.
That cannot be right—that cannot be right, because a stone does not weep and the Tranquil do not weep—but Hawke cannot stop the tears, cannot swallow down the hot lump of fear and rage that lodges in her throat, a strong and vicious thing made stronger for how long she has held it at bay. A sob catches like thorns in her chest and she chokes, desperate for air, for the cool blank blackness of her empty mind that even now recedes before her uncaged heart like the night giving way at last to the rising dawn, too brilliant to her dark-used eyes and painful, so painful that she knows she cannot bear it, will break apart into a thousand splinters like a tree run through with lightning.
Everything that has happened in the last month crashes down on her in one blow, the memories merciless and blending together until Hawke cannot pull the threads apart to make sense of them. Delia tears the fingernails from her hands again and she sobs at the remembered agony; her father's staff burns with her own magic; Teeth hands her the canteen of water and she swallows down her gratitude at his unlooked-for kindness. And then the Tranquil brand comes and it burns and she cannot look away from the white-lit sun driving down between her eyes—she will go up like smoke at the memory alone—and then it changes and she remembers herself, awake and alive, and the first hard layer laid around her heart at the realization that her failure then would bring the brand again.
Her mouth is moving. She realizes that she is speaking, bits of memories and half-dreams mixing to make a nonsense babble of pleas and prayers that spills from her tongue in fluid terror. She can feel the warm solid presence of Fenris close by, his hands on her hands the one anchor she can fix on in the cloudburst of her mind—she gathers every conscious effort left to her and says, choking, "Don't let go."
"I will not," she hears him say, "I will not—" and then his voice drifts away under the river's roar and she is lost again.
Aleron dies and the grief bears down on her like the tide; she stands at Delia's mercy, and Carn's mercy, stripped bare and gagging on shame and humiliation as they probe without care into the private places of her heart; the taste of spindleweed tea blisters her tongue, sharp and pungent; she stands waist-deep in the cold clear water of the lake, a breath from ending everything, watching as the wild singing thrush burns away into the sun.
Teeth kisses her by the pine trees and she hates him, choking with disgust and frustration; Arden saves her once, and then again, and she is too full of relief to speak. Fenris reaches out with strong arms and pulls her out of the white mists and into safety—and—she loves him. Hawke's head comes up at that, staring blindly into the tree-thick fog and the soft crush of pine needles under her feet—Fenris saved her—Fenris saved her, and Isabela saved her, and Varric and Anders—she is safe. She is safe. She is healed. She is whole.
A whole woman may feel. A whole woman may love.
She is—she is not empty—
Hawke's heart thunders in her chest. She presses a palm to it, astonished, bewildered, terrified beyond words; Fenris's hand comes with hers, his fingertips pressed to her skin until she knows he must be able to feel the chaotic beat that has no place within a Tranquil. It is difficult to breathe but she forces her lungs to fill, her gaze to pull back from the shuddering muddy mess of her mind to the true things she can see in this living moment: Fenris's hand, on her hand; his chest, heaving as if he has run too long without rest; his face, gaze fixed on her like a drowning man sights a guiding star, his eyes lit in an agony of hope.
"Hawke," he breathes, and touches one trembling thumb to her tears.
She draws in a too-thin gasp of air—and something cold and clean catches hold inside her, lifting free of the last heavy places in her heart in a wild rush of white-feathered wings, soaring on the unfettered swell of gladness and relief and love that course through her as thoroughly as a fresh salt wind off the sea. She says, sob-thick, joy-thick, "Fenris."
She has half-fallen from the side of the bed already—Fenris drags her the rest of the way with hands that shake on her shoulders, on her back, until her knees slip to either side of his hips and her weight falls full against his chest. Her arms wrap around his neck like the lifeline that he is and she thinks perhaps she is holding him too tightly, but she can't bring herself to care when his own hold is just as frantic and just as fierce, crushing her so close she loses track of which hammering heartbeat is her own.
"Fenris," she gasps, barely aware that she is speaking, barely conscious of the bone-deep shiver that runs through him at the sound of his name. "Fenris—I'm so—I'm so sorry. I never meant for this to come back with me—I never meant—"
He shakes his head against hers, voiceless in denial. She can feel his fingers clench against her shoulder and her spine. "No—" he says at last, choking. "No, Hawke—I should have found you sooner. Forgive me—I—"
"I should have told you as soon as I saw you—"
"I did not see—"
"—only I didn't know by that point there was anything to tell—"
"Hawke—"
"Fenris," she says, her heart bursting, and she kisses him.
He recoils at first, eyes wide, as if even now he cannot believe it. She smiles and it is a broken, anxious thing but it is a smile nonetheless, and a smile for him—he blinks, startled, and then his face clears like the sky after a storm and something deep in him flares so brightly that Hawke's smile widens, becomes something real, and this time when she cups his face in both hands and leans forward he is there to meet her.
There is no softness in this kiss, no gentle affirmation of affection—this is hot and bright and savage like the sea in the summer sun, each seeking to fill with the other all the soul-struck hollows and the split, patched places of their hearts, healing in one blow the bruises and the sweeping scars left by the iron brand of these last few weeks. Her hands curl around his jaw, holding him to her; his own slide into her hair and around her waist, lifting and resettling her on his lap until there is no space for even a breath between them. She pushes and he pushes back; he growls into her mouth and she revels in the sound, glories in the urgent anticipation that surges through her.
Her sunlit bedroom vanishes; the hard wood under her knees melts away. There is only Fenris's mouth and Fenris's hands and her racing pulse in her ears, and under it all the strong sweet-singing harp-note of her heart.
Fenris draws back first, a lifetime later, his lyrium glittering with both sunlight and some nameless emotion. Hawke kisses him twice more, though gently, face flushed and fingers trembling, and she says for nothing more than the pleasure of it, "I love you."
His eyes fall closed; his head drops forward, into her neck. She says it again, just as quiet, and feels him shudder, and then something hot and wet falls against her skin, one-two quick, like rain. "Hawke," he murmurs, cracked, and hoarse, and then something long and smooth in Arcanum spills out like a prayer to wrap around her, head to toe, warming her from the inside out.
"Fenris, I'm sorry."
The words slip out before she means them to, though the sentiment is not untrue; Fenris lifts his head with a bare, crooked smile, and takes her face in both hands. "You came back," he says, as if it is a simple thing, and presses his mouth, lightly, to the brand-scar on her forehead.
Hawke lets out a long, slow breath, her eyes closed, her heart thumping out an uneven joyful counter-rhythm to the hard-thudding beat in Fenris's throat. A distant door slams shut somewhere below them, Orana's voice lifting in welcome and a man's voice answering; and slowly, piece by sunlit piece, the red curtains and gleaming hardwood floors of her bedroom fade back into existence.
"That'll be Anders," Hawke whispers without moving. Her room is too bright and Fenris's arms are too warm, too long looked-for to leave so easily now. Her magic is singing under her skin like the wash of light over a stream.
"He will wait."
"No," she sighs, and pushes to her feet. Fenris comes with her without letting his hands fall away from hers, as if the moment he releases her she will vanish back into that black Tranquil nothingness. "Not for this."
"So quickly you begin to thwart my wishes," he says, though his face bears nothing of displeasure.
"As if you mind."
His hands tighten on hers, just for a moment, and then one last time he leans forward and kisses her. Sunlight dances over his white hair, down the silver lines of lyrium on his throat, his arms—and in the soft green-lit warmth of his eyes. "Perhaps not."
Hawke smiles, because she is happy, and because she loves Fenris, and because here, in his arms, in the quiet, gold-dusted air of her room—
She is not stone.
-.-
|
He couldn’t make out the features of the figure outlined in the alley exit, it was too dark and the streetlight was behind him and he was too far away, but he could tell by the way the man was standing, bag slung over his shoulder and hand shoved into a pocket. He looked down at the Steve in his arms, who had decided to go to sleep, now that he had some food in his belly and was being held by someone who smelled like other -probably familiar- cats and more food. Then he looked back up at the other Steve, his mouth suddenly dry. What were the fucking odds? He half expected Steve to dissolve into moonlight as he started walking closer, but he didn’t move, watching Tony approach in silence. Tony halted a yard or so away and looked him over. He was a little more gaunt, a little more ragged, but the biggest difference was the short beard Steve had grown. Tony tried not to think about what Steve had said about being clean shaven and what it meant. Steve’s eyes went to the cat and he smiled, while something twisted in Tony’s gut.
“You finally caught him,” Steve said. Then he added, “He looks he’s had a rough time of it.”
“Yes,” Tony said after a long pause that felt heavy with… something. “His name is Steve.”
The words hung in the air between them.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Steve said finally. “I wanted to say thank you.”
“I didn’t do-”
“And goodbye.”
Tony shut his mouth, his throat closing up in misery.
“I’ve decided to turn myself in.” Steve sounded resigned, but determined. “I’m done running. I tried. But it wasn’t working anymore.”
“But turning yourself in-”
“Is the only way of getting out on the other side.”
If they didn’t give him the death sentence. That was a possibility when you went AWOL during war time. Still…
“I’m going back to the US,” Tony said.
“You are?” Steve was genuinely surprised.
“Yeah. I need to figure out what I’m doing with my dad’s company. Shit or get off the pot. It’s like I’ve suddenly realized I’m in limbo until I figure out what to do with it and it doesn’t feel good. And I can’t figure it out here.”
“I guess they’ll ship me back for my court martial, too. Not that I’ll see much of the place… But it’ll be good to be home.”
The cat let out another stuttering purr as Tony dug his fingers into its fur. He made them unclench a bit.
“I can’t go until after I defend my thesis in a couple of months though.” He looked back up at Steve. “Do you…? You’re not going tonight, are you?”
“No. I guess it doesn’t come down to an extra few hours.” The apprehension was written all over his face. “Or days…”
“Come on, then.” Tony jerked his chin in the direction of home and started walking. Steve fell into step next to him.
After half a block, Tony looked at him sideways. Steve was looking back at him. Everything was wrong, yet felt right. They both smiled.
At home, he opened a can of food for Steve-the-cat and promised him a trip to the vet in the morning. Tasha came over and tried to help herself too, but Stevie obviously wasn’t ready to share yet and she was forced to beat a retreat. Tony pushed Steve-the-man into the bathroom, with a towel and some of his own night clothes and then he changed as well and fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling while he listened to the hiss of the shower on the other side of the door.
His feelings were a mess, he didn’t even know how to start making sense of them. Especially not as tired as he was. When the shower shut off, he hadn’t made any progress and when Steve came out of the bathroom in too short pajama pants and a too tight T-shirt, he didn’t move, only turning his head to look at him.. Steve’s hair was still damp and he’d trimmed the beard, but hadn’t shaved it. He hovered by the edge of Tony’s bed for a moment, while Tony watched him, waiting for an offer to sleep on the couch.
It didn’t come. Instead, Steve stepped forward and leaned his knee on the bed. When Tony didn’t say anything, he crawled onto the bed altogether, the mattress dipping under his weight, Tony’s gaze following him. Steve halted just above him, hands on either side of his head and staring down into Tony’s face. After a few long moments in which nothing made sense inside his mind, Tony lifted an arm and cupped a hand behind Steve’s neck. He pulled and Steve came, bending his elbows until Tony reached up the last couple of inches to kiss him. They hung, suspended in air, for a moment, their lips barely touching and then Tony’s abs gave out and he fell back. Steve followed him, landing heavily to his side and the next moment Tony had turned and wrapped his arm around his neck and they were kissing for real. Steve’s arm came around his waist, pulling him close. Tony opened his mouth for Steve’s tongue and revelled in how right it felt to have him so close, to kiss him with every bit of yearning he thought he had excised months ago.
They kissed for a long time. Once in awhile, either of them would pull back a little, barely able to break the contact of their lips and they would look at each other until their breathing calmed down and then one of them would smile. The other would echo the smile and then they would lean in once more, kissing softly as if they’d just met, gradually falling deeper into it, as they learned each other again. Finally they trailed off and slept, Tony tucked under Steve’s chin, never even having gotten under the blankets.
They had sex in the morning. Between his morning wood and Steve’s adorable I-went-to-sleep-with-wet-hair look, Tony couldn’t help but pounce. Steve laughed and playfully tried to fend him off, but the wrestling match soon turned into groping and before too long Tony was pushing into Steve while Steve clutched at the sheets, pushing his hips back against Tony and breathing his name. He raked his nails down Steve’s back and then down his front, before he closed his hands on his hips and pulled him closer. He groaned with how good it felt, the deep slide in and out of Steve’s heat, feeling it clench and ripple around his dick. Desperately, he reached for Steve’s cock, he wasn’t going to last long at all, and he didn’t want to leave him hanging again. Steve moaned when he closed his hand around it and for a moment Tony was filled with an absurd sense of pride that he’d done that, that Steve was moaning for him. And when Steve shouted and spilled hot over his hand, his muscles squeezing tight around Tony’s cock, he couldn’t help but follow him over the edge while he buried his face between Steve’s shoulder blades, trying to keep from biting him.
Twenty minutes later they traded lazy kisses and hand jobs in the shower. Then they fed cats and had breakfast in on the couch in the morning sun. Soon, they were surrounded by cats, who came drifting back in after their own repast in the kitchen. They seemed to remember Steve, to his delight, and they vied for a spot on his lap. All except Steve-the-cat, who had a marked preference for Tony. When they had finished their coffee though, Steve rid himself of cats and pushed Tony back into the couch. Tony went willingly, wrapping his arms around him and sucked his tongue into his mouth. It was a while before they made it out of the house to take Stevie to the vet.
***
The next day was Saturday, and when they left to meet Bruce and the others at De Wijnhaven, it felt like they were different people. Tony locked the door behind him and when he turned towards Steve, who was waiting for him a few paces away, hands in the pockets of the new jeans they had bought the day before and the rosy early evening light picking up the blonder strands in his new haircut, things were normal in a way they had never been before. Maybe, maybe they could do this, he thought.
The group had snagged some prime tables on the terrace and pushed them together. Steve hung back a little when they arrived, but he was hailed by all Tony’s former housemates and Natasha even got up and made a point of hugging Steve. Chairs were stolen from other tables and they all sat down. Steve was introduced to Betty, Jane and Phil and there was a bit of an awkward moment when Steve insisted he and Darcy had met and Darcy didn’t connect the dots right away. When she did, she had the good grace to apologize, however. Tony went to get a round of beer and after that conversation flowed easily. It was nice to see Bruce again, and Clint and Natasha’s wildly differing accounts of their trip to Budapest kept everyone entertained. Tony’s thoughts kept drifting, though. To Steve and the last few days and how much he wanted to keep him, even if he agreed that Steve had to do what he needed to do. He was spinning a coaster on the table when Bruce suddenly asked:
“Hey, Tony. How is life with the cats?”
The coaster spun off the table and Tony ducked down to retrieve it while he blurted:
“Steve is pregnant!”
It had been quite a shock when the vet had told them the day before. Not only that he had misgendered Stevie, but really, five cats were plenty and now he was going to have even more. The coaster had rolled all the way under Clint’s chair and he had to use his foot to drag it closer before he could pick it up. When he finally resurfaced with it everyone was staring at Steve and Steve was giving Tony looks of a very not amused quality. Tony replayed in his head what he had said.
Oh.
“Well, you’re not showing yet,” said Phil to Steve, totally deadpan. “Can’t be too far along.”
Clint rose out of his seat and snagged Steve’s beer. “You shouldn’t be drinking, Steve, that’s bad for the baby.” And Thor pounded Steve on the back. “Congratulations, friend Steve! Is Tony the father?” Steve looked even more dour and Tony couldn’t help it, he cracked up. So did everyone else, including -eventually- Steve. When Tony could catch his breath again, he stood up and stole the beer back from Clint to hand to Steve.
“I’m so glad you’re all supportive,” he announced. “And I want you to know it’s not for lack of trying…” There was a new round of laughter and a little ‘oh’ from Darcy and Steve lobbed a coaster at his head. “...but I was actually talking about my cat called Steve, who managed to get knocked up before I managed to catch him… her, a couple of days ago. He... she is going to be a teen mom and while I blame society and not her, God forbid, anyone who wants a kitten in a couple of months, let me know.” Then he said back down and raised his glass to everyone, which was met with ‘Cheers!’ all around.
Walking back home long after midnight, Tony’s heart felt full to bursting. The afterglow of spending the evening with friends, the warm summer night and the moonlit streets were enough to cause that, but when Steve’s fingers wove themselves in between his own, he couldn’t remember ever being this happy.
It couldn’t last. He knew it couldn’t last, but he’d had this.
They made their way home enjoying the silence.
Tony unlocked the door, but didn’t go in. He looked at Steve, who was leaning with one shoulder against the brick, watching Tony fumble with the keys.
“When are you… How long do we have?”
Steve reached out for Tony’s hand and drew him closer. His other hand cupped Tony’s jaw and Tony couldn’t help but press into it. Steve kissed him softly, a barely there pressure of lips that made Tony’s heart seize nonetheless.
“I’m torn,” Steve confessed. “One part of me thinks I should just go now, this Monday, and get it over with. Another part thinks I should wait until you go too, after your thesis defense, after Steve’s had her kittens, so that we can leap together into the unknown.”
“The latter,” said Tony, placing his hands on Steve’s hips, “definitely the latter.” He reached up and kissed him again. Steve pulled back reluctantly after several seconds.
“It may be easier to part now,” he warned. “In two months time… it may be so much harder to say goodbye then, Tony.” He kissed him again, tongue flicking against Tony’s lips and Tony opened for him eagerly.
“Maybe, “ he said inbetween kisses. “But maybe you’ll be sick of me in two months time.” Another kiss. “It happens all the time.”
“Sure.” Steve sounded a little out of breath. He pushed Tony into the little hallway and closed the door behind him with his foot. ‘Maybe,” he said, before steering him towards the bedroom, hand on Tony’s ass and lips latched onto his neck, while Tony scrambled to hold on.
***
The vet had said that Stevie would hide somewhere to have her kittens and to keep an eye on her because her labor would likely be difficult because she was so young and still underfed. But that wasn’t how it happened at all. In fact she had her kittens on Tony’s belly, after he had fallen asleep on the couch and woken up to a shuddering and panting little cat, who refused to be moved. Steve came to the rescue with some newspapers that he maneuvered under the cat to catch the worst of the mess. And a mess it was. Tony had had no idea that kittens were born in a little sac, which the mother tore off with her teeth and then she literally licked them to life. It was more than a little freaky, but Steve had shoved a pillow behind Tony’s head and held his hand while he knelt next to him, so they could watch over Stevie together. An hour later she had produced three blind striped little furry worms, who were crawling all over each other trying to find a nipple. She laid back and closed her eyes, seemingly sure she was done. Tony figured she’d know better than him, anyway.
Steve got up and came back with a box lined with an old towel for Eve, as he insisted on calling the cat. They had bickered about it for days, but neither of them had scored a decisive victory, so now the cat had two names. They put the box in a quiet corner of the living room, but Stevie had other ideas and after the third time in two days that she had dragged all her kittens, one by one, to Tony’s sock drawer, they just left her there. Tony could always buy new socks.
It wasn’t all kittens and rainbows, though. Steve had frequent nightmares and flailed when woken up from them, as the shiner Tony sported for a week could attest. And he frequently just… blew up. The first time it happened was when Tony had thoughtlessly nicked a piece of toast from Steve’s plate and crammed it in his mouth. Steve’s reaction was explosive and Tony had been scared shitless for a second and then he’d gotten pissed and there was lots of shouting for a long time, until they’d finally slid down the wall together, crying and clinging to each other. Steve had apologized for days.
Tony eventually learned not to react to the things Steve was saying when he blew up and also not to try and convince him of the insignificance of the transgression, but to soothe the anxiety that was buried under the anger. That helped diffuse the situations much better and the angry episodes became much more manageable after that. Steve eventually stopped trying to pack his stuff and leave after every outburst, when he’d finally accepted that Tony was having none of that.
The day Steve shaved off his beard was a big victory in Tony’s book. They still weren’t doing blow jobs, and Steve grew it back after a couple of days, after he’d yelled at Tony. This time for Tony’s refusal to go and find a job, now that Steve couldn’t since he was in the country illegally. He cycled through various stages of facial hair in the space of a few weeks, but still, it was progress.
***
A week before his thesis defense, the bell rang and Tony opened the door for Colonel James Rhodes. Tony liked him immediately.
“You don’t look like my client,” said Rhodes, looking Tony up and down.
“I’m not. I’m Tony Stark, I’m the one who is paying you. Thank you for coming all the way out here.”
Rhodes smirked.
“An all expenses paid working vacation to Europe? How could I refuse? You are very persuasive, Mr. Stark.”
Tony nodded. If the guy was as good as he was rumored to be, he would be worth every penny.
“Just out of curiosity,” Rhodes continued, “Are you that Stark from Stark Industries that is supposedly lost in Europe?”
He was supposedly what?
“What?”
“Are you-”
“I heard you, I just don’t know what you’re talking about. Yes, my dad started Stark Industries, and I inherited it, but I’m not lost. I’m right here.”
“You didn’t see the Times Magazine article?”
“What Times Magazine article?”
Rhodes leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. Tony figured he should probably ask him inside, but he didn’t want to interrupt.
“Couple of months ago they interviewed Obadiah Stane about the future of the weapons industry and S.I. He mentioned you coming of age and reaching out several times, but apparently you are lost in ‘personal pursuits in Europe with the money you inherited’. So S.I. was going to look into officially removing you from the company. You didn’t know this?”
“I haven’t talked to Stane in three years.”
“Really.” Rhodes looked pensive. “Well, you may want to lawyer up too if you still have an interest in the company. Not my specialty, but I can recommend a guy. And I can have my assistant fax over the article, if you like.”
“Tony?” Steve’s voice came from the doorway to the living room. “Who’s at the door?”
“Yeah, alright,” Tony said to Rhodes, inclining his head in Steve’s direction. “In the meantime, there’s your client.” He motioned for Rhodes to follow him down the hall.
“So what have you been doing in Europe, if not blowing your money on fast cars and fast women?” Rhodes wanted to know from behind him. Tony turned to face him by the doorway where Steve was waiting.
“I’m defending my PhD thesis next week.”
“At twenty-one? Good for you. Hard to imagine Stane objecting to that, though.”
“It’s not like he didn’t know. I’m going to have to see that article.”
“What’s going on?” Steve cut in, as he was walking backwards into the living room, so Tony and his visitor could enter. He had three tiny kittens hanging from his jeans, who were mewling pathetically at all the unwanted movement. Tony had refused to name Stevie’s brood, he knew what happened when you named cats and he wasn’t making that mistake again. But Steve had ignored him and dubbed them Huey, Dewey and Louie.
“Steve, this is Colonel James Rhodes. Former JAG. Now he is a civilian lawyer specializing in court martial defense. He is going to represent you.” He turned to Rhodes. “This is Steve Rogers.” Rhodes stuck out his hand and Steve shook it. It was only a reflex, Tony could tell, because Steve’s mouth was moving, yet no sound was coming out. He might have refused otherwise.
“Captain Rogers, I’m glad to meet you.” Rhodes said, “And happy to see you’re alive.”
“I… what?” Steve looked from Rhodes to Tony, pleading. “Tony, what? You can’t-”
“I can hire all the lawyers I want,” said Tony. “What do you mean ‘alive’?” he asked Rhodes.
Steve dropped down into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Tony gestured at the other chair before he flopped onto the couch. Rhodes sat gingerly and set his briefcase down next to him before he spoke.
“Captain Roger’s disappearance caused quite a stir. It was one of the first ambushes in the conflict with Iraq, with some the first casualties and he was the first soldier to go MIA. It was heavily speculated that he’d been taken by enemy forces. Which they denied, of course.” He looked at Steve who still hadn’t looked up, even though Huey (or Louie) was head butting his hand. “I’d love to hear your story of what really happened,” Rhodes said to him.
Steve drug his hands away from his face, his eyes wild, but he ignored Rhodes.
“Tony,” he croaked instead, “I swear to God. You can’t just get me a lawyer!”
“Yes, I can.”
This was why he hadn’t discussed it with Steve, because he’d known he’d take it badly. Maybe he hadn’t expected it to be taken this badly, though. His heart clenched at the look on Steve’s face.
“It’s bad enough you’re buying me clothes. And food. And pay for the house and everything else! God, Tony, they’ll assign me a lawyer, you don’t have to pay for one on top of everything else! I’ll never be able to pay you back as it is.”
Tony closed his eyes against the look of pure wretchedness on Steve’s face. He had sworn to himself that he’d play it cool, that Rhodes didn’t need to know. Just in case the man turned out to be a prejudiced prick. He could hire someone else, of course, but Rhodes was rumored to be the best.
“You don’t owe me shit, Steve. And I didn’t hire him for your sake. I hired him for mine.”
“What?” Steve looked ragged and confused. A quick glance told Tony that Rhodes was leaning back in his chair, with his legs crossed and his fingers steepled thoughtfully against his lips.
Oh, fuck it all.
Tony slid onto his knees before Steve and took his hands. Looking up in Steve’s blue gaze, he said quietly:
“If I let you walk in there next week, without the best lawyer my money can buy, and you end up imprisoned for decades... Or worse…” Tony bit back the sound that wanted to escape at that thought. “Because… because your assigned lawyer did a shitty job? God, Steve, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”
Steve leaned his forehead against Tony’s and took a shaky breath.
“For my sake, can you swallow your pride? Please, Steve? I love you, I don't want to lose you.” He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped Steve’s hands as if that could hold him. He didn’t dare breathe.
When Steve kissed him, he managed not to cry. Barely.
Steve slipped his hands out of Tony’s and cupped his face while he deepened the kiss. Just for a second or two. Then he pulled back. Tony wanted to protest, but recalled they had an audience, so he just looked at Steve. Steve’s smile was small, but steady.
“Okay,” he said. And softly: “I love you, too.”
Tony hugged him fiercely for a moment, like a promise. Then he got off his knees and turned to Rhodes. The man was grinning widely.
“I can see I am going to have to bring my A-game. Now I am even more curious about your story, Captain Rogers.”
Tony made to sit down, but Rhodes held up his hand. He scribbled something on a piece of paper and beckoned Tony over.
“I’m afraid this is going to be confidential, Mr. Stark. But here is my assistant’s phone number. Call Ms. Potts and ask her for the Times article and have her call Nick Fury for you. He is the lawyer you want to hire.”
Tony looked at the piece of paper.
“What’s the second number?”
“That is the salary you are going to offer Ms Potts to become your personal assistant once you return to the States. Believe me, she will be worth every penny.”
Tony looked back at Steve. Steve smiled at him.
Okay then.
***
Ten days later, he dropped Steve and Rhodey at the Military Base in Schinnen. Steve was nervous, shifting from leg to leg as he eyed the guard house at the entry through the misting rain. Tony shook Rhodey’s hand and looked him in the eye.
“Take good care of him.”
Rhodey smiled.
“You have my word, Tony. We have a strong case for PTSD and shock. You’ll have him back as soon as we can manage.” He dropped Tony’s hand and gripped his shoulder.
“You take care of Pepper, okay?”
“I still don’t get it. Why did you want me to hire her if you like her so much? I mean, she’s fantastic, so I am not regretting anything, but...”
“Because I like her too much and she objects to sleeping with her boss. And because I don’t want to stop sleeping with her, she needs a different boss. Also, being my assistant was too easy a job for her. You’ll give her a challenge, I’m sure.”
Tony shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned at him.
“And you’re not afraid I’ll want to sleep with her, too.”
Rhodey looked at Steve and then back at Tony.
“Not at all.”
Tony grabbed Steve’s hand, and Steve tore his eyes away from the guard house. They’d said goodbye that morning, there was nothing left to say. They were both apprehensive and scared, despite Rhodey’s assurances, but that had been talked to death too. So in the end they just hugged briefly, but fiercely.
“See you on the other side,” Tony whispered in his ear.
“Wait for me,” Steve whispered back.
Then they let go.
Tony watched him walk away, again.
For the last motherfucking time, he swore to himself.
|
To expect a few hours (or even a few days) worth of negotiations to end a civil war would have been wholly unreasonable and impractical.
Consequently, the hopes set in this preliminary meeting had been to see if a more than temporary ceasefire could be achieved, that would allow for further discussions, and those, hopefully, might in time lead to a set of security, political, economic etc. arrangements addressing the actual causes for the civil unrest-turned-rebellion.
But Lord Vader had never been one for playing by the rules, as Luke reminded himself ruefully. His father's unexpected offer had fast-forwarded straight across the usual sequence of events and his sister's offhand, "I accept. The details we can discuss on Coruscant. When do you expect to arrive there?" had completely thrown them to the winds.
This time, it was surely more than six pairs of eyes that had stared at Leia in disbelief.
Once the first shock had faded, though, the not-so-easy-to-read general was suddenly looking like he was fighting the urge to shake his head with an incredulous grin. For some odd reason, the young Jedi felt that Veers – the elder one – would have had pretty much the same reaction.
All humor went out of the situation the next moment, when Luke remembered that Calrissian had listed General Veers as one of the deaths offered to appease those with major grievances against the Empire. Blood price, the ex-con man had called them, and while sentiments had settled down in the almost-year since Hoth, quite a number of people in the Alliance would probably press for that particular blood to be spilled …
The young Jedi shook himself out of the gloomy thoughts, that was a bridge to be crossed when they reached it. He made it back to the present in time to hear his father explain that the latter meant to descend on Imperial Center (his exact words!) in three days' time, a day and a week after Endor – and the Emperor's death.
Not even Leia's dead-pan acceptance could stand up to the vocoder's salt-flat dry delivery when Lord Vader ended his speech with the polite inquiry if, "maybe Princess Organa would care to be present for the occasion?"
Naturally, the princess would. There was no flippancy at all, however, in her counter-question about what kind of approach the Sithlord intended to use.
What kind of welcome did he expect – or in other words, just how stable or prone to infighting, respectively, was the Empire right now?! – was probably the question the Imperials heard, along with most of the rebels, even.
What Leia really wanted to know, on the other hand, was if Vader would consider a burning city-planet an appropriate beacon to herald the beginning of his reign, Luke held no doubt on that. He made sure to echo the thought, as loudly as he could.
There was no visible sign of acknowledgement, but the black flames briefly brushed against the young Jedi's mind in wordless appreciativeness.
"Shock and awe," the mechanic baritone answered after a tense second of deliberation. "As it happens, I have one of the largest fleets ever assembled in one place at my disposal at the moment, and with that on display, awe will hopefully keep the situation peaceful."
Eyes narrowed at the evasion, the Alderaani princess shot back, "And if not?"
"If not, overwhelming strength should keep all altercations short and localized." Black flames flared, filling the room with undisputable certitude. "All-out resistance is not an option. Significant resistance highly unlikely."
Oo oo oo oo oo oO
The rest of the meeting was mostly wrap-up. Leia's overly casual agreement was cast into proper diplomatic terms that boiled down to:
No violent acts between both parties until further notice; should any violence happen in the meantime, the instigators would be automatically labeled renegade factions and exempt from any amnesty or further agreements.
The aforementioned accord would go active on the third day, at 0000 Coruscanti time; after that point, ignorance would no longer serve as an excuse – and before that, only if verifiable.
Once Coruscant was secured, a general prisoner exchange would take place, plus an amnesty for non-violent protesters and the like.
Provided that no renegade factions of significant strength had arisen, Princess Organa would take on the role of head-of-state.
Luke would have expected a lot more quibbling over the text, and especially about the so far ill-defined rights and duties of a 'head-of-state'. But Vader could dictate terms any way he liked without deferring to further inputs on his side, and the rest of the Alliance representatives seemed to be caught somewhere between dazed shock at the breakneck speed of the negotiations and a disbelieving 'let's grab what we've got and get out while the going is still good!'
Oo oo oo oo oo oO
"Brentaal system, on the third, between midnight and 0100. Jump to these coordinates and make sure not to over-jump, traffic will be tight!"
That had been the curt description for the next meeting point.
The invitation had been for Leia specifically, but at least the ship would be the same, the Valiant had not even returned to the rest of the Alliance fleet. Partly, this was due to a habitual paranoia about getting followed; but also, not quite three days would have been cutting it very close to even reach the fleet at their far-off-the-main-routes meeting point and then jump straight on, enroute to Brentaal.
So instead they had made their surreptitious way towards the Core – no need to invite trouble with any Imperials not yet up-to-date – with a longer stop after the second jump to discuss the recent developments with the rest of the Alliance High Command via a highly encrypted holocall.
Fey'lya had ranted a bit, but the young Jedi suspected that the Bothan was more upset about the fact that no one had offered a galaxy to him, than having objective misgivings against the offered deal. Mon Mothma and most others had settled for a more or less openly skeptical 'we'll see how that plays out', modified only by Mothma's stern, "Be careful, Leia."
The only unexpected statement had been Admiral Ackbar's, "Meet me at Skako. I'll have to see that fleet of his for myself."
The Skako system had been the last stop before reaching Brentaal. There the Valiant had rendezvoused with another light cruiser and exchanged the Mon Calamari admiral for Borsk Fey'lya – the Bothan having decided that he didn't need to see such a massive Imperial force (and its welcome of unknown friendliness on Coruscant) firsthand.
Ackbar brought with him the news that as of two days ago, the wider galaxy had been informed about the Emperor's death. The publicized story was not even all that far from the truth: His Majesty had met his tragic fate when the main reactor powering the experimental space station he'd been inspecting had suffered a catastrophic runaway chain reaction.
Luke's inner cynic promptly commented that in a most literal sense, with when connecting actions happening in parallel, not cause and effect, it wasn't even a lie. Just the truth with large chunks missing.
The Emperor's right-hand man and anticipated successor, Lord Vader, the official story went on, was even now returning to the capital and expected to arrive there the next day.
The news reports blaring all over the holonet made it sound like the Sithlord had simply been notified of Palpatine's death and was hurrying home at the news, but as several usually reliable sources had reported to the Alliance, Coruscant was humming with expectancy. No one really knew what Vader was planning but everyone was sure it would be … big.
Consequently, expectations were high when the Valiant neared the end of her last hyperspace jump and Captain Unak found his Bridge invaded by his entire contingent of passengers.
While Ackbar made conversation with his fellow Mon Calamari in their native tongue, Leia was pacing the length of the room under the guise of chatting with the bridge crew at their stations, carefully – but independently – watched by Jix, Madine and Chewbacca.
As far as Luke could tell, Calrissian was making an earnest effort to chat up the lady at the comm station, goggly eyes, webbed hands and all. In hopes for another sort of distraction, the young Jedi had joined Han at the front window, together with Wedge and Zev, intent on getting his first impression of the situation the old-fashioned way.
The given coordinates brought the Valiant to the outmost fringes of the Brentaal system and there to a point high above the planetary plane.
As the first scan on reentry showed, over-jumping would have been indeed a very bad idea. The tactical display on the Bridge of the Mon Calamari cruiser lit up like a Winter Fete decoration, lights upon lights upon lights in a vaguely wedge-shaped arrangement.
After a split-second of hesitation – the fleet at Endor had definitely been smaller! – Ackbar made the throaty, blubbering sound that was the Mon Calamari equivalent of a humph, and leaned closer to the display to study the formation more in detail. The quartet around Han joined him half a minute later, frustrated by the fact that they had come out more or less at the same plane as the bulk of the waiting fleet and therefore could only see it sidewise.
The ex-smuggler took one good look at the display, tilted his head, reached over to tilt the displayed image at another angle and started to swear softly. "That crazy sonofa…"
Ackbar cleared his throat. "Something the matter, General?"
Han nodded slowly. He pointed at the drawn-out lines of lights. "That's a double veil. A butterfly veil, really."
Luke shared a questioning look with Wedge and got an equally puzzled shrug back. "Uh, Han, a bit more explanation …?"
"It's a parade formation," the ex-smuggler – and ex-flight officer, before that – explained. "One that most people don't bother with, because it's very nice to look at but needs so insanely close coordination that the only feasible way to do it is to slave all or at least most ships to the leader. Absolutely useless as a battle formation, much too tight, you'll just end up shooting each other."
"Yes, of course," Zev chimed in, sounding awed. "I've never seen it in real life, only in a projection at the Academy ..."
The reverential expression morphed into a frown. "As far as I remember, it's meant for a wing of fighter craft following a single capital ship, though, not a whole fleet of capital ships!"
Han nodded grimly.
"Yeah," he said, tone grudgingly admiring. "That's what the handbook says – guess, Vader doesn't feel like playing by the book. And with that monster at the front, he can even pull it off without looking ridiculous."
Any further discussions were cut short by an incoming hail. "Unknown cruiser, please identify."
The Valiant's Captain exchanged a short look with Leia and Ackbar, and, when both had nodded, responded. "This is Valiant, carrying Princess Organa."
"Acknowledged, Valiant. Do you wish to join the formation?"
Captain Unak had not participated in the earlier discussion, but he had certainly listened. "Please clarify: what would joining the formation entail?"
A moment's pause, and then a different voice took over. "Valiant, this is Admiral Piett. For the duration of this run, the entire formation will cede navigational control to the SSD Executor."
Told you so, Han mouthed, while Leia, Madine, Ackbar and Unak all frowned at the prospect. The former moved to reply herself. "And if we do not wish to slave our ship to yours, Admiral?"
"My apologies, ma'am, but we cannot have a free-floating ship in this type of formation. Feel free to move to Imperial Center on your own – if you jump now, you might just make it before the traffic ban in preparation for the inaugural parade starts. Otherwise you'll have to wait until two hours afterwards. Alternatively, we can carry you."
"Carry us?" Cpt Unak echoed, tone somewhere between incredulous and intrigued. At several hundred meters length, the MC-40 class usually counted as a carrier, not the carriee.
"Yes, Captain," Piett answered, and Luke could all but see the man quirk his lips with amusement. "With a little more time, we could fit you into a hangar, but for now we can certainly lock you against the surface."
To move to Coruscant on their own would ban them to a distant observer's role at the sidelines – which was not what Leia was here for, neither in her own intentions, nor (the young Jedi suspected) in their father's. To give an Imperial in-depth access into an Alliance control system, on the other hand, was worse than simply putting the ship at risk, any more than they already had.
"Let's hitch a ride," Han paraphrased the sole remaining option.
At the edge of hearing, Luke caught his sister mutter a nonsensical, "With the rest of the garbage," earning herself a knowing smirk from the ex-smuggler and that in turn enkindled a small smile in Leia's face.
"General Solo is right," she said more loudly. "Under the circumstances, that is the most sensible option."
Meeting no immediate protests, she turned back at the comm, affecting her most primly princessly voice. "Admiral, we'll take you up on that offered ride …"
|
Waverly leaned against her older sister Wynonna as they sat together on a small hill looking into the trailing sunset. Her right hand absent-mindedly ripped at the grass near her feet, and Wynonna gently put a hand down and squeezed.
“Woah there, Waves,” Wynonna joked. “Leave some for the forest creatures.”
She winked at Waverly and offered a grin. Waverly tried to resist a smile.
“We just eat them anyway,” Waverly quipped back, tossing a handful of torn grass at Wynonna’s face.
“Ah, but we need them nice and fat when we do. They’re not the ones who are supposed to be starving. We are.” Wynonna held up a plump dead rabbit they had caught earlier for emphasis and patted its round belly, then poked Waverly’s gaunt stomach in comparison.
A high-pitched giggle escaped from Waverly, feeling ticklish at the poke. Wynonna always knew how to make her feel better, even when…
Wynonna’s grin softened when she noticed Waverly’s mood change.
“Hey,” Wynonna smiled gently. “Don’t worry, your name’s only in there four times. It’s like, a thousand in one chance, and believe me, us Earps aren’t that lucky.”
Waverly nodded and tried to smile back. It was true; Wynonna and Gus never let her apply for tesserae, extra rations for extra entries, but even so, each year after her twelfth birthday passed, the more her name was entered regardless. She was sixteen now, so even without applying for tesserae, her name was in the pool four times.
How did Wynonna do it every year? When her name had five times as many entries as Waverly?
Wynonna abruptly coughed violently, slamming her fist into her chest until she spit a hunk of something tarry into the bushes. Waverly furrowed her brow in concern. Ever since Wynonna turned 18, she had taken a job in the mines to support her and Gus, picking up extra shifts whenever they were available for more rations. A time like this was rare for them – time to check their traps for any wild game they could take home and trade and time just to spend together being sisters.
And this particular time was a special occasion.
Wynonna shrugged off her coughing fit and reached into her bag, offering Waverly another mischievous grin as she pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth that fit in the palm of her hand.
“Happy sixteenth birthday, baby girl,” Wynonna said, passing the bundle to Waverly and kissing her forehead affectionately.
Waverly beamed, soaking in the sisterly attention she hardly received. She unwrapped the cloth and gasped when she found a burned misshapen cupcake.
“A-a cake??” She asked incredulously. “How did you afford this??”
Wynonna laughed. “Believe it or not, they were just gonna throw that sucker away.”
Waverly let out a breath of disbelief. Throwing out food? And food with sugar??
Wynonna bumped her shoulder with Waverly’s, nodding at the cupcake. “You better eat it before the forest creatures smell it. That’s way better than the crap grass they normally get.”
Waverly laughed, then tentatively took a bite of the cupcake. She’d never eaten anything like it before; baked goods that included sugar were usually only afforded by the well-off merchants in District 12, not those that lived in the Seam like the Earp family.
Wynonna smiled as she watched her little sister eat a cupcake for the first time. She had never eaten cake before either, but it was so much better watching Waverly enjoy the sweetness than it would have ever been for herself. Wynonna was 22 now, and she spent so much time working, making sure Waverly got fed and didn’t have to put herself in more danger for the Hunger Games… moments like this made it all worth it.
It had never been easy for the Earps. Their father had been a Peacekeeper that had an affair with a woman in the merchant class. Since Peacekeepers aren’t allowed to get married or have families, the affair had been secret. It was such a scandal when their mother was discovered to be pregnant that she was banished from the merchant area and had to move to the Seam. Luckily Gus and Curtis took pity on her and offered to lend a hand, though it didn’t help that their father kept drunkenly barging in on his “family.” He fathered three daughters altogether – Willa, Wynonna, and Waverly.
When the head Peacekeeper found out about the children thirteen years later, the Peacekeepers stormed in their home during one of Ward’s “family visits.” They beat him with their batons in front of a frightened six year old Waverly and a glaring twelve year old Wynonna. Dragging Ward’s slumped body away, the head Peacekeeper ordered Willa to be taken as well, as retribution for the shame he brought to the Peacekeeper ranks.
Wynonna had lost her temper then - Willa and Wynonna were only one year apart and inseparable – she ran up to the Peacekeepers taking their father away and grabbed the revolver slung in Ward’s belt. She cocked it, having seen it done once or twice in her short life, then aimed it at the group of Peacekeepers walking away with Ward and Willa. Wynonna had intended to hit the Peacekeeper who carried Willa with an iron grip, but she was inexperienced with the kickback of the gun and had closed her eyes at the sudden boom.
Instead she had shot her father in the back, and his body slumped down further – dead.
The head Peacekeeper looked back to Wynonna, who had dropped the revolver in surprise. Seeing her shocked face, he laughed, then walked back to pick up the fallen gun.
“Well, girly, thank you for saving me the trouble of executing him myself.” His voice had that accent from the richer districts. The accent that sounded similar to the Capitol, but not quite.
He reached down and lifted the revolver from the ground, checking its chamber for bullets. He laughed again, a sick laugh that made Wynonna’s skin crawl.
“Lucky shot,” he said, showing the empty chamber. He snapped the chamber back in, rolling it for effect, then tossed it back to a surprised Wynonna. “Why don’t you keep it, girly. It’ll remind you of what happens when you break the rules. It’s a rusty old piece of shit anyway, no bullets for that anymore.”
They never saw Willa again.
Present-day Wynonna fiddled with the rusty gun while Waverly savored her cupcake. She had named the gun Peacemaker to be ironic – there was definitely a sense of peace after Ward was out of the picture, but their mother was never the same, and one day she was just gone. Wynonna kept practicing handling her empty gun, insisting that one day she’d make those Peacekeepers pay…
Wynonna’s familiar thoughts of revenge were interrupted when Waverly held out a small piece of cupcake to Wynonna’s face.
“Try it! It’s the best! Way better than our imaginary dust pies!”
Wynonna smiled. Sometimes having to take care of a little sister by herself felt like fate had dealt her a bad hand, and then there were times when she would do every mistake she had ever done again because every little thing had shaped Waverly into the perfect person she was today. Waverly was definitely the “good Earp,” just like everyone said.
Wynonna took the last bite of cupcake, letting its sticky sweetness coat her tongue, and tried not to think about the Reaping tomorrow.
Waverly listened to Wynonna pace anxiously back and forth behind her while Gus carefully braided her hair. Everyone had the day off for the Reaping, and Waverly had looked forward to spending extra time with her sister until… well, until the names were announced.
“Wynonna, stop pacin’ around,” Gus scolded, putting the finishing touches on Waverly’s hair. “You’re not helping anybody.”
Waverly turned around and watched Wynonna stop in her tracks and take a drink directly from a whiskey bottle she was holding. She didn’t want to know what Wynonna had to trade in the Hob for that.
Gus snatched the bottle out of Wynonna’s hand, examining the label. Possession of alcohol was rare in the Seam and might as well been gold. “Where did you even get this?”
Wynonna wordlessly held a finger horizontally across her upper lip and used her upper hand to act as though she had a cowboy hat on top of her head.
“Ugh, don’t tell me you got it from creepy old Doc!” Waverly whined.
Wynonna smiled and nodded her head, too buzzed to think of a clever answer.
“Huh.” Gus let out an impressed breath and took a drink from the bottle herself.
“Gus!” Waverly gasped, surprised that she would stoop to Wynonna’s level.
“That man knows his stuff,” Gus said, coughing a bit at the unfamiliar taste of alcohol. “Besides, victors always get the best.”
Wynonna gave a thumbs-up to Gus’ comment and took the whiskey bottle back to take another drink.
Waverly huffed and straightened her light blue dress. She knew that they were drinking to relieve stress from the rapidly approaching Reaping, but Waverly herself couldn’t bring herself to do much of anything but wait.
“If you get chosen, Waves,” Wynonna said solemnly, sitting down next to her sister, “I’ll volunteer as tribute.”
Waverly smiled, even though it couldn’t be done - it was against the rules. Only children between 12-18 years of age could be chosen as tributes. “Thanks, but like you said, us Earps aren’t that lucky.”
Wynonna grinned, recalling the words she had spoken only yesterday. “Past-me was really reassuring, wasn’t she?”
Outside the town clock suddenly chimed, startling them, and it was time.
Waverly stood quietly in alphabetical order with the other children of District 12, the air somber and quiet. She snuck a glance back to where everyone was standing, and Wynonna offered a tight smile when their eyes met. Despite all the drinking beforehand, the event had a quickly sobering effect.
Waverly looked forward again, and she saw the District 12 victor, Doc Holliday, standing uncomfortably in a pressed dark suit to match his dark cowboy hat. He stood with the representative from the Capitol on the steps leading to the main municipal building while everyone else stood in perfect rows in the town square with white uniformed Peacekeepers surrounding them.
The woman from the Capitol had painted her face in garish swirls and dyed her hair an electric shade of blue. She walked delicately in her precariously balanced heels up the microphone and pair of reaping balls, each ball containing the names of all the female and male children.
“Welcome to the reaping of the 31st Hunger Games!” she announced proudly in her Capitol accent. She paused for effect, waiting for applause that never came. She cleared her throat. “I, for one, am very excited to meet this year’s tributes! No spoilers, but I’ve heard that it’s going to be quite an exciting Hunger Games this year.”
She grinned, hoping to get a reaction from the crowd from this teasing tidbit, but she was met again with silent stares.
“Well, I suppose we should go ahead and get started.” She reached into one of the reaping balls and pulled out a slip of paper. “Ladies first.”
When Waverly saw the woman’s lips scrunch together to begin the “W” sound, her heart sank.
“Waverly Earp!”
“What the hell?!” Waverly heard behind her. “I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute, goddammit! Let me the fuck through, you shitheads!”
Waverly turned around, trying not to let the tears forming in her eyes go any further, and saw Wynonna fighting vainly against a pair of Peacekeepers in special riot gear.
“I…” Wynonna gasped, letting out a strangled sob. “I volunteer.”
The woman on the steps laughed and clapped her hands. “Oh my, how charming! I’m sorry darling, but your chance to win the Hunger Games has already passed. Waverly, dear, come on up!”
Waverly felt herself face the steps and robotically move forward, vaguely hearing Wynonna start up another cursing storm. When she finally reached the top of the steps, Waverly felt the Capitol woman touch her shoulder lightly, and then the Capitol woman reached into the other reaping ball to choose the male tribute.
“Champ Hardy!”
Champ. Champ was a schoolmate in the same year as Waverly, but he lived in the merchant area instead of the Seam, helping with his family’s bakery. She often saw him unloading goods from the other districts, though their paths had never directly crossed more than a few times. He always offered her a smile and more often than not tried to show off his strength in front of her, causing her to blush and quickly move onto wherever she was headed.
And now neither of them were ever coming back home. Or maybe just one of them.
Champ slowly walked through the crowd and joined Waverly at the top of the steps. There was a collective relief felt from the crowd as the other children weren’t chosen, but all Waverly could hear was the thumping of her own racing heart.
The Capitol woman had applauded when both tributes were displayed to the crowd, but everyone was anxious to leave, ready to forget this event ever happened. When everyone was dismissed, Waverly, Champ, Doc, and the Capitol representative were rushed into the Mayor’s office.
“Might I interest you in a drink?” Doc suggested quietly, pulling a flask from his coat pocket.
Waverly shook her head, but Champ accepted eagerly, taking a large gulp. Doc nodded, twitching his mustache. “You keep that, kid. You’ll need it.”
The doors to the Mayor’s office burst open, and Wynonna and Gus rushed to Waverly, both entangling their arms around her.
“Baby girl,” Wynonna murmured, squeezing Waverly as tightly as she could. “I guess us Earps are that unlucky.”
“Wynonna…” Waverly started, her voice cracking as the tears started flowing out of her eyes.
Wynonna let Waverly go and held her face with both hands, looking into Waverly’s watery eyes with a determined look. “You come back. You don’t get to die out there. You’re not allowed, understand?”
Waverly nodded, reaching up to clench Wynonna’s wrists.
“Good. Take this.” Wynonna took her gold necklace off and clasped it around Waverly’s neck. “It was Willa’s.”
Waverly nodded again, letting out a shaky breath.
“Alright, tributes! Time to finally go to the Capitol!” the Capitol representative announced cheerfully.
Peacekeepers approached them, signaling Wynonna and Gus to leave.
“No! It’s too soon! That isn’t enough time!” Wynonna protested. She reached out to grab Waverly, but a baton struck her sharply from behind and she fell to the floor.
“Wynonna!” Waverly shrieked. She tried to move toward her sister, but a pair of Peacekeepers grabbed Waverly’s arms and began dragging her away. The last thing she saw as the doors closed behind them was Wynonna groggily getting back up and reaching toward her.
In District 2, Nicole waited patiently as her mother French braided her hair. She was 18 now, her last Hunger Games, and this time she had to be chosen as tribute.
The Haughts had a proud lineage; they could trace their heritage back generations, all the way back to when a country called the United States of America had existed. They even kept their old-fashioned family name instead of adopting modern trends.
And their family was a family of victors.
Nicole remembered living in Victor’s Village when she was only a few years old, running around the seemingly endless hallways and playing in the gardens. She never worried about tearing a dress or getting seconds at meal times – there was always more.
But when her father died, Nicole and her mother had to move back to the community and her mother had to get a job working at the quarry. They received strict food and clothing rations like everyone else, and her mother was sick of it.
Nicole’s mother tightened the end of Nicole’s hair extra tight as she finished, her fingers gripping her daughter’s red hair. “You will be chosen this year, Nicole,” she growled through gritted teeth. “I’m not living like this anymore.”
“Yes, mother,” Nicole replied plainly. She had always found it was best to answer simply, else she stoke her mother’s anger even further.
District 2 was famous for Career tributes – children who had trained their whole lives to win the Hunger Games. Their school emphasized physical fitness, strength, and combat training. As a result, most of the children became overly aggressive and arrogant, fighting over everything from food rations to social hierarchy.
Nicole was capable of fighting with the best of them, but she didn’t think she had to be a dickhead about it. She was known for an easy-going smile and a rare friendly demeanor… until you tried something stupid like stealing her rations or calling her a ginger, and then Nicole Haught had you flat on your back in an instant.
She had always wanted to become a Peacekeeper. The type that kept everyone safe by making sure the rules were followed, but knowing the right moments to bend them. Rules were meant to be followed, generally, but there were always exceptions.
But first, she had to win the Hunger Games for her mother.
The Reaping ceremony happened as expected, with much fanfare and enthusiasm from the whole district. The Capitol representative was dressed in a flared suit that changed colors with every step he took, his hair swept up in a dramatic pompadour and dyed in rainbow swirls – swirls apparently were all the range in the Capitol this season. When he appeared and greeted the crowd, he was almost swept back from the roars and cheers of adulation. He flashed a blindingly white smile and waved as he approached the microphone and reaping balls.
The names selected didn’t matter. This year, to prevent the riots that had been overtaking each previous Reaping, the school had set up a wrestling tournament to determine who had the right to volunteer. Every child aged 12-18 could participate in the tournament, but the older children had the distinct advantage of being larger and stronger.
Nicole had won, of course, though that didn’t stop other girls in her class from making threats and pushing her further down the social scale. She would simply smile and pinned them down again, quietly whispering in their ear that if they took the tribute spot from her, she didn’t need the Hunger Games to kill them.
“The female tribute from District 2 that will be in the 31st Hunger Games is…!”
“I volunteer as tribute.”
Nicole’s voice carried calmly across the town square, and the other children moved silently out of the way as she walked forward to claim her spot.
The Capitol representative flashed an even bigger smile and clapped his hands as the adults in the community cheered and whistled, the children giving half-hearted claps as they remembered Nicole’s threats veiled in her dimpled smile. Nicole’s mother applauded calmly and gazed steadfastly into Nicole’s eyes, and Nicole nodded back when she had reached the stage and faced the crowd.
It was the same everywhere, no matter which district you were from: win the Games or die.
|
There was a man who was perhaps not exactly a man. I say this because his mother was a deer. Or at least, he said his mother was a deer. It could have just been a story he told.
In fact, I’m willing to bet that it was. After all, he was a storyteller.
He was discovered at the roadside one day, dirty and ragged, but surprisingly well spoken for one so young. He said that he lived in the woods. That he had always lived in the woods. He had lived with his mother, a deer, and sometimes a man would come to visit, a man who made his mother weep, a man who would not speak to the boy. The mother would go with the man for hours at a time, and then a day, and then two, and then she never returned at all. From that day onward, the boy lived on his own.
He was taken in, bathed, hair cut, put in proper clothes and taught proper ways. The boy went along with this, because people seemed so keen to help, and it seemed to please them. But yes, there were times when he missed the grass beneath his head and the sky above his fingers and the whisper of animal tongues filling the evening hours.
The boy grew, and became a man. He became a poet, and a warrior, which must be hard to do. I think that anyone who really understands poetry would be unable to strike a fatal blow. But the poet did just that, slaying his enemies with a strum of his guitar, his name a feared and loved thing.
The poet was loved. His friends loved him. The people who took him in loved him. And he took a wife, who loved him too.
But.
The warrior poet wished for something other. Maybe it was his strange beginning that put this yearning inside him. Wherever it came from, it could not be quieted. Not by battle. Not by song. Not by the soft touch of his wife’s hands in the dark. Not by the laughter of his children. The poet longed for something new, something magical.
He told stories of other worlds, of fantastic places he formed from his own mind. A place where men and women grew wings. A land where they lived in high towers and fire was never used to cook food. A place where gods and humans mingled so closely that they could not be distinguished one from the other. The people around him would laugh and marvel at his imagination, and they would retell his stories to one another, but they never told those stories quite as well as he. What a gift, they said, to see beyond this world.
There’s a magic in words, though, and maybe speaking it aloud was some kind of spell. One day, the poet was walking the woods where he had once lived with his mother, and a woman appeared to him. He knew just from looking at her that she was not like the others. She was dressed in silver. Silver and silver and silver.
She offered a hand and said, “Do you want to leave this place?”
The poet thought of his wife and children, of the home he had made, the life he had constructed. It was the thought of seconds, though. Just a fleeting thing. Stronger was the call of desire. Long had he yearned to leave this world, and he would not deny the opportunity before him.
He took her hand, without a word spoken, and she pulled him into another world.
The wonders the poet saw are without number. He befriended animals more cultured than any men, and met a woman who spoke only in colours. Symphonies played in orchestras ten thousand strong. Silence that was so loud his body turned inside out. Gods and goddesses that stretched into the heavens. Cars and trains and spaceships that travelled beyond this galaxy and back through the center of it again. He saw all this and so much more in the span of what seemed like moments.
And then he missed his wife. He missed his children.
The woman in silver asked, “Are you not happy? Have I not given you what you always desired?”
“You have,” said the poet. “And I am grateful, and I love you for what you have given me. Only I never said goodbye to my family, and I worry for them.”
“You made the choice to follow me.”
“I did, and I don’t regret that choice. I only ask if I could return for a visit, nothing more. This is where I want to be. I only want to know that they’re well. I only want to say goodbye.”
He meant what he said, as much as a person can mean anything that they say. So the woman in silver thought, and she said, “You are not a prisoner. You can go as you please. Take my horse, and go back to where you came from. When you are ready, you may return, and we will see many more things.” Before he could go, she continued, “I warn you—you must stay on the horse’s back. If you touch the ground, I will know that you have decided to stay, and my magic will leave you.”
The poet nodded, certain that it would be easy.
But of course his feet touched the ground. It’s not a real story if it has a happy ending.
The storyteller returned to his world, and even though the woman in silver told him he was going to the exact same spot from where he had left, something had obviously gone wrong. There were no trees, only grey lands with ashen earth that stretched across the hills, with the ruins of buildings in the distance. He wondered what trickery this was, if the woman in silver was teaching him some kind of lesson, if he would have to wander to find his people, his home.
He inhaled, and that’s when he realized. The air tasted like home.
He could remember what home tasted like, but he could not remember his wife’s name. He could not remember his children’s names.
He could not remember his own name.
The ruins in the distance, they had some strange familiarity. And he knew.
A terrible noise came from overhead. It was like a bird of metal, the kind he had seen in other worlds, soaring across the sky.
The horse bucked, and threw him, and the man fell to the ground. In an instant, he felt a change in his body. He could not move. In seconds, all the years he had avoided in the other realm began to take their toll on his body.
His last thoughts were ones of regret as he turned to bone and then dust. He thought of those he had loved, and realized that once you move forward, there is no way to reverse course.
You make your choices. Then you live or die with them.
|
In the 2008 Olympic Games, Michael Phelps won his 7th gold medal by 0.04 seconds - a duration of time so short you couldn’t even blink before it’s over. In a competition, every second, or rather, millisecond is absolutely crucial. The fastest always wins, even if the margin is paper thin.
Hyunjae shoots his hand in the air, as quickly as his muscles can move, trained from years of practice. His eyes immediately snap to his left, heart pounding in hopes that he was too slow but at last - Juyeon has his long arm held high in the air.
Hyunjae isn’t one to swear, but motherfucker .
Hyunjae doesn’t know who won. He needs the judge to announce the results. He looks at his teacher, waiting with bated breath.
Mrs Jeon sighs, purposefully avoiding Hyunjae’s eyes. “Anyone else?” she tries, scanning the classroom with a shred of hope.
Hyunjae holds back a scoff. His classmates have long detached themselves from the lesson, heads down on the table, buried under a deep slumber. That, or they’re lost in the games they are sneakily playing under their desk. Hyunjae doesn’t know why Mrs. Jeon even wants to bother, especially when there’s a perfectly good candidate (himself), who knows the answer.
“Sunwoo!” Mrs Jeon calls out. Sunwoo jolts out of his daydream with a full-body jerk, round eyes wide and lost. “What are some causes for heart palpitations?”
Sunwoo blinks. “Uh, what do palpitations mean?”
Mrs Jeon rubs her temples in disappointment while the rest of the class snickers. “Not paying attention I see,” she sighs. “It means that your heart is beating irregularly fast. What could be some reasons for that?”
Sunwoo’s mouth flops open and closes like a dead fish, struggling to formulate an answer. “Uh…” he drags out, “um, when you’re around someone you like?”
The class tries to hold back their laughter, muffling their giggles into their palms. Mrs Jeon rolls her eyes. “ Scientific reasons Sunwoo. This is biology class.”
“Umm,” Sunwoo grimaces, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry. I don’t know the answer.”
Mrs Jeon surveys the class, hoping to catch an answer but she’s met with numerous blank stares. She sighs, reluctantly shifting her gaze back to Hyunjae and Juyeon, who still have their hands held up. “Fine” she acquiesces, “Hyunjae, you put your hand up first, so you can answer.”
Triumph floods through Hyunjae like adrenaline on a sugar high. He sits up straight in his chair, taking a second to throw Juyeon a proud smirk. The latter seemingly doesn’t react, but Hyunjae has been competing with him long enough to notice the slight twitch in his left eye.
“Heart palpitations can be associated with medical conditions such as Dehydration or Hypoglycaemia.” Hyunjae answers proudly, chin held high.
“And?” Mrs Jeon prompts.
Hyunjae blinks, caught off guard. “And?” he repeats, confused.
“There’s one more condition that’s stated in your textbook” she explains, “do you remember what it is?”
Hyunjae’s mind goes unexpectedly blank. He studied this, but the answer seems to be taking its own sweet time to appear in his mind. He goes silent for a long moment, wracking his brains.
All of a sudden, it comes to him. He leans forward with renewed vigour, ready to answer when he’s abruptly interrupted.
“Hyperthyroidism” Juyeon answers, casually slumped in his chair, like he doesn’t just commit daylight robbery. “Which is when the thyroid gland becomes overactive and produces too many hormones.”
Hyunjae whips his head, nostrils flaring in indignance whereas Mrs Jeon nods, “That’s correct. Thank you Juyeon.”
Mrs Jeon gives Hyunjae a sympathetic glance, although he doesn’t see it because he’s too busy glaring Juyeon down, throwing daggers in his mind. “It’s okay, better luck next time!” She tries to comfort but it feels like a spoonful of salt on Hyunjae’s wound. And to make matters infinitely worse, Juyeon meets his eyes and shrugs his shoulders. His entire demeanour is impassive, but Hyunjae knows , he knows exactly what it all means.
I won .
The second class comes to an end, punctuated by the ring of the school bell, Hyunjae storms over to Juyeon’s desk.
“Yeon.” he snaps, a gruff greeting to announce his presence.
Juyeon looks up from his bag. “Jae.” he returns, equally cold.
“Cheating huh?” Hyunjae starts, crossing his arms. Every classmate in close proximity grabs their bag and scampers off, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. “Real classy of you”
“Cheat?” Juyeon echoes, arching his sharp eyebrows. They disappear under his dark fringe that hangs over his forehead. “When did I cheat?”
“You stole my question” Hyunjae hisses. “I did all the work and you just swooped in and snatched all the credit!”
“Is it really your question if you couldn’t answer it?” Juyeon throws back. The words hit Hyunjae square in the face and he has to bite back an affronted gasp. “You didn’t know the answer so I was helping you. Shouldn’t you thank me?” The infuriating thing about Juyeon is that he delivers all his lines with perfect level-headed composure. He makes Hyunjae feel like a child throwing a tantrum.
But Hyunjae is emotional by nature and he gave up trying to fight it a long time ago, which is why his mouth openly twists in a snarl. “I didn’t need your help” he insists, “nor will I ever. I knew the answer and I was literally going to say it before you interrupted me!”
“Are you really this worked up over a question?” Juyeon asks, “or is all this bitterness because of midterms?”
Another hit to the face. Hyunjae goes red and sees red because dammit , Juyeon hit the nail right on the head. Hyunjae has been awfully bitter ever since last Wednesday, since 1:00 p.m to be exact when the dean had put up the list of rankings for the midterm exam. Hyunjae was second, right below Juyeon who proudly stood at first. Hyunjae had lost by one mark, one . Fuck these narrow margins.
“Gloating over one mark?” Hyunjae scoffs, “a bit pathetic don’t you think? Having a clear win is something to be proud of, like how I beat you by 7 points in the debate competition.”
Juyeon’s face darkens. Finally, Hyunjae has struck a nerve. “You just got lucky.”
“7 points isn’t luck, it’s skill . But I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about that.”
“As entertaining as this is to watch,” Mrs Jeon interrupts from her teacher’s desk, “I have another class coming in 5 minutes. I need you two boys to get out.”
“I was just about to leave,” Hyunjae says, giving Juyeon a hard glare before spinning on his heel and marching off. He doesn’t need to turn around to know Juyeon’s reaction - a scoff and one irritated eye roll. It’s routine at this point, a routine that has begun since the start of high school.
Hyunjae has only known Juyeon as a hindrance from the moment he met him. Hyunjae needs to build the perfect portfolio for university applications next year, but at every achievement there Juyeon is, with his dark hair and blank stare like a stupid roadblock. The bitter rivalry started at the end of their first year, where everyone had anticipated for Hyunjae to attain first for finals, (Hyunjae included), only for Lee Juyeon to be printed right smack at the top. It was the talk of the school for days. “ Did you hear? Hyunjae got beaten by Juyeon! ” The humiliation was unbearable, so was Juyeon’s snarky remark, “ Tough luck ” Hyunjae will show him what’s tough - his fist, and the challenge of beating him ever again.
Hyunjae had beaten Juyeon for their midterms and finals in their second year, but Juyeon had snagged a seat in the Executive Committee for Student Council while Hyunjae failed to make the cut. There was a turn of events when Hyunjae was appointed as President of the school’s Sustainability Society but Juyeon had, a week later, brought back a trophy from some computer competition, earning him a prize ceremony on stage. Hyunjae was the only person in the entire hall who did not clap.
It’s an endless tug of war that has dragged on for years, but their rivalry will finally end this year at graduation where either one of them will win valedictorian. It’s an aching close fight. People are placing bets on who will win, even the teachers, which is incredibly unprofessional if you ask Hyunjae, (and upsetting, because his favourite English teacher chose Juyeon. Traitor .)
Hyunjae walks down the corridor in brisk steps, gaze unfocused as he scans through his mental to-do list. As a member of the Student Council, non executive committee, he’s tasked with the menial work of opening up all the facilities. He needs to go around the school and unlock the facilities for everyone to use. He only has a 20 minute time frame to get it all done before he’s due for Math class.
“Sunwoo” Hyunjae calls out, stopping his classmate. “You closed the gym last night right? Did you bring home the keys?”
Sunwoo gasps, smacking his forehead hard. “I forgot to return them to the office! I think they are in my bag.” He glances at his watch. “I would go get it for you but I need to go to class now. Could you go take them?”
Hyunjae holds back a grimace. He doesn’t have the time to walk all the way back to their classroom, but he’s left with no choice. “Sure!” he chirps, always the people-pleaser, “don’t worry. You head on for class!”
Sunwoo thanks him gratefully, giving him an appreciative clap on the back before scurrying off, trying to make it in time for his next class. Hyunjae sighs, turning his brisk walk into a fast jog as he heads back to the classroom.
“It’s not here” Hyunjae mutters, searching through Sunwoo’s bag. Sunwoo must have misplaced it. He huffs loudly, a lock of his fringe fluttering. The classroom is completely empty, chairs tucked neatly into their tables. All his classmates must be at the convenience store or lounging around in the garden before their next period starts. Hyunjae feels a twinge of envy in his chest. He too wishes he could unwind and relax, but even in these short pockets of time he has things to do, responsibilities to commit. “ Only the best succeed. You have to be the best ” He can hear his mother’s voice in his head, so distinctly clear it’s as if he’s back at home at his study table with his mother hovering right behind him.
In this vast classroom he’s all alone, and yet he feels like there isn’t enough air for him. He tugs at the tie around his collar, trying to breathe.
His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he’s grateful for the distraction. It’s just a random notification, a promotion email from a website he accidentally subscribed to, but it makes him take note of the time. 8:05. Shit , he’s way behind schedule. He sprints out of the classroom, heart pounding as he scampers to get his work done. He wonders if a day will come where he can walk the hallways with ease.
_____
“Hyunjae. Give me the ball” Haknyeon grits out, trying to snatch it out of Hyunjae’s vice-like grip. “Just one shot” Hyunjae pleads, refusing to let go. “Just give me one shot!”
“Can you just go back to your own group?” Haknyeon cries out, gesturing to Hyunjae’s team with a hard jerk of his head.
“ Yah ” Juyeon calls out from across the court, “can you stop bothering us?” Even from meters away, his irritation is crystal clear. Hyunjae narrows his eyes in retaliation. He turns back to Haknyeon. “Once, just once .”
“Hyunjae for the last time” Haknyeon snaps, “You’re not allowed to hit Juyeon with the ball!”
“This is Dodgeball!” Hyunjae gestures around, “isn’t that the whole point of the game?”
“Yes but you’re not in our team” Haknyeon finally manages to tug it out of Hyunjae’s hand, nearly stumbling back with the effort. “And secondly, you’re supposed to throw it with the intention of playing, not bitter vengeance.”
“If you ask me, Dodgeball is clearly an excuse to seek bitter vengeance”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave” Juyeon has now magically reappeared next to them, looming over Hyunjae with a scowl. Hyunjae wonders how he managed to cross the court so quickly. Must be witchcraft, or just some sort of evil power. Maybe Juyeon is the devil himself. Hyunjae wouldn’t be surprised.
“A place away from you? Gladly” He sneers, marching back to his own group. He settles next to Sunwoo, easing into the ongoing game. Sunwoo glances over at him, huffing a laugh. “Fighting with Juyeon again?”
“I hope the ball hits him right on the head,” Hyunjae mutters petulantly.
“I hope you win Valedictorian over him,” Sunwoo says, drawing his arm back to throw. The ball soars through the air but misses their opponent by an inch. “My bet is on you.”
“You betted on me? How dare you?!” Hyunjae gasps incredulously before he leans forward curiously. “How much?”
“5 bucks.” Sunwoo answers, “you better make my money worth it.”
“Lee Hyunjae!” Their teacher suddenly barks, voice thundering over the class’s squeals and shouts. Hyunjae stands up straight, assessing his teacher’s expression as he jogs over. It looks grim. His chest tightens uneasily. “Yes Sir?”
“Principal wants you in his office. Now .”
“He does?” The Principal’s Office directly equates to trouble. Only delinquents are sent there. “Why?”
His teacher shakes his head. “Just go.”
Hyunjae scurries along, mind as jumbled as the rhythm of his steps. He knows he didn’t do anything wrong. He couldn’t possibly. Definitely not now when the school is considering who the Valedictorian should be, but also definitely not ever with his mother tracking his every move. He couldn’t make a mistake even if he wanted to.
But the second he steps into the Principal’s Office, he knows that something is very, very wrong. All eyes land on him, staring as if he’s just walked in with blood on his hands. Principal Kim sits at the head of the table, hands clasped tightly before him. A man, whom Hyunjae does not recognise, sits on his left. His grey suit is tailored to fit and virtually crease-free. Only money can buy such quality. And to Hyunjae’s surprise, his classmate Dongwon is here too, seated with his head down and hands tucked politely on his lap. What is he doing here? And why is he acting so …strange? His docile demeanour now is a far cry from how Hyunjae always sees him in class - rowdy and ill-disciplined.
Principal Kim motions for him to sit down. “Hyunjae, do you know why you’re here?”
Hyunjae slowly takes a seat, looking around uncertainly. “N-No Sir…”
The man scoffs while Dongwon remains quiet. Principal Kim clears his throat. “This is Dongwon’s father - Mr Shim” he introduces, motioning to the man. Hyunjae is about to rise and bow when Principal Kim adds, “and he’s here to report you for plagiarism.”
It’s like a hard slap to the face. Hyunjae freezes. “What?”
“You plagiarised my son’s work and you still have the cheek to come in here and act oblivious” Mr Shim sneers. “Do you know who I am? I’m a lawyer at one of this country’s top firms, we can sue you if we want!”
Hyunjae is stumped to the core. “What are you talking about?” He demands. “When did I ever plagiarise?”
“Dongwon submitted an essay for Yonsei’s admission in April this year.” Principal Kim says, “However, Yonsei is now raising a query about his application as they ran a plagiarism check and found an essay identical to what Dongwon wrote.” He looks at Hyunjae. “And that essay is yours.”
“What?” Hyunjae splutters, “What essay is this?”
“The essay you submitted for the National Youth Literature competition” He answers. “But the thing is, you submitted your essay in May, a month after Dongwon.”
“So you obviously copied Dongwon’s essay and used it to win yourself an award!” Mr Shim accuses, spit flying from his cracked lips.
“No I didn’t!” Hyunjae protests. What the fuck is this? He turns his alarmed gaze to Dongwon, waiting for him to intervene and explain but the boy simply keeps his head down. “I don’t know how this happened,” Hyunjae says shakily, “but I wrote the essay by myself . I started writing it in February!”
“Can you show us your document?”
Hyunjae scrambles to yank his laptop out from his bag, frantically searching for his Google Document. He clicks on the details, thrumming with anticipation, eager to prove everyone wrong when-
Created: 8 April 2021
“See!” Mr Shim exclaims, beady eyes glowing with triumph. “You’re lying!”
Hyunjae stares at the screen in cold shock. How is this possible ? The evidence makes zero sense but it’s glaringly present, looking Hyunjae straight in the eye.
Hyunjae’s eyes snap to Dongwon. He must be the reason behind all of this. Dongwon’s head continues to hang low, but for a split second he smirks, taunting and cruel before he slips his mask of innocence back on.
“How do you explain this?” Principal Kim bellows, “do you have any idea how serious of an offence plagiarism is?”
“Sir please I really didn’t do it!” Hyunjae pleads, practically hanging off his seat. “Just give me some time and I’ll figure out how this happened.”
“What’s there to figure out?” Mr Shim snaps. He looks at Principal Kim. “Just punish him and we won’t make this into an issue.”
“Your son is the one who’s lying!” Hyunjae shouts, exploding in outrage. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Enough!” Principal Kim booms, voice thundering through the room. “You still want to be so rude even when you’re already in trouble?!”
“But-”
“A disciplinary committee will be formed. We’ll review your case and decide on your punishment by the end of the month.”
“Punishment?” Hyunjae repeats. He’s digging his nails into his palm, so hard that crescent-shaped imprints form. They're ghastly red. “What are you going to give me?”
“This is a very serious case. This isn’t just an essay you stole for a measly school assignment. You won a national competition with this and now Yonsei is involved.” Principal Kim’s expression is grave.“You’re looking at expulsion here.”
Hyunjae’s entire mind goes blank.
_____
“They’re going to expel you?!” Haknyeon shrieks in utter disbelief and Hyunjae, despite having just been warned not to tell anyone about this, can’t find it in himself to care which is why he remains tucked in a corner, face buried between his kneecaps, letting Haknyeon ramble on at a dangerously loud volume. “How could they expel you?!”
“Not yet” Hyunjae mumbles, “it’s at the end of the month, which is around, three weeks from now?” The correction seems useless to even to his own ears. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or later, Hyunjae’s fate has already been sealed.
“But you didn’t even do it!” Haknyeon is so angry one would have thought he was the one being falsely accused. “This is so unfair!”
‘Unfair’ feels like an understatement. ‘Unfair’ doesn’t feel adequate enough to describe the situation: in which Dongwon is a scheming asshole who decided to steal Hyunjae’s work because Daddy’s Money wasn’t enough to buy his incapable ass in, and now he has sabotaged Hyunjae and threw his years of hard work down the drain. Hyunjae would be absolutely done for if he gets expelled. He would be blacklisted. No University would want him. He didn’t sacrifice so much just for it all to come down to this .
“What am I going to do?” He asks Haknyeon, despair bubbling in his chest. “I need to prove that I didn’t do it but how ?”
“Do you know how Dongwon stole your essay?”
“He tampered with my file. I don’t know how he did it but he did.” Hyunjae grits his teeth. “I started writing in the document in February, but now for some reason, it’s showing that it was only created in April, the same month he submitted his essay!”
“Tampered with your file?” Haknyeon echoes, “but how? Is that even possible?”
“I don’t know! None of this makes sense to me either.”
Haknyeon squats down, sitting next to him. “Hyunjae,” he says gently, and almost carefully, “did you…did you really not do it?”
Hyunjae’s head snaps towards Haknyeon. “ What? ”
“It’s okay if you did it you know I mean it’s wrong but I know you’re under a lot of pressure from your-”
“I didn’t do it!” Haknyeon’s accusation sting, painfully so. Hyunjae can’t believe even his own best friend thinks he’s guilty.
“Okay I’m sorry!” Haknyeon at the very least looks ashamed. “You know I want to be on your side but the evidence is so…” He trails off, unable to finish his sentence. Hyunjae’s head falls back on the wall with a dull thud. “I know” he croaks out, “I know it looks like I did it but I swear I really didn’t.”
“Okay” Haknyeon nods his head slowly, regrouping his thoughts. “If Dongwon framed you, there must be evidence. We just need to figure out how he did it.” He pauses, thinking for a moment before he says, “you said your file was tampered with right? We just need to prove that.”
Hyunjae lifts his head up, a seed of hope blooming in his chest. “Can we?”
“It’s hard to erase digital footprints” Haknyeon reasons, “if someone tampered with your file, it would surely leave a record right? We just need to find someone to help us retrieve the data.”
“That’s a good idea,” Hyunjae says slowly, sitting up straight. “We can hire an expert to help us. I’m sure there are some freelancers who could do the job.” He searches on his phone, scouring the web.
“Woah” Haknyeon peers over his shoulder, “they are-”
“So fucking expensive?!” Hyunjae hisses, physically wincing at the three-digit numbers they encounter again and again. “This is insane! I don’t have this kind of money.”
“Maybe try adding the word ‘ cheap ’ in the search bar”
Hyunjae tries. “This guy is 65 dollars” He checks the reviews. “But everyone says he’s lousy.”
“You know,” Haknyeon says slowly, approaching the topic carefully. “There’s someone in our school who could help you.”
Hyunjae lunges forward. “Who?”
Haknyeon pauses, hesitating before he answers. “Lee Juyeon.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The seed of hope in Hyunjae’s chest is instantly squashed to pieces. Not just squashed - stomped, rained and spat on. “There is no way I’m asking him for help.”
“Remember he recently won an award? The school had a prize ceremony for it?”
“Yes I remember,” Hyunjae grumbles bitterly, “you don’t need to remind me.”
“Well, it was for a Digital Forensics competition,” Haknyeon says. “That means he knows how to find out if your file was tampered with or not”
“But why him?” Hyunjae whines, “I’m sure the other Computer Club members know how to do the same. Why can’t we ask one of them?”
To Hyunjae’s dismay, Haknyeon shakes his head. “Digital Forensics is highly complicated. Juyeon is the only one who knows how it works. Why do you think he went to that competition alone?”
“I just very reasonably assumed that he is a self-important ass who wanted all the attention. '' Hyunjae snarks, extremely bitter. The situation is already catastrophic as it is, and now, fantastic , Lee Juyeon is introduced into the mix. It’s like adding Sodium to hot Hydrochloric Acid. Bam , fire explodes. Here, fire doesn’t explode, but Hyunjae’s dignity is crushed and that feels just as severe.
Haknyeon claps a hand on Hyunjae’s shoulder. “I know you hate to admit it, but you need his help.”
“Could you ask him for me?” Hyunjae tries, batting his eyelashes. “Or can we pretend that it’s your essay that got stolen? Like-”
“Just suck it up and ask him” Haknyeon immediately shuts Hyunjae down. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is! That prick would never let me live it down!”
“Well,” Haknyeon rises to his feet, dusting his pants. “It’s up to you. It’s either Lee Juyeon or expulsion.”
“I'd rather be expelled” Hyunjae grumbles, curling tighter into his corner.
_____
As it turns out, Hyunjae would rather not get expelled, which is why one can now find him hovering outside the Computer Club’s room, mustering up the courage to go in.
“It’s not that big of a deal.” Hyunjae chants like a mantra. Haknyeon’s right. It’s not that big of a deal. He just needs to walk in, ask Juyeon for help, get the evidence that Dongwon is framing him, and walk right out.
Easy-peasy. Not a big deal .
Confidence surges through him and he shoves open the door. Except he used too much force and it slams against the wall, drawing startled yelps from the innocent members of the Computer Club, and now everyone is staring at Hyunjae with wide eyes and the silence is deafening. Juyeon only briefly glances up at the intrusion, barely even bothering to register Hyunjae’s presence.
Hyunjae clears his throat, flicking his fringe out of his face. He fights the urge to run right out, heading over to Juyeon instead.
“Yeon” Hyunjae utters quietly, standing over the white desk. “I need to talk to you” He glances around, skin prickling hotly at the curious eyes - numerous of them- ogling at him. “In private.”
“In private?” Juyeon echoes, fingers clacking his keyboard noisily, as if on purpose to drown out Hyunjae’s voice. “What is this about?” His eyes are still fixed on his computer screen, in a manner so resolute Hyunjae feels practically invisible.
“Something really, really important” Hyunjae grits out, frustration building in his throat. His entire future is in danger and Juyeon’s indifference is really not helping. “Can we go outside?”
“I would much rather not be left alone with you,” Juyeon replies flatly, resting back on his chair. “You can tell me here.”
There’s a chorus of snickers, but Hyunjae doesn’t even have the energy to send them a glare. He squeezes his eyes shut, bearing the humiliation that burns him whole. “Yeon,” he says quietly. “Please.”
This catches Juyeon by surprise and he finally looks up, meeting Hyunjae’s eyes. Shock flickers across his face, attention zeroing in on Hyunjae’s bottom lip that has been bitten so hard there’s blood. “Let’s talk outside,” He stands up, not waiting for Hyunjae as he strides out of the classroom. His legs are annoyingly long, Hyunjae thinks to himself, widening his steps to catch up to him.
Juyeon wedges himself in the corner between the door and the locker, folding his arms across his chest. “What is it?” he asks, giving Hyunjae a cautious once-over. Hyunjae awkwardly clears his throat, arms stiff with reluctance as he thrusts his laptop to Juyeon. “Haknyeon said you know some stuff about digital forensics.”
Juyeon grimaces as the laptop is smacked square on his chest. “If by ‘know some stuff’, you mean taking university-level courses on it and winning competitions then yes , yes I do.” He looks to and fro between Hyunjae and the laptop. “Why?”
“I have a file” Hyunjae says, “and I need you to figure out if it’s been tampered with.”
Now he has Juyeon’s full attention, the latter straightening up from his slouch. “Tampered with? Someone did something to your file?”
With a tired sigh, Hyunjae explains his ordeal from start to finish. “Expulsion?” Juyeon echoes when he’s done, “are you serious?”
“Would I joke about something like this?” Hyunjae snaps coldly. “Wouldn’t you be the most delighted to hear this?”
Juyeon doesn’t deny his words, but neither does he affirm them. “So you think Dongwon meddled with your document?”
“Yes?” Hyunjae answers unsurely, “I don’t know. It seems like the only answer.”
“Well,” Juyeon holds his laptop in the air, “let’s sit down and have a look.” He starts walking off before Hyunjae can even respond, which Hyunjae is now noticing to be a regular habit of his. Rude .
“ Yah ,” Hyunjae calls out, breaking into a sprint. “Wait up!”
_____
They find a place down at the benches near the school field. Hyunjae sits opposite Juyeon, throwing more than half of his body across the table as he tries to get a glimpse of what Juyeon is doing. Earlier on he tried standing behind Juyeon to watch, but Juyeon complained that he was, literally , breathing down his neck.
“This is just as uncomfortable.” Juyeon grits out, watching Hyunjae’s chin hover over the top of the screen, head bobbing as he tries to see. Hyunjae gives an irritated huff before relenting and moving back, shifting his kneel to sit down on the bench. “You’re so fussy.”
“How am I supposed to focus when you’re hovering around me like a goddamn insect?”
“If I was an insect I would be a butterfly - fluttering around you with grace and beauty.” Hyunjae mimics a butterfly dancing in the air with his two hands, swaying along to its rhythm. Juyeon stares at him blankly. “I think you’re more like a mosquito, sucking the blood of innocent victims.”
Hyunjae’s jaw drops open. “Fuck you Yeon.”
Juyeon gives him an unimpressed look. “You’re going to talk like that to the person doing you a favour?”
Hyunjae sinks back in his seat, swallowing down the rest of his retorts. “Have you found anything?”
“I actually did,” Juyeon replies, “despite a certain constant disturbance.”
Hyunjae ignores the jab, caught in the first half of the sentence. “You did? What did you find?” He springs from his seat, grabbing the laptop to take a look.
“I checked the trash to see if anything had been erased. Usually, all documents in the trash are permanently deleted after 30 days, but I managed to retrieve them.” He takes a pause as if he’s expecting Hyunjae to burst into applause, but when he’s only met with a blank stare he rolls his eyes and continues. “Look what I found” He points to the screen and there it is - Hyunjae’s original copy of his essay, created on 3 February 2021. Hyunjae gasps. “You found it! But how ? and why is it-”
“I suspect that Dongwon made a copy of your document and deleted the original piece. That’s why the document in your drive, although containing the exact same content, is said to be created only in April.”
“Fucker” Hyunjae curses, reeling in shock. “I knew he set me up!”
“I must say, he’s smarter than I thought.” Juyeon props his head on his palm. “If only he could channel this intellect into his assignments.”
“But how did he do this?” Hyunjae asks, confused. “I don’t understand. Did he somehow access my Google Drive?”
“That, or he could have used your laptop without your knowledge.”
“He could have stolen my laptop?!”
“Not sure. You can get him to confess the answer when you show him this evidence.” Juyeon says, sliding the laptop back to Hyunjae.
“Yeah, I’ll go do that.” Hyunjae nods, packing it back into his bag. He looks at Juyeon but quickly glances away. “Uh, thanks. I guess. For your, um, your help.”
“Yeah. Whatever” Juyeon mumbles, equally uncomfortable. He immediately stands to his feet, shoving his hands into his pocket. The tips of his ears are dark red. Hyunjae wonders why. Maybe it’s an allergic reaction. It could be due to pollen since they are sitting under a bougainvillea tree, or maybe Juyeon has never offered his help to anyone, and now his body is having a hostile reaction to being nice. “Well, my assistance is no longer needed here, so I’m going to leave.”
He’s already walking away, but Hyunjae can’t quell the itch he has and calls out to him before he can think twice. “Wait!”
Juyeon halts in his step, looking back. A gust of wind rushes by, sending the fallen lilac petals in a whirlpool by his feet. “What?”
The question that’s been burning at the back of Hyunjae’s mind comes tumbling out. “Why don’t you think I’m guilty?” Hyunjae had been waiting for Juyeon to question him this entire time, but his rival seemed to believe his innocence without a second doubt. Principal Kim, who has been with him at countless award ceremonies, had instantly regarded him as a suspect and Haknyeon, his own best friend, had questioned him.
Juyeon arches an eyebrow. “Do you want me to think you’re guilty?”
“N-No!” Hyunjae objects, shaking his head. “It’s not that- I just- never mind.”
Juyeon looks up at the tree, squinting his eyes under the bright sunlight. “You wouldn’t plagiarize someone’s work,” he says, “You’re too narcissistic. There’s no way you would think someone’s work is better than yours.”
“Hey!” Hyunjae cries out but then falters because although that’s not the answer he wants to hear, it’s still much better than being branded as guilty.
Juyeon walks away, but in the brief second before he turns, Hyunjae can see the corners of his lips tug into a smile.
_____
“So?”
Hyunjae is floored. “What do you mean ‘so?’ ” He furiously taps on his computer screen. “This proves that Dongwon tampered with my essay!”
Principal Kim shakes his head. “There’s no proof that Dongwon is the one who did that” He eyes Hyunjae skeptically. “You could have fabricated this to cover up what you did.”
“What?” Hyunjae thinks he might be on the verge of tears. “Why would I do that? In the first place, why would I even copy Dongwon’s essay? I'm smarter than him and everyone knows that. You know that.” He slams his palm flat on the table. “And now I’m giving you concrete proof that my document was meddled with and the obvious and only suspect is Dongwon but I’m still the suspect? Does any of this make any sense?!”
Principal Kim sighs. “So you’re saying that Dongwon logged into your Google account and tampered with the document?”
“Yes.”
“How did he do that? Did you give him your password?”
“No…But he could have accessed it via my laptop.”
“So he used your laptop? Have you ever given him your laptop?”
“He could have taken it without my permission!”
“There’s a password on your laptop right? Does he know this password?”
“Well no but-”
“So how could he have done it?”
“Why are you asking me?” Hyunjae cries out, “call Dongwon down here and ask him how he did it!”
“I’m not going to call Dongwon and his father down here with such baseless evidence,” Principal Kim levels Hyunjae with a condescending glare. “Hyunjae, you can’t do something wrong but avoid the consequences.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Hyunjae looks Principal Kim right back in the eye, emphasizing each word.
“Then bring me the evidence” Principal Kim challenges, “ solid evidence that Dongwon is the one who plagiarised first.”
Hyunjae storms out of the office, seething with anger. Haknyeon scrambles from where he was slouching against the wall, running to keep up with Hyunjae. “So?” he presses, “what did he say?”
“He said it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to prove that Dongwon did it.”
“What the hell?!” Haknyeon swears, eyes nearly bulging out his face. “What more does he want?”
“He’s taking Dongwon’s side” Hyunjae marches down the hallway, hands clenched in fists. “I just don’t understand why he’s being so biased.”
“I heard the secretaries talking just now,” Haknyeon whispers conspiratorially. “I heard his dad is an alumnus, and he’s making a big donation to the school this year.”
Of course it’s money. Hyunjae should have known. “So is that what I’m supposed to do? Get my mom to bribe the school?”
Haknyeon looks at him carefully. “Have you even told your mom about this yet?”
Hyunjae falls silent. “No” he responds curtly. The mention of his mother creates a new sense of urgency now, or maybe it’s more of fear . She can’t find out about this. “I really need to resolve this soon.”
“But how?” Haknyeon asks, “what else are you going to find?”
“I don’t know” Hyunjae rubs his forehead, fighting back a migraine. “I’ll figure it out.”
_____
“Where have you been?” Hyunjae is already anticipating it, and yet his heart still sinks when his mother storms through the doorway, pearl earrings swinging back and forth. Her lips are stretched into a taut line, an intense shade of magenta. Hyunjae pushes the door shut, head automatically dropping low. It’s easier to submit than rebel. “Sorry,” he says quietly, “my consultation overran.”
“You missed your lesson at the academy!” She barks, making Hyunjae flinch. His mother is a beautiful woman, or she was one before her child’s cutthroat world of academics got to her head and turned her obsessive, creating stress lines and wrinkles that mar her face. It would be good for her to just breathe , to loosen up a little bit. Maybe then she would loosen her grip on him too. “What consultation takes so long? You were out playing weren’t you?!”
“I had to clean up the gym” Hyunjae lies, and adds in quickly before she flares up. “Student Council duties.”
“Why do they make you do such useless things?” she gripes. “Go wash up and do your work.” She struts across the living room, pouring herself a cup of water. “You’ll make up for the lesson you missed this Saturday morning. I’ve already arranged the class.” Of course she has , Hyunjae silently thinks, without asking me .
“Also, I’ve hired a science tutor for you. He’s the same tutor Mrs Min’s son uses. His rates are very high so use him as much as you can. I’ve slotted him after your maths tuition.”
“But my science grades are fine,” Hyunjae replies, trying to conceal his irritation. His schedule is tight enough. “Good actually.”
“Good?” His mother replies, voice dripping with mockery. “You haven’t been able to score first place three times in a row already. Mrs Min’s son consistently tops his class.” There it is - the crushing comparison. It’s his mother’s favourite poison to dish out. Hyunjae, on instinct, tunes out, standing motionlessly in his spot. Over the years, he has learnt to deflect her words instead of internalizing them - it’s the only way to preserve his self-esteem.
“I just wish you would work harder” There’s disappointment written all over her face, and it’s the only words Hyunjae has ever known. She marches out of the room, just as angrily as she came in. The door slams, leaving behind a deafening silence.
Hyunjae reels in the silence, sucking in a shaky breath before hastily retreating into his room.
He tosses his bag to the side, not caring for the fact that he’s still sweaty in his school uniform as he flops onto his king-sized mattress. He stares up at the ceiling, feeling an enormous weight in his chest.
He doesn’t know how to fix this entire mess, but he’ll figure it out. He has to.
____
Hyunjae knocks on the dark red door. “HANYANG SWIM TEAM” is scrawled in white chalk, along with other doodles and messages, most bordering on obscene. Hyunjae isn’t sure how they got away with the huge dick drawn on the left. The door cracks open and the captain of the swim team, Lee Jihoon, cranes his neck out. There’s a smile on his face, but it instantly drops the second he meets Hyunjae’s gaze. “Can I help you?” he asks, curt and hostile.
Hyunjae, though confused, forces a smile. “Hi Jihoon, I need to ask a favour from you. Could you show me your club’s attendance record? It’s extremely important.”
“Why must I show it to you?” Jihoon asks defensively, and Hyunjae starts to realize what’s going on. One look down at Jihoon's hand confirms his suspicions. Jihoon is holding a canned cafe latte - the exact same one Dongwon was giving out to his friends in class earlier.
“Did someone tell you not to?” Hyunjae challenges. Jihoon’s eyes grow wide. “No” he immediately snaps, too loudly. “What are you talking about?”
Hyunjae looks him up and down, just to watch him squirm. “Never mind then,” he says, shaking his head.“Forget I ever asked.” He turns and leaves, hearing the door slam behind him all too quickly.
So that was a bust. Dongwon has covered his tracks more meticulously than Hyunjae had expected. Still determined, he heads to the staff room, finding the Swim Team’s teacher-in-charge - Mr Hwang. Once again, he tries asking for the attendance sheet but Mr Hwang shakes his head. “I’m sorry, that’s private information, it’s improper to disclose.”
“But this is really important!” Hyunjae tries to plead, “I just need to know if Dongwon was present on the 8th of April.” The Swim Team’s attendance book sits on Mr Hwang’s desk, so easily within grasp. Hyunjae resists the urge to just snatch it and run.
“I’m busy,” Mr Hwang snaps, turning his attention back to his computer. “I can’t help you. Go back to class.” He’s just as hostile as Jihoon, possibly even worse, but he’s always been known for his horrible temperament. Hyunjae stares forlornly at the attendance book before reluctantly dragging himself out.
Hyunjae plops down on a bench in the courtyard, yanking his tie loose. A week has flown by and he has barely gotten anywhere. The date of the disciplinary committee hearing looms over his head like a dark cloud. He needs to get his hands on that attendance book, whatever it may take.
Something small suddenly flies through the air and lands at his feet. Hyunjae crouches down, about to pick it up when a little girl darts forward, snatching it up. “That’s mine!” she says, clutching it possessively.
She’s adorable - round cheeks and only barely reaching Hyunjae’s knees in height. “I’m sorry I didn’t know,'' he says kindly, balancing himself on his feet so he can remain crouched down. “What do you have over there?”
The girl releases it from her hold for Hyunjae to see. “It’s a wand! My Oppa got it for me. It’s the prettiest wand, all my friends want it too!”
“That is a very pretty wand!” Hyunjae exclaims, “what can it do?”
“It can light up!” She says excitedly, pressing a button to show Hyunjae. “So you can use it in the dark, or maybe when you’re at a party! And it can play songs too! See, over here, you just press this button on the right here.”
Hyunjae is completely endeared, watching and listening intently. He has always adored children. “That’s so cool!” he gasps, trying to match her level of enthusiasm.
“Jieun-ah” A deep voice rumbles, “what are you doing?” Both Hyunjae and Jieun look up to see Juyeon standing over them, his bag slung over his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed at the sight before him. “ Oppa !” She squeals, barreling into him and hugging his legs. Hyunjae stands up, blinking slowly. Oppa?
“I was showing him the wand you gave me!” She says, proudly waving it around. Juyeon looks down at her, patting her head. His eyes are impossibly soft, tender in their gaze and to Hyunjae’s complete surprise his mouth curves into a small smile.
“I didn’t know your mouth could do that.”
Juyeon looks at Hyunjae, confused. “Do what?”
“Smile.” Hyunjae is half joking, half serious. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Juyeon smile before, at least not to him. He always looks so cold and sullen.
Juyeon rolls his eyes, and now that his sister and he are standing side by side, Hyunjae can see the similarity. They have the same eyes, thin and upturned, and so is their hair - the same shade of inky black, fringes falling over their foreheads except Jieun’s one is neatly trimmed in a straight line above her eyebrows whereas Juyeon’s one is more messy and unkempt, growing into his eyes.
“Are you his friend?” Jieun asks, peering up at Hyunjae. Hyunjae exchanges a glance with Juyeon. “Uh,” Hyunjae awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. “We’re classmates.”
“You should be his friend!” Jieun says, “ Oppa doesn’t have many friends.”
“Jieun” Juyeon intervenes uncomfortably, scowling when Hyunjae sniggers. “I told you to wait at the bench. I told you not to run around, didn't I?”
“But I was bored!” Jieun whines, pouting petulantly. “You were taking so long!”
“But it’s dangerous. What if you ran off and got lost?” Juyeon grasps her small hands in his, a strong edge of protectiveness to his words. Hyunjae tilts his head. He’s never seen this side of Juyeon. He expects himself to make a joke, something along the lines about Juyeon not being a robot but an actual human being who feels things but strangely all he can do is watch on silently, feeling a weird tug in his chest.
“Um,” Hyunjae coughs, trying to shake off the funny feeling. “I’ll see you guys around.” He looks at Jieun, giving her a wide grin. “Bye Jieun!”
“Bye Bye!” Jieun shouts, waving cutely. Hyunjae giggles, giving her a light tap on the cheek before walking away.
Juyeon tells Jieun to stay put for one second before he catches up to Hyunjae, grabbing his bag and yanking him back. Hyunjae finds himself stumbling backwards, and nearly into Juyeon’s chest, which, in his opinion, is worse than hitting the gravel ground. He just barely manages to land on his feet, avoiding Juyeon by a centimetre. He whirls around, bewildered. “What?!”
Juyeon lets go of his bag, tucking his hands into his pocket. “So? How did it go? What did they say?”
Hyunjae adjusts his straps, feeling his mood plummet once again. “They said it wasn’t enough. I have to find more evidence that Dongwon did it.”
Juyeon frowns. “That’s fucking unfair.” His cursing takes Hyunjae by surprise. It’s uncharacteristic of Juyeon to get worked up . “They don’t have any concrete evidence, so why must you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because they’re making a big donation to the school and I’m not.” Hyunjae sighs, trying to exhale away his headache. “I’ll find the evidence though. I have to.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“Yes” Hyunjae answers, puffing his chest to look confident, confident enough in hopes that Juyeon doesn’t ask what the plan is.
But he fails, because Juyeon still asks, “what’s the plan?”
“It’s a good plan!” Hyunjae immediately snaps defensively. Juyeon raises his eyebrows. “I never said it wasn’t. I don’t even know what the plan is.”
“Well it’s a great one which you don’t need to know about.” Hyunjae hitches the straps over his shoulders once more before striding off with what he hopes looks like powerful and self-assured steps.
Because while Hyunjae does have a plan, it’s far from good.
He’s going to break into the staff room.
______
Desperate Times call for Desperate Measures. Hyunjae justifies to himself as he slides the key into the doorknob, giving it a quiet twist. All facilities and rooms are locked at 10 p.m, but Hyunjae had exploited his access as a Student Council member and swiped the staff room key from the office drawer. It’s 10:15 now, and Hyunjae is giving himself 5 minutes to pop in, take a picture of the attendance sheet and scram .
Gingerly, Hyunjae creeps into the staff room, keeping light on his feet to minimize any noise. All the lights have been switched off, forcing him to rely on the light from the moon outside to see.
He nimbly locates Mr Hwang’s desk, having made a mental note of its position when he was in here yesterday. His heart nearly explodes when he first brushes his hand against a piece of paper, the faint rustle sounding like a gunshot in the silence.
Swallowing down his nerves, he moves more boldly but still cautiously, sifting through the stack of notebooks. “Where is it?” he mutters impatiently under his breath, bending closer to squint.
He’s searching through the stack when out of the blue, a hand snakes out from behind him and clamps his mouth tight. Hyunjae’s body kicks into fight or flight mode and he thrashes around, clawing at the vice-grip. He makes as much noise as his sealed lips allow him, hoping his screams can still be heard, even if they are muffled to muted strangled noises. “It’s me” a voice hisses, whirling him around and Hyunjae finds himself face to face with a very irked Juyeon.
“Are you insane?!” Hyunjae seethes in a whisper-shout right after Juyeon lets him go. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Well - Considering that you’re nervous given that you’re sneaking around, and given your track record for being unbearably loud, I figured you would scream no matter how I approached you” Juyeon states, like the reason was blatantly obvious and Hyunjae is obtuse for not understanding it immediately. “Now let me throw your question back at you. Are you insane? What the hell are you doing?”
Hyunjae straightens his shoulders with a huff. “I’m trying to get the evidence.”
“This is your plan?” Juyeon asks incredulously, “Your good and great plan?”
“What are you even doing here?” Hyunjae shoots back, eyeing him up and down. “You’re not supposed to be here either.”
“Changmin had a family emergency so I offered to help him close,” Juyeon says, “but the staff room keys were missing from the office so I came here to check.” He gives Hyunjae an unimpressed once-over. “And look what I found instead.”
“That’s great!” Hyunjae exclaims, “you keep guard while I check the attendance book. If anyone comes, we’ll just tell them that we’re both closing up!”
“ Not great” Juyeon swiftly shuts him down. “The dean hangs around until 11. If we get caught, we get caught by him, and our excuse won’t work because I was supposed to lock the doors by 10.” They both glance at the clock. “It’s already 10:30” he hisses, “we can’t stick around.”
“But the dean won’t come here” Hyunjae argues, desperate to persuade Juyeon. “His office isn’t even in this block!”
Hyunjae’s breaths are coming out short, fingers flexing open and close and back open again. He stares up at Juyeon pleadingly. “I just need ten-five, five minutes and I will immediately leave.”
Juyeon regards him for a beat of silence before he rolls his eyes. “Five minutes. Maximum. Not a second longer.”
Hyunjae sags in relief and for a fleeting moment he has the urge to hug Juyeon. What’s wrong with me? He turns his back to him instead, yanking out the attendance book from the stack.
“What are you doing anyway?” Juyeon asks, peering over his shoulder. Hyunjae flips through the book, scanning over each page. “I need to find out whether Dongwon attended training on the 8th of April.”
Juyeon is confused for a moment, before his lips part in an ‘o’. “The same day your document was tampered with.”
“Yeah” Hyunjae breathes out, “and at the same time. Swim training is from 4-6 p.m.” He flips the page and there it is - 8th April 2021 . Hyunjae drags his finger down the column, searching for Dongwon’s name.
“There it is,” Juyeon points out, reaching from behind to place his finger under the 2nd last row, where Shim Dongwon is printed in ink. His breath tickles Hyunjae’s ear. Hyunjae tries not to shiver.
“5:15 p.m” Hyunjae reads out, noting the brackets beside that say ‘late’. “He attended training, but he was late.”
“5:15” Juyeon repeats, “your document was changed at 4:46. That’s a half-hour interval. He could have easily done it.”
“We just need Principal Kim to believe that” Hyunjae mutters, pulling out his phone to take a picture. The flash goes off, sudden and bright, making the both of them wince.
“Okay I’m done so let’s-” Hyunjae’s whisper is cut short by a clatter of footsteps echoing down the hallway, cracking the still silence. Juyeon and he exchange a horrified glance before their eyes snap towards the door. “It’s the dean,” Juyeon hisses, daring a peek through the wide windows. “I think he’s coming here.”
Hyunjae flips the book shut, hurriedly slotting it back into its original position. The footsteps grow louder and louder, signalling their impending doom. Hyunjae’s heart is in his throat. He makes a dive beneath the table but Juyeon hauls him back up by his elbow and the next thing he knows he’s being dragged into a storage cabinet. He catches a blur of his surroundings before Juyeon yanks the metal doors shut, enveloping them in darkness.
“Keep quiet,” Juyeon warns. Hyunjae squints, and despite knowing that this is not the right time or place, can’t help but bite back. “No shit. What else was I going to do? Start screaming?”
A sliver of light slips through the thin gap between the doors, illuminating a fraction of Juyeon’s face, meaning Hyunjae can see the sharp glare he sends his way. “Can you move back?”
“You move back” Hyunjae retorts, grimacing at the tall stack of files that poke the back of his thigh. “I have no space.”
“Me neither” Juyeon sighs, which Hyunjae can both hear and feel, given the huff of air that brushes his face and the swell of Juyeon’s chest that nearly grazes his own. The cabinet has forced them into a proximity that’s too close for comfort. Hyunjae cranes his neck back, trying to put some space between his mouth and Juyeon’s chin.
The door of the staff room creaks open and they both instantly seal their lips shut, holding their breaths. They can’t see anything, but they can hear the dean pulling open a drawer, pens and paper rattling. Hyunjae keeps his head down, all muscles taut as he tries not to make a sound.
They’re stuck in the dark and humid cabinet, praying to the gods that the dean leaves before they blow their own cover. After what seems like an eternity, the dean finally makes his exit - the drawer locking with a click, footsteps across the floor and lastly, the door slamming shut. Both Hyunjae and Juyeon let out the breaths they were holding, sagging like a deflated balloon.
As much as Hyunjae would like to burst open the door and finally ease the cramp in his thigh, he’s still on high alert. The dean could very much still be in the hallways, and any noise would send him running back. He peers through the thin slit, scanning their surroundings. He waits until there’s nothing but silence outside to deem the coast as clear. “I think he’s gone,” he whispers, looking back at Juyeon - only to find the latter already staring at him.
“What?” he asks in a small voice. It’s completely involuntary. He meant for it to be gruff and intimidating, the way gangsters bark on the street, but under the weight of Juyeon’s gaze it shrunk. He’s suddenly aware of how warm he feels, every inch of his skin burning like he’s been under the sun. Except he hasn’t been under the sun. It’s nighttime now, and he’s in a closet with Lee Juyeon. Closet. That must be why he’s feeling warm. An enclosed space means there is no ventilation. With little air circulation, heat generated cannot transfer to their surroundings. Yes, that must be why his cotton shirt feels like it’s made out of thick wool, and why his cheeks are turning hotter and hotter the longer he holds Juyeon’s gaze.
Juyeon blinks, wrenching his gaze away. “Nothing”
Hyunjae touches the base of his own neck. It’s hot , so hot. He needs to get out of here now. “Can you open the door?” he asks Juyeon, motioning to his hand that’s firmly grasping the handles.
“I know a way to get better evidence,” Juyeon says instead. Hyunjae’s heart jumps, interest piqued. “You do?”
“I was thinking - what if we got a video of Dongwon in the act? That would be the solid and direct evidence they want.”
Hyunjae tilts his head. “That would obviously be great, but how would we do that? Do you know someone who recorded him?”
“There’s always someone recording,” Juyeon says, and he has that slight cocky air, as how he always does when he has the right answer. “There’s CCTVs all around the school, which means somewhere, there’s a clip of Dongwon stealing your laptop from your bag.”
Hyunjae snorts in disbelief. He can’t believe for a second he thought Juyeon actually had something useful to contribute. “The CCTVs? How the hell are we going to get access to their footage? We’re just students.”
But Juyeon’s confidence doesn’t falter, in fact, it swells. “No one else knows this, but I know that the school stores the CCTV footage in the library’s office.” When Hyunjae raises a questioning eyebrow, he adds, “I go there often because their computers are always breaking down. Madam Lee told me about it while I was helping to fix her monitor.”
“Who’s Madam Lee?”
“The librarian,” Juyeon explains. “We could ask her to let us see it. She has the password.”
“Why would she let us see it?” Hyunjae asks, unable to make sense of Juyeon’s words. “That would be a clear violation of the school rules!”
Juyeon shakes his head. “She doesn’t care. I’ll probably have to help her with something to return the favour, but that’s nothing.”
Hyunjae is caught by surprise. “You would do that?” he asks, “for me?”
Juyeon averts his eyes, looking down at his shoes like they’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. “Sure” he mumbles, “it’s whatever it’s not even a big deal.”
“Why?” Hyunjae presses, full of doubt. “What’s the catch Yeon? You want something from me?”
“I want to win Valedictorian fair and square,” Juyeon says, lifting his head and there it is - that driven spark in his eyes, a burning heat that juxtaposes his cool demeanour. “And I want you to be there when they announce that it’s me.”
Hyunjae snorts. “You think you’re going to win it over me?”
“No” he replies, “I know I’m going to win it over you.” Before Hyunjae can open his mouth to retort, he pushes open the cabinet doors and steps out. “Meet me at the library at 6 tomorrow. If you’re even a minute late I’m not going to help you.”
He leaves, just as swiftly and inconspicuously as he arrived, and Hyunjae is left standing in the cabinet, a tight ache in his thigh and a head that’s spinning with thoughts of Lee Juyeon.
_____
“You’re late.”
Juyeon has his back propped up against the wall, arms folded across his chest. Hyunjae doubles over, bracing his hands on his knees. “I had-I had a consultation” he pants, “I literally, I ran all the way here!”
“And by 5 whole minutes,” Juyeon checks his watch, shaking his head. “Do you realize I could have used that time productively rather than wasting it waiting for you?”
Hyunjae flicks a sweat-slicked lock of hair out of his face, glaring up at Juyeon. “So what? You’re not going to help me anymore?”
Juyeon stares down at him, cocking his head like he’s contemplating. “I’m already here though.” He pushes himself off the wall, heading for the library’s entrance without another word. Hyunjae bristles at his rudeness, grumbling under his breath as he runs to catch up with him.
“Have you asked Madam Lee yet?” Hyunjae asks, trailing beside Juyeon, following his lead to the office. He’s careful to speak in a hushed whisper, mindful of the library’s rules. “About letting us see the CCTV footage.”
“Not yet” Juyeon replies, “we’ll ask her when we get to the office. She’s there now.”
“You haven’t asked her yet?!” Hyunjae panics. He had assumed Juyeon had everything arranged. It doesn’t look good on him to meet someone for the first time and demand a favour. “Maybe you should go in and ask her first, I’ll wait outside.”
Juyeon looks over at him, confused. “Why? We’ll do it together.”
“I don’t even know her and you want me to barge in and ask for her help?”
“We’re not barging in,” Juyeon says slowly, “we’re just going to walk in normally, you know like regular people-”
“I don’t mean literally.” Hyunjae clamps his lips in frustration, “the favour would look better coming from you since you always help her out. If I’m there it would leave a bad impression, then she won’t like me, then she won’t help us!”
Juyeon rolls his eyes. “What’s the big deal? Just go in there and bat those doe eyes of yours at her and we’re good to go”
Hyunjae halts in his tracks. “What did you just say?” Juyeon stops, turning back. “What?”
“Doe eyes?” Hyunjae echoes and Juyeon’s eyes go wide. “You think I have doe eyes?”
“No I don’t” Juyeon instantly denies, turning away but Hyunjae leans in, obnoxiously batting his eyelashes. “You think about my eyes often Yeon?”
“I think about how annoying you are often” He snipes, marching up the stairs. taking two steps at a time. “Hurry up”
Juyeon is quickly disappearing from his sight and he needs to start moving before he loses him. Hyunjae punches the air, pretending it’s Juyeon’s face before hurrying up the steps.
The library’s office is tucked behind a small wooden door. Hyunjae hovers before it, thinking he and Juyeon are going to discuss and strategize but Juyeon abruptly shoves it open, sauntering in like it’s his home.
The office is small, only having enough space to accommodate three desks. There’s a lady seated at the one right in front of the door. She looks like she’s in her 60s, gray hair tied in a tight knot behind her head, wrinkles creasing her skin. Hyunjae assumes that she must be Madam Lee. “Juyeon?” She looks up from the book on her lap, narrowing her eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hi Madam Lee” Juyeon greets, with a friendliness that attests to a close bond. “I came to ask for your help.” He throws a glance back at Hyunjae. “ We need your help.”
“Good afternoon” Hyunjae dips into a formal 90-degree bow, cheeks flushed pink. “We um-yeah. We’re really sorry to inconvenience you like this but could we ask for your help?”
Madam Lee’s lips twitch, looking highly amused. “What’s this about?”
“To summarize,” Juyeon stands over her desk, “Hyunjae here is being framed and is currently on the verge of an unjust expulsion. Principal Kim is swayed by money and refuses to look at the facts of this case so we need clear evidence that he can’t argue with.” He takes a deep breath. “ Hence , we need access to the CCTV footage.”
“That’s a bold claim” Madam Lee props her chin on her steepled fingers. Hyunjae’s heart drops, but then she continues. “But I believe you because I’m aware of his tendencies. The funds that were promised to the library for renovations were suddenly redirected to the basketball court, right after the team captain’s father met with Principal Kim for tea.”
“He bribed him?” Juyeon asks. Madam Lee nods. “I can’t say for sure, but that’s the most plausible, and most likely explanation.” She looks at Hyunjae. “You’re one of the smart ones aren’t you? I think I’ve seen you up on stage before.”
“Oh um-well I uh” Hyunjae stutters, embarrassed to agree. Juyeon snorts. “Why are you acting all shy now? You don’t usually have any problem boasting about it.”
Hyunjae scoots over just to send him a discreet shove. “Shut up” he grits out through clenched teeth.
“Am I wrong?”
“Yes. You’re always wrong.”
“Well don’t the two of you just have the loveliest relationship” Madam Lee remarks dryly, but she seems entertained, looking back and forth between the two of them.
“He’s only helping me just so that he can shove Valedictorian in my face” Hyunjae rants, “which he won’t be doing because I’m going to win.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night”
“Really?” Madam Lee asks, eyes twinkling as she gives Juyeon an indecipherable look. “Is that the only reason why you’re helping him?”
Hyunjae tilts his head, confused. He’s about to ask what she means but Juyeon abruptly springs up, chair screeching as it’s thrown back. “It’s in that computer right?” he asks, striding to the back of the room. “What’s the password again?”
“HY1885” Madam Lee rises from her seat. “Now just hold on there young man,” Juyeon looks up from where he is hunched over the computer. Madam Lee smiles, shrewd and expectant. “I’m expecting something in return.”
“What is it?” Hyunjae asks, anxiously wringing his hands behind his back. “We’ll do anything.”
“We’ve just received a new shipment” Madam Lee adjusts the gold-rimmed spectacles that are resting on her nose. “You two can help me shelve all of them after you're done.”
“Aren’t there like over a hundred books?” Juyeon asks incredulously.
“Exactly” Madam Lee saunters to the door, the heel of her flats clanking against the floor. “So you two better get a move on it.” She looks back over her shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to it. Good luck.” And with that she leaves, shutting the door with a firm tug.
“Well isn’t she just lovely,” Juyeon mutters before his fingers begin to fly across the keyboard, searching for the footage. “I can do it myself” Hyunjae rushes to say, feeling guilty for dragging Juyeon into his own mess. “The shelving thing.”
Juyeon looks at him from across the room. “Will you just come and sit down?”
Hyunjae skitters over to the seat next to him, pushing down the urge to snide about his crassness. “Are you able to find it?” he asks instead, peering at the computer screen.
“I found the drive,” Juyeon replies, scrolling through the folder which holds months and months worth of footage. “What’s the date again?”
“8 April” Hyunjae quickly informs, “maybe we should start looking from 4 p.m.”
Juyeon is swift with the way he works, pulling up the footage of their classroom in a matter of minutes. They play the video at twice its speed, watching their empty classroom with great intent, waiting and waiting.
4 p.m., 4.10 p.m, 4:20 p.m, and then - at 4:32 p.m, Dongwon enters the classroom. He shuts both the front and back doors, drawing the curtains close before he cracks open Hyunjae’s locker and pulls his laptop out of his bag.
Hyunjae gasps. “That fucking asshole, he really did do it!”
“How did he know your password though?” Juyeon huffs, chin propped up on the heel of his palm, watching Dongwon use his phone to take pictures of Hyunjae’s essay.
“Not sure” Hyunjae shrugs. “Maybe he looked when I was typing it in.”
“But still” Juyeon insists, “we usually type it so quickly. It must be hard to read. Unless the password is really easy.”
Hyunjae presses his lips together. Juyeon’s head snaps towards him. “Please tell me that your password is highly secure and complicated and not something incredibly simple.”
Hyunjae remains quiet, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. Juyeon’s jaw drops. “What the fuck Jae? I’m going to kill you if it’s 0000.”
Hyunjae bites his lower lip. “I can’t-I’m bad at remembering passwords! I needed an easy one!”
“Your password is 0000 and you wonder how someone got into your computer?”
“In my defense!” Hyunjae protests, holding one finger in the air. “How was I supposed to know that someone was going to steal my document?”
Juyeon blinks and somehow he manages to make it condescending, as if each slow flutter of his eyelashes emphasises how dumb Hyunjae is. “Take out your laptop, we’re changing your password.”
“Now?”
“ Now .”
Hyunjae surrenders his laptop, letting Juyeon fiddle around in the settings and concoct a password so elaborate he thinks even seasoned hackers would have trouble deciphering. “I’m never going to remember that!” Hyunjae whines, watching Juyeon key in a series of symbols and numbers. “Shut up.”
“And here” Juyeon connects a cable from his laptop to the library’s computer, transferring the file that contains the incriminating footage. Hyunjae watches the computer run, holding his breath until the screen displays ‘100% completed’.
“Done” Juyeon plucks out the cable, handing him back his laptop and Hyunjae receives it giddily. “It’s done” he echoes, struggling to wrap his head around it. He’s spent weeks agonizing about this and now he can finally put it behind him.
Juyeon notices his dazed state, eyebrows furrowing. “You okay?”
“Yeah” he breathes out, nodding quickly. “I just-I’m glad this is over.” It’s not technically over just yet, but the derailment has been mended, and soon Hyunjae’s life will shift right back on track.
Juyeon purses his lips. “Must have been rough.” Hyunjae snorts, but it struggles to contain any humour. “It was.” Confessions of his sleepless, anxiety-ridden nights itch to spill out but Hyunjae clamps his mouth shut. Juyeon and he aren’t in that kind of relationship, although there’s an insistent urge to tell him. He thinks Juyeon would understand.
He stares down at his lap. There’s a squeak of sneakers sliding across the floor and then comes a small nudge to his shoe. Hyunjae looks up, but Juyeon’s gaze is fixed on the floor, where their shoes are pressed together.
“You did well Jae,” he says quietly, mumbling his words so much Hyunjae has to strain his ears to hear him. “You know, finding the evidence and stuff. You didn’t give up and that’s…cool.”
The atmosphere between them has always been tense, but now it’s charged in a way that’s different . Hyunjae’s cheeks are red and hot but it’s not out of anger or humiliation it’s just…something else. He can’t put a finger on it, but either way it’s making him squirm. “ Yah , you called my plan stupid that time” he jokes, trying to incite their usual banter, anything to make whatever this is go away.
Juyeon’s face splits into a grin, looking up to meet his eyes. “It was though.” No, this is worse, Hyunjae’s insides just squirm even harder. He springs up from his seat, nearly stumbling in his haste. “We should-we should go shelf the books. It will, you know it will be too late if we wait.” Juyeon stares at him, taking a long moment to make sense of his rushed words and the silence is awkward. “I’ll go first!”
Hyunjae scurries out of the room, pressing his cold palms to his cheeks, trying to get rid of the heat that prickles the skin.
_____
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Juyeon’s jaw is slack in disbelief as Hyunjae wheels over their third trolley chocked full of books. Hyunjae parks it behind them, slapping a hardcover that was on the very top. “There’s still two more.”
“We’ve been here for hours” Juyeon glances at his watch. It’s 9:30 p.m now. Everyone has gone home. Madam Lee left the keys with them, meaning that they couldn’t use the library’s closing hours to escape their tedious task. Only the lights over their section are switched on, bathing the space in a dim glow.
“You can go first,” Hyunjae offers. The books are arranged by the first letter of the author’s surname. He searches for the letter ‘L’, tiptoeing to slot the book in place. “I can finish up by myself.”
“Trying to get rid of me Jae?”
“Of course” Hyunjae answers simply, “I find you and your whining a pain in the ass.”
“Well guess I’m staying here” Juyeon turns his head, flashing him a sarcastic smile. “Anything to ruin your day.”
“Aren’t you just the sweetest?” Hyunjae drawls, rolling his eyes.
“And for your information, I wasn’t whining.” Juyeon corrects, “I was just challenging the role imposed upon us and questioning whether it’s a just and proportionate exchange of favours.”
“You were whining.” Hyunjae shuts him down immediately. “And it has been slowing us down.”
“Slowing us down?” Juyeon sounds disgruntled by the accusation. “I’ve been working quickly and efficiently.”
“I’ve already cleared two shelves of the trolley” Hyunjae points out, “you’ve only done one!”
“I wasn’t trying” Juyeon insists, and Hyunjae wants to laugh because for how mature Juyeon always tries to be, there are times when he just sounds like a petulant child. “Just watch me now - I’ll shelf these faster than you.”
“Is that a challenge?” Hyunjae asks, raising an eyebrow. It’s silly, to be competing over something as trivial as book-shelving, but the warring fire is ingrained in each of their DNAs, flaring up at every chance presented.
“Yeah” Juyeon props both elbows on the shelf, chin tilted up in a cocky show. “Unless you’re not confident.”
“Bring it on Yeon” Hyunjae cracks his neck. “10 books. Whoever is the quickest wins.”
“You’re on.” Juyeon steadies himself over his trolley. “Three, Two, One .”
They both launch into furious action, pivoting back and forth between their trolley and the bookshelf, trying to hurriedly jam the books in their correct positions. They tip-toe and drop on the ground, scouring for each author’s name.
“Can you move-”
“You move!”
“Stop standing in my way”
“Well maybe you should stop being so slow”
They move quickly, clearing the books. “I only have two left,” Juyeon calls out. Hyunjae smirks. “I only have one” He turns, making a grab for his last book but Juyeon abruptly intercepts, snatching it out of Hyunjae’s grasp and chucking it far away.
“What the hell Yeon?!” Juyeon laughs, a deep sound from his chest. Hyunjae huffs, marching over to the other side of the bookshelf to pick the book up.
“That was cheating,” Hyunjae says, glaring at Juyeon through the gap in the shelf. Juyeon shrugs. “No it isn’t. We didn’t lay down any rules.” The corners of his mouth quirk up. “But fine. I’ll be nice. I’ll let you win.”
Hyunjae places his hands on his hips. “You don’t have to let me win, I did win.”
“Sure thing.”
“ Yah -”
He’s cut off by the loud buzz of Juyeon’s phone. He falls silent, allowing Juyeon to pull out his phone to check. “Oh it’s Jieun,” he says, holding up his phone to show Hyunjae. “She’s just asking me when I’m coming home.”
“Oh Jieun!” Hyunjae exclaims excitedly, “tell her I said hi!”
“She says hi back” Juyeon shows Hyunjae the video Jieun sent - her waving with her face too close to the camera. Hyunjae giggles. “She’s so cute” he coos, “although I don’t understand why she likes you so much.”
Juyeon gives him an unimpressed look and Hyunjae laughs, waving his hand. “I’m just joking. It’s cute that you two are so close. Does she always text you?”
Juyeon snorts. “‘No, I’m the one that’s always texting her.” He tucks his phone back into his pocket. “But I don’t usually stay out late so that’s the only reason why she’s messaging me first.”
“Why?” Hyunjae asks. His mom keeps a tight leash on him, but he had assumed everyone else had freedom and stayed out. “Are your parents strict too?”
“Parent” Juyeon corrects, in a tone so casual Hyunjae nearly misses the implication. “And no. My mom isn’t strict. She just needs me to be at home to take care of Jieun.”
“Oh…” Hyunjae breathes out, trying to wrap his head around the sudden revelation. “That’s good, you know, that you're taking care of her. Most of us aren’t that responsible.” He fiddles uncomfortably with the book spines. He never knew of Juyeon’s family background. This is bad . He broached a sensitive topic and now Juyeon is going to hate him forever and-
“You can ask you know,” Juyeon chuckles, “I’m chill.”
Hyunjae exhales a small sigh of relief, although he’s embarrassed that his stress was so evident. “What um,” he asks haltingly, “what happened to your dad?”
“Left when I was 5” Juyeon states bluntly. “He and my mom were young when they had Jieun and I. He couldn’t handle being a dad.” He looks down. “I haven’t seen him since.”
“Oh I’m…I’m sorry…” Hyunjae whispers, whole body going taut just from hearing about it. He searches for the words to say. What can you say?
Juyeon shrugs. “I mean, he sends money. He’s just not here. My mom has been taking care of Jieun and I all by herself.” Hyunjae bites his lip. He can’t imagine how difficult that must be. “Your mom is incredible.”
Juyeon nods, eyes curving fondly. “She is. That’s why I want to make her proud.” He talks softly now, like he’s divulging a secret. And perhaps he is. “I just want her to know that she did a good job.”
Hyunjae looks over at Juyeon, and suddenly he doesn’t see his arch rival. He just sees a boy that is too young, too young to be grappling with the weight that is on his shoulders. “She did.”
Juyeon takes a moment to process his words, but when he does the smile on his face grows, looking slightly abashed. He clears his throat. “What about you?” he asks, “how are your parents like?”
“Um” Hyunjae looks down. “I don’t really…They’re just really strict…”
Juyeon tilts his head. “They don’t let you go out?”
“That’s one thing.” The uncomfortable memories flood back in a thrashing wave. “And they care a lot about my studies. It’s really…the only thing they care about.” He stutters out an awkward laugh, shifting to hide behind a row of books. He feels too exposed right now, like he’s turned transparent and now Juyeon can see into him, even the parts he wishes to hide. “That’s the reason I have to do well.”
Juyeon nods. “I understand.” He dips his head down, searching for Hyunjae through the thin gap above the books. “I guess we’re more alike than we thought huh?”
Hyunjae musters the courage to look up, meeting Juyeon’s gaze. “Yeah” he rasps, “I guess so.”
All these years they had assumed that they were in a frivolous battle of egos, not realizing there was a larger meaning behind each of their stubborn strive, that ultimately they were both just struggling to carry the burden of someone else’s hopes and expectations.
Juyeon is looking at him. There’s something in the way he’s looking at him, something like honey, something warm . A funny feeling starts in Hyunjae’s chest, only mounting when Juyeon smiles - a soft, close-lipped smile.
Hyunjae wills it to go away, but even long after he’s left the library, out of Juyeon’s presence, tucked under his quilt blanket, the feeling only grows and grows and grows .
_____
“How are you feeling?” Haknyeon is straddling his chair, resting his chin on Hyunjae’s desk. Hyunjae bites the inside of his cheek, looking out the window. “Nervous honestly.”
“It’s tomorrow right? What time is it?”
Hyunjae recalls the email he received. “Principal Kim asked to me to go to his office at 10”
“It will be fine,” Haknyeon reassures, grasping his hand. “You have solid evidence. There’s no way they could disprove the facts.”
Hyunjae sucks in a breath and slowly exhales, trying to calm his anxious heartbeat that’s an uncomfortable sensation in his chest. “You’re right” He knows his case is strong, but he can’t help but worry that it will still not be enough, that Dongwon and Principal Kim are going to employ some back-handed method to invalidate him. What will happen then?
“Honestly I’m surprised that you were able to get such strong proof,” Haknyeon says, “the CCTV footage is really impressive.”
“I can’t take credit for that” Hyunjae mutters, and naturally his mind flits to Juyeon. It irks him because, not again . He has found his thoughts constantly straying to him, obsessively replaying every single one of their interactions in his head.
“Ah, that’s right” A devious grin spreads across Haknyeon’s face. “A certain someone helped you, didn’t they?”
Hyunjae eyes him warily. “What’s up with that smile? and that tone?”
“I’m just saying,” Haknyeon says innocently, even though his intentions are the polar opposite. “Isn’t it awfully suspicious that he went so far out of his way to help you? Putting himself through so much trouble?”
Hyunjae shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “What are you trying to say?”
Haknyeon leans in, lowering his voice into a whisper. “I think he likes you.”
“Are you crazy?!” Hyunjae squawks, whacking Haknyeon’s arm. “Oh?” Haknyeon asks, pointing an accusing finger. “Why are you blushing?”
“I’m not! I’m just-I’m just so shocked” Hyunjae splutters, cheeks growing even hotter. “You’re being so ridiculous, that’s why! We hate each other!”
“There’s a thin line between love and hate” Haknyeon simpers, looking wildly smug. “You two have had a tension going on for years . I’m honestly not surprised.”
“What the hell?” Hyunjae shakes his head. “He’s only helping me so I can watch him win Valedictorian! He said so!”
“He’s just making an excuse!”
“He’s not!” Hyunjae slumps back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. I hate him.”
“ Eh ,” Haknyeon snorts, “you’re lying.”
“I do!” Hyunjae insists, “he’s so full of himself and he’s annoying.” The words spew out of his mouth, but his heart violently tugs, as if to protest.
“You’ve been sticking with him an awful lot though”
“It’s just for my case” Hyunjae huffs out, “I’m only talking to him because I need his help” After tomorrow he won’t need to talk to Juyeon ever again, perhaps only at graduation, but other than that, he doesn’t have a reason anymore.
The thought makes his stomach sink.
“Sure” Haknyeon hums, dropping the topic but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes. Hyunjae swallows, looking back out the window. The word ‘ maybe ’ floats in his head, not daring to take form.
_____
It’s Friday morning. Hyunjae walks into school, anxiety thrumming in his veins. His laptop is a palpable weight in his back, heavy with the outcome of his future. He glances at the clock. The committee meeting is in 2 hours. His heart jumps with every tick of the second hand. This feels like slow torture.
He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. Harping on it will make time move slower. He grips the straps of his schoolbag, marching down to his classroom. He can hear the chaos from meters away, loud shrieks and chatter even though it’s early in the morning. He’s about to enter when he catches Juyeon standing outside, elbows on the railings, engrossed in a book. His eyebrows are knitted in concentration, his gaze running across the pages. The morning breeze sweeps by, flipping his dark hair back. Hyunjae’s heart does a swoop.
“What are you doing out here?” Hyunjae asks, settling into the spot next to him. Juyeon looks up. His expression is blank. “Reading.” He answers, curt and hostile.
Hyunjae blinks. Maybe it’s too early for a conversation. This is embarrassing. “Oh um. The committee meeting is later,” he stammers, fumbling for an excuse. “I just came to say thank you, you know, for your help.”
Juyeon keeps his gaze on his book. “Okay.”
Hyunjae frowns. “Are you okay?” He lowers his head, trying to meet Juyeon’s eyes. “Did something happen?” His mind runs wild with the possibilities. Did something happen at home? Is it his mom? His sister?
Juyeon snaps his book shut. He looks up and his eyes are two dark slits on his face, the coldest Hyunjae has ever seen them. “Why are you talking to me?”
Hyunjae flinches like he’s just been slapped. “What?”
“You don’t need my help anymore so why are you talking to me?” Juyeon is impassive but Hyunjae knows how to read him and he can hear it - the slight tremors in his voice.
“What are you talking about?” Hyunjae asks, panic crawling up his throat. He doesn’t want this. He hates the way Juyeon is looking at him right now. He’s used to the contempt, arrogance but this , this is unbearable.
“I heard what you said to Haknyeon yesterday.” Juyeon looks into the classroom, at the exact seat where Hyunjae and Haknyeon were. Hyunjae follows his gaze, horror dawning upon him. Juyeon was there? “You- what? Wait. Hold on-”
“No, it's fine. I get it.” Juyeon cuts him off. “You hate me. You’re just using me to solve your problem. Got it.”
Hyunjae immediately shakes his head. “No I didn’t- god Yeon I didn’t mean it like that!”
“Really?” Juyeon’s stoic facade breaks, mouth twisting. “Because I spent all night analyzing your words, repeating them over and over in my head.” He clenches his jaw. “And I’m smart enough, so I think I managed to figure out exactly what they mean.”
“ No ” Hyunjae argues, “you got it all wrong!”
“Then what?” Juyeon challenges, looking Hyunjae square in the eye. “What did they actually mean?”
“I only said that because…” Hyunjae falters, struggling to find the words to say. “Because I…..”
“Because what?”
Hyunjae’s mouth opens, but it’s silent. How is he supposed to explain it? He himself doesn’t really understand it. Juyeon looks away, disappointment flooding his features. “Forget it” he mutters. “Good luck Hyunjae.”
The use of his full name is like a punch to the gut. Juyeon turns away, storming off into the classroom and Hyunjae helplessly watches him go, swimming in his own cowardice.
_____
Tension radiates in the stale air. Hyunjae swallows for his dry throat, hands clasped firmly on his lap. The disciplinary board sits before him - Principal Kim, the Vice-Principal: Mr Park, the Dean, and two other teachers. Their grim stares prickle and tug at the hair on his skin. Dongwon and his father sit on his left, glares merciless ever since he entered the room.
Hyunjae is feeling crushed . He stares down at his lap, wishing for all of this to just be over already.
“We shall begin this disciplinary hearing.” Principal Kim declares, voice cracking the still silence. “We’re here today to review Hyunjae’s offence - in which he plagiarised Dongwon’s essay for a national competition, potentially placing the school’s reputation in grave danger and sabotaging Dongwon’s application to Yonsei.”
“I don’t even know why we are here” Mr Shim snaps, “Dongwon submitted his essay an entire month before him.” He points a finger at Hyunjae, enraged. “He ruined my son’s chances of Yonsei, I want him expelled!”
“Dongwon,” The Dean asks, “is it true that you wrote the essay by yourself?”
“Yes I did,” Dongwon answered. His hair and uniform is prim and proper today, a clear attempt to hard sell an innocent image. It fills Hyunjae with rage. “I worked really hard on it. I lent my laptop to Hyunjae once because he said he needed it, but never did I imagine that he would go behind my back and copy my work…”
“I didn’t.” Hyunjae spits out, clenching his jaw so tight he thinks it might break. “You were the one who copied my work.” Principal Kim shoots him a disapproving glance. “Do you have anything to substantiate your claim?”
Hyunjae musters up his courage. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He turns his laptop for the board to see. “Firstly, I had my deleted files recovered, and I found out that someone deleted the original copy of my essay. As you can see here, this is the original document, and if you check,” he clicks a series of buttons, “it shows that it was created on 3 February, just as I claimed when I was first accused, and months before Dongwon submitted his essay.”
“That doesn’t prove anything!” Dongwon hisses, eyes large with panic. “I-I started writing mine in January.”
“This doesn’t prove anything?” Hyunjae repeats. “Fine, what about this?” He plays the video clip, turning the laptop so that Dongwon can see. “Literal footage of you stealing my laptop and taking photographs of my essay.
Dongwon turns as pale as a sheet, going rigid in his chair. Mr Shim rises to his feet, veins bulging from his forehead. “This…What is this? How does a student have CCTV footage?!”
Principal Kim looks equally shell-shocked. “Lee Hyunjae” he barks, “how did you obtain this?”
Hyunjae shrinks in his seat. This is not how he envisioned the meeting to go. “I just-I asked to see it.”
“Who?” Principal Kim demands, “who let you see it?”
Hyunjae hesitates. It seemed as though Madam Lee did not care, but this could cost her her job . The stakes are too high for Hyunjae to take a gamble. And Juyeon - he can’t implicate Juyeon in this. “Nobody.” He lies, “I took it from the office myself.”
“Is this how you run your school?” Mr Shim demands, “your student can trespass and steal? Just wait till the other alumni hear about this!”
There’s a ripple of vexed murmurs across the board. If the alumni catch wind of this, they might withdraw their membership, and fewer alumni mean fewer donations. Panic swells in Hyunjae’s chest. “I only did it because I had no other choice!”
Principal Kim shakes his head. “We can’t review this video if it was improperly obtained.”
Hyunjae’s heart violently plunges. “Are you kidding me?” he spits out, “you’re going to ignore the direct evidence that Dongwon did it? Am I the only one who sees how fucking biased this is?”
“Watch your language” Principal Kim thunders, “and are you accusing me of something?”
“I keep bringing to you solid and viable evidence but you keep finding excuses to ignore them.” Hyunjae looks across the board. “Isn’t that extremely suspicious?”
Mr Park meets Hyunjae’s eye, a flicker of realization crossing his features but Principal Kim surges to his feet, stealing all the attention. “How dare you!” He booms, face flushed red with anger. “First you trespass and steal, then you treat me with utter disrespect. This is enough! Our school will not tolerate such a delinquent.”
He points a finger square in Hyunjae’s face. “You are expelled from Hanyang High.”
And just like that, everything comes crashing down. The room is dead silent, but Hyunjae’s world is loud - the words ringing in his ear, his pulse throbbing in his temple, his own laboured and erratic breaths. It’s over, it’s all over .
Mr Shim and Dongwon sag back in their chairs, expressions smug, relieved with their victory, where else Hyunjae sits in his seat, tears blurring his vision. Understanding dawns upon him - the realization that he never stood a chance in the first place. It didn’t matter what type of damning evidence he brought, his guilty verdict had been set in stone from the beginning.
Murmurs of protest rise from the board but Principal Kim blatantly ignores him. “Call your parents to inform them,” he says, pushing the telephone across the table. “Tell them to come down to the office to settle the process.”
Hyunjae slowly rises to his feet, shuffling unsteadily to the phone. He’s numb all over, resigned to his fate. There is no point fighting anymore. He tried his best, he did everything he could but it still wasn’t enough.
But just as his fingers graze the phone, the door suddenly flings open. All heads turn, watching in shock as Juyeon marches through the door with Principal Kim’s secretary flailing behind, valiantly trying to stop him.
Juyeon grabs Hyunjae by the elbow, yanking him away from the phone and Hyunjae can only stumble along, too stunned to say a word. “I helped him obtain the footage,” Juyeon tells Principal Kim, looking him square in the eye. “Are you going to expel me too?”
“I’m sorry” The secretary squeaks out, looking frightened. “I was in the toilet and when I came back I caught him eavesdropping and I tried to get him to leave but he just shoved his way in….”
“Juyeon?” The dean gapes in disbelief, “you’re involved in this too?”
“What is this?” Principal Kim asks, unimpressed. “You two are in cahoots?” He narrows his eyes, looking Juyeon up and down. “You might not get expelled, but you will definitely be punished. Severely .”
He expects to send Juyeon cowering, but Juyeon is completely unfazed. “I see” he replies instead, perfectly calm. “I guess that would make an interesting story.”
His words confuse everyone in the room, Hyunjae included. “Story?” Principal Kim echoes, unease creeping onto his features. “What are you talking about?”
“CEO of Yoon and Shim Law Firm bribes Principal of Hanyang High to cover up son’s plagiarism” Juyeon loudly declares, like he’s reading a news headline. “Don’t you think that’s an interesting story? My uncle would love to hear about it. You guys know who the head anchor of Seoul News is right?”
“S-Seoul News?” Mr Shim sputters from behind them, “your uncle is the anchor of Seoul News?” Hyunjae has to hold in his own gasp. Seoul News is their country’s most prominent news channel. If this story does actually reach their headquarters, Mr Shim and Principal Kim would have their reputations mercilessly tarnished.
“Juyeon” Principal Kim is sweating now, shifting in his seat. It’s a stark difference from his arrogant countenance earlier on. “Don’t speak nonsense. There was no bribery involved.”
“Bring me the evidence then.” Juyeon cocks his head. “Or not. I could just adopt your method. Just like what you did to Hyunjae, I’ll ignore all the facts and force the blame onto you.”
“ Yah kid” Mr Shim holds his hand out, “let’s just-let’s just calm down okay? We’ll drop this whole thing okay? Don’t tell your uncle my firm-it will suffer major losses. What do you want? I'll buy you whatever you want.”
Juyeon looks at Hyunjae, a silent message to take it from here. Hyunjae wipes the residue of tears off his cheeks, standing straight. “I want Dongwon to confess what he did.”
Dongwon’s head snaps up from where it was hanging low, stricken with fear. “I…I…”
“Hurry up” Mr Shim urges, shoving his son’s shoulder.
“I did it” Dongwon blurts out, face twisting in humiliation. “I overheard Hyunjae talking about his essay and the topic was similar to the one Yonsei gave so I took his laptop when he wasn’t in class to copy the essay.” He gulps loudly. “I didn’t think I would get caught but I manipulated the document just in case.”
There’s a ripple of horrified whispers across the board. Principal Kim looks like he just wants to disappear. Mr Shim grabs Dongwon. “He won’t do it again” he solemnly insists, “we’ll compensate everyone for this.”
“I don’t want compensation” Hyunjae hisses, “I want Dongwon to be punished.”
“You can’t do that!” Dongwon snarls, lunging forward in his seat but one look from Juyeon has him retreating back, mumbling an apology.
“Shim Dongwon!” Principal Kim suddenly barks, “you should have confessed this earlier! Now look at-”
“Oh please,” Hyunjae scoffs, slanting Principal Kim a wry look. “Don’t act like you didn’t know from the start.” Juyeon beside him bites his lip, holding back an amused laugh.
Guilt is written all over Principal Kim’s face. He splutters out incoherent sentences of denial but Mr Park shuts him down. “I think we have quite a situation on our hands.” He exchanges a look with the Dean, who shakes his head in disappointment. “Hyunjae, rest assured that you will not be expelled and that we will deal with this accordingly. You and Juyeon may take your leave first.”
With a last-minute play, the game had flipped and now Hyunjae is the winner. As he and Juyeon exit the office, he can’t resist sneaking a glance over his shoulder, watching the three culprits deflate with defeat. A mixture of thrill and relief zips through his bloodstream and he exhales a shaky sigh.
Finally, it’s all over. It feels a little surreal.
That’s over, but right now there’s another problem he has to deal with, perhaps just equally as dire. Juyeon is walking in front of him right now. He had reverted back to his cold shell the second they left the office. Hyunjae trails behind him, unable to decide if he should try to talk to him or not.
Surprisingly, Juyeon holds the door for him as they walk out, and Hyunjae takes it as an opening. He means to say thank you , or, you really helped me back there , but instead, the words that tumble out are - “You were eavesdropping?”
Juyeon blinks, taken aback. “I helped to get the evidence. I just wanted to see that my hard work didn’t go to waste.”
Hyunjae nods, rocking back and forth on his feet. “I didn’t know your uncle works for Seoul News.”
Juyeon shrugs. “He doesn’t.”
“What?! You lied?”
“I didn’t lie,” Juyeon corrects. “I said that my uncle would love to hear about the story, and then I asked if they knew who the head anchor of Seoul News was. It was one separate statement and one separate question, it’s not my fault if they make an assumption and blindly connect the two.”
“Oh” Hyunjae tilts his head. “That’s kind of smart actually…” A part of him wants to smile because that’s just such a Juyeon thing to do but a bigger part of him is fidgeting with panic because Juyeon still hasn’t met his eyes this whole time.
“I know.” Juyeon tucks his hands into his pockets. “Congrats on not getting expelled. I’ll see you at graduation.” And before Hyunjae can even blink, he turns and leaves.
Desperation surges within Hyunjae as he watches Juyeon’s quickly shrinking back. He can’t go, not like this . “Yeon wait.”
Juyeon ignores him, taking even larger strides. Hyunjae runs forward, and without thinking, grabs the back of his shirt. “ Yeon .”
Juyeon halts in his steps. They stand like that in the empty hallway - Hyunjae’s small hand crumpling Juyeon’s crisp uniform. “Can we talk?” Hyunjae asks, giving his shirt a meek tug. “Please?”
Juyeon sighs, long and slow before he turns around, finally meeting Hyunjae’s eyes. Hyunjae’s pulse spikes at the attention. “I really, really didn’t mean what I said to Haknyeon about you.” He stares at the mole on Juyeon’s left eyelid instead because looking directly into those dark pools is just too much to handle. “Can’t you just believe me?”
Juyeon looks him up and down. “If you didn’t mean it, why did you say it?”
Hyunjae squirms in place. “I can’t say…but you’re not the problem! Like, it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s me. I’m the problem.”
Juyeon narrows his eyes. “Why are you the problem?”
“What?” Hyunjae bristles, “Why can't I be the problem? Am I not problematic enough to be the problem?”
“Are you seriously competing with me on who gets to be worse ?”
Hyunjae swallows back his protests, looking down at his feet. “Anyways!” He stammers, “I’m just the problem. Can we leave it at that?”
Juyeon takes a step closer, narrowing the gap between them. “Why won’t you look at me when you talk?”
Heat rises to Hyunjae’s cheeks. “Why must I?” Because you make me nervous. Because I feel like I’m going to explode if I do. Because I won’t be able to think straight and I might accidentally tell you, tell you that I…
“Jae, look at me.”
Hyunjae shuffles back, gaze stubbornly glued to the floor. “No.”
Juyeon hooks a finger under Hyunjae’s chin, tilting it up. Hyunjae gasps, two hands clutching onto Juyeon’s wrist, trying to pry it off. “W-What are you doing?”
“You won’t look me in the eye,” Juyeon says slowly, grip still firm on Hyunjae’s chin, “because you hate me too much?” He takes a pause as if he’s hesitating, and it’s the first time Hyunjae has seen Juyeon be unsure about something.
“Or you like me too much?”
Hyunjae freezes. Of course Juyeon would figure it out. He gulps, Adam's apple bobbing nervously along. “Let go” he whispers weakly, “this is embarrassing enough.” This is mortifying. He’s never showing his face in front of Juyeon again. Maybe getting expelled wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Just kidding. Maybe not.
A smile spreads across Juyeon’s face, growing into a full-blown grin. “It is.” Hyunjae is about to shove him away when he continues, “but I’m the one who broke the school rules and nearly put himself at the risk of expulsion all because I wanted you to stay.” He tilts his head. “So between us, I think I win.” And then, he drags Hyunjae close and kisses him.
Hyunjae gasps, a breathy sound that gets muffled by Juyeon’s mouth. His body moves faster than his brain, kissing back while his mind spins, struggling to process all that had just happened. There are many things he thought he would do this year, but kissing his arch rival was not one of them.
Juyeon angles his head, opens his mouth and pushes deeper. He takes full control with seeming confidence, but Hyunjae is still holding onto his wrist, and beneath his fingertips he can feel his pulse stuttering, tripping over its own beat.
They break apart for air, the wet suction sound echoing in the small gap between them. “This is a…” Hyunjae rasps, trying to fill the silence. “... development .”
“Understatement” Juyeon replies, sounding deliciously out of breath. “I’m still not letting you win Valedictorian though.”
Hyunjae laughs against Juyeon’s mouth. “Neither am I”
Their eyes meet, flushed cheeks and breathless grins mirroring each other, and Hyunjae lets his eyes flutter shut as Juyeon pulls him in once again.
_____
Excitement crackles like electricity in the air. The hall is jam-packed, students bustling around, flocking to their friends with loud squeals or weaving through the back rows, trying to find their parents. Hyunjae is adjusting his tie when Haknyeon leaps onto his back. “There you are!” he shouts, “I was looking all over for you!”
Hyunjae grins, throwing himself over Haknyeon for a tight hug. “I told you I was waiting at the front.”
“Everyone looks the same, it’s so confusing” Haknyeon picks him up, bouncing him up and down before plopping him back on the ground. “How are you feeling! Are you nervous?”
Hyunjae sucks in a shaky breath, glancing at the stage. “A little” Their graduation ceremony is about to commence soon, which means very soon, they are about to find out who the Valedictorian is. “Honestly I’m fine either way. I’m just glad to even be here.”
“I still can’t believe you got Principal Kim fired,” Haknyeon says. “Everyone is still talking about it.”
Hyunjae shrugs. He’s well aware of the gossip that has spread like wildfire. Whispers erupt each time he walks past, words of ‘ corruption ’ and ‘ exposed ’ floating around. The school had announced that Principal Kim would be stepping down from his position, and while they had made it out to be voluntary, everyone seemed to know the real reason. Hyunjae doesn’t know how it got leaked out, seeing how he and Juyeon never told anyone, but it’s high school and nothing goes undetected.
“Students, please make your way to your assigned seats. The ceremony will begin in a minute.”
“Good luck!” Haknyeon encourages, giving Hyunjae’s hand a tight squeeze. “No matter the outcome, just know that I’m really proud of you.”
“Don’t say that” Hyunjae scolds, feeling his nose burn. “You’re going to make me cry.”
Haknyeon laughs, clapping his back before rushing off, weaving his way through the rows to get to his seat. Hyunjae makes his way to the very first row where the rest of the award nominees sit. The stage stands tall in front of him, gleaming under the stage lights. Nostalgia squeezes Hyunjae’s heart tight. This is it - the end of his high school journey. It had all seemed so tough, but now looking back, he realizes that he will miss it all terribly.
Out of the blue, a packet of tissues is shoved under his nose. Hyunjae follows the arm to find Juyeon sitting next to him on his left. His hair is styled today, unkempt fringe meticulously combed into a charming middle part. He looks so handsome, to the point where Hyunjae is starting to feel a little shy. He redirects his gaze to the tissue packet. “What’s this for?”
“In case you cry when I win Valedictorian later” Juyeon answers, nudging the tissues closer to Hyunjae. “Don’t want you staining your uniform.”
“I think you’ll actually be the one who needs it,” Hyunjae says sweetly, but he’s rough when he shoves the tissue packet back, making sure to hit Juyeon square in the chest.
“Fine,” Juyeon says, slotting the tissues back into the pocket of his blazer. “Don’t ask me for one when you need it.”
Hyunjae opens his mouth to retort but Mr Park is tapping the microphone, silencing everyone in the room.
“A very warm welcome to all the parents who have made it here today. Thank you for attending the graduation ceremony of Hanyang High’s 65th cohort ….”
The ceremony proceeds on. The Student Council President gives a speech on all the memories they’ve shared as a batch, including a video montage that makes everyone sniffle. The teachers take their turns sharing their well wishes to the students and then at last - the prize ceremony begins. Loud cheers and hollers resonate as each student walks up on stage to receive their award. Obviously, they’ve saved Valedictorian for last, and the whole build-up has Hyunjae buzzing with nerves and excitement.
“And lastly, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for - this year’s Valedictorian.” Mr Park announces and there’s a ripple of excited murmurs across the hall, everyone taking their guesses on who it will be. “The competition is stiff this year, with two outstanding students as our nominees - Lee Juyeon and Lee Hyunjae.”
Mr Park drones on about the previous years’ Valedictorians and the value the title holds. Juyeon discreetly finds Hyunjae’s hand underneath his chair. “So what’s it going to be Jae?” He looks over, a competitive spark in his eye. “Are you finally going to beat me?”
Hyunjae grins, intertwining their fingers. “Don’t worry Yeon, I’m taking you down .”
Mr Park lowers his chin, hovering over the microphone.
“And the Valedictorian goes to —”
The End.
|
- Four months (or so) ago -
Stiles was happy, very happy. Don’t get him wrong: this relationship was everything he had ever dreamt of. Hell, he never even thought that he could have something like this, something like an actual relationship. Stiles Stilinski in a relationship with a very, very, very hot guy? No one ever thought that would be possible, not even Stiles himself. He doubted that even peter, the guy who he was in a relationship with, had thought this was possible. Which was kind of funny and cute and painful at the same time.
Funny and cute because ha, Stiles got Peter into a relationship. Painful because did Peter really think that low of himself to think he would never have love? That was sad.
The relationship they had was pretty damn awesome. Peter, for someone who had been a Left Hand and a rogue Alpha slash serial killer, was actually incredibly nice. He was sweet and loving, he listened to Stiles which was a lot because the younger man talked for hours on end and no one ever listened to him because of that. Thanks, ADHD. Once again ruining his life. But Peter actually seemed to enjoy it when Stiles went from one topic to another, talking about going camping one moment and then going on to the sinking of Atlantis and his theories on it the next. ‘It’s interesting to see how your mind works, darling’, that was Peter’s explanation for it. And to Stiles that was enough. He had someone who wanted to cuddle with him and who wanted to listen to him. What more could he want?
Well actually, he could want more. Sex, for example. Amongst other intimate moments such as that.
Stiles wasn’t really one of those ‘sex needs to be a part of a relationship’ kinds of guys. He had gone years without sex, so he didn’t mind waiting at all. But Peter and him had been together for almost a year and a half now without any of that kind of touching and Stiles was starting to worry.
Peter had touched him, just not in ways that could be described as sexual. There had been cuddling, there had been hugging, there had been these wonderful soft kisses- but that was that. No moments without clothes. They didn’t even shower together because Peter just didn’t really seem interested in seeing Stiles naked. Which bothered Stiles. Not in a way of ‘I need to have sex right now to be happy in this relationship’, but more in a ‘does my boyfriend think I’m ugly?’ kind of way. It made him feel insecure because hey, he knew he wasn’t the greatest looking guy on the planet. Spending so much time amongst werewolves kind of reminded him of his lacking physique.
The young man wouldn’t describe himself as a very confident guy. He wasn’t that insecure about himself either, it was more of a neutral feeling that he felt toward himself. He didn’t even think about his body that often. He wasn’t fat, he was healthy and there were just too many other things to worry about. Going to the gym with his schedule? No, he was too busy saving Beacon Hills from evil supernatural beings all the time. He didn’t have time for that, simply put.
But of course, he noticed it. All of the werewolves, including Scott and Peter and Derek, they all had nice bodies. And yes, Stiles had eyed Scott. Of course he had. It had been in a moment that he wanted to make sure Scott’s injuries weren’t bad enough to kill him, but he had noticed then and there that Scott had gone from asthmatic-scrawny-teen to able-to-breathe-normally-muscled-adult. And Stiles had been left out. He hadn’t gotten the werewolf genes, hadn’t started to spontaneously spawn muscles like the others. And that was a bit unfair, because he didn’t understand why puberty still hadn’t changed anything even though he was basically out of puberty.
But it never really had bothered him. It had sometimes been annoying that he couldn’t keep up with the wolves and that he was practically useless in a fight, but he was useful in other ways. Like research. And the pack still wanted him to be a part of it, they couldn’t do what they did without him and Stiles knew that so no, the lack of muscles didn’t bother him. Until Peter and their relationship and the whole sex thing- or lack thereof.
Stiles shifted uneasily on the couch, head brushing against Peter’s shoulder. This was all they did, touching-wise. There was nothing other than cuddling and some kisses here and there. Peter was probably not even attracted to him in that way. The werewolf was quite a bit older (Stiles still had no idea exactly how much older, Peter was after all very vague about that bit) and probably had a buttload of experience. Or at least a whole lot more than Stiles did. He only had sex twice, once with a female and once with a male. It barely counted as ‘experience’.
“What’s wrong?”
One annoying thing about being with a werewolf: they could smell every single emotion on you. Peter had once described Stiles as a busy restaurant’s kitchen with how many emotions he could smell off him. Which was to be blamed on Stiles’ anxiety and ADHD, of course. “Do you like me?”
Peter raised a brow; Stiles didn’t even have to look at him to know that. “I like to think that if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have spent one and a half years of my life in a relationship with you.” He drawled. “We both know I value my time. And we both also know that I do not care enough of most people to humour them.”
“You really can’t ever just say it, can you?”
“Yes Stiles, I like you. Very much so indeed. Why the question?”
“Because, it’s just-“ Stiles let out a shaky breath. How was he even going to put this? He needed to be careful, he didn’t want to hurt Peter or scare him away. But in true Stiles Stilinski fashion he of course wasn’t at all subtle with the way he put it. “You never touch me. I mean, you touch me, but you never touch touch me. It’s always with clothes on. And yeah, while I’m happy you’re not weirdly indecent in public because my father would’ve arrested you in no-time, I feel like it’s weird that you don’t do it in private either. Am I not hot enough for you? Oh God, you can’t get your dick up around me, can you? Oh my- I’m too ugly. I’m too ugly for my boyfriend to get his dick up-“
“Can we stop talking about my dick?” Peter interrupted, making Stiles grimace and nod. “So that’s the problem? That’s why you’ve been distant lately? Because I haven’t been touch touching you without clothes?”
“No need for the quotation marks, dude. I regret teaching you that.” Stiles huffed and Peter gave him an unimpressed look. Right. Back to the matter at hand. Stiles shrugged, scratching the back of his head. “I guess. I mean, I know I’m not as muscled as you guys are and I know you’re probably scared you’ll break me with your werewolf strength but… I guess I just got insecure about it.”
Peter nodded slowly. “I understand. I seem to have forgotten how human and their emotions work.”
“You always act as if you don’t feel anything.” Stiles snorted, studying Peter’s face, looking into his eyes. Peter looked unsure, as though he wanted to say something but he couldn’t. It was weird to see Peter insecure or uncertain, that wasn’t his normal look. Usually it was something more like ‘I am the best at everything’. “I think that right now it’s my turn to ask you what’s wrong, huh?”
The wolf let out a sigh. “I guess I knew this day was coming.” He softly said, looking down for a moment before he looked at Stiles again. “I’m asexual.”
Stiles blinked. “Huh.” That made sense. That actually made a lot of sense. It wasn’t Stiles’ body (thank the Lord), but it was Peter’s sexual preferences. Or what he lacked there. Not that it was a bad thing, Stiles was actually glad that Peter came clean about this. Now he didn’t have to worry about his body again.
With a little hum Stiles put his head back on Peter’s chest. Maybe sex wasn’t something Peter was comfortable with, but cuddles were a necessary part of their relationship- now that Stiles was thinking about that, he did have to ask his boyfriend what he felt comfortable with and what not.
“Are you still okay with cuddling?”
“Unless the cuddling ends up in sex, then yes.” Peter gently said, rubbing Stiles’ upper arm gently. “Look. I don’t want sex. Ever. And it’s… I’m attracted to you, I really am. I just am not into sex. With anyone. I do want to cuddle and kissing is okay but… I don’t know. I just don’t enjoy sex.”
“Okay.” Stiles smiled up at Peter, kissing his jaw. “That’s cool. I’m just glad it isn’t me. I started thinking I was deformed or something.” He chuckled, gently stroking Peter’s cheek. He needed to shave, cause while stubble was sexy it was also really scratchy. “Thank you for telling me. For opening up. And for the record? I don’t mind. You’re the best boyfriend… You don’t mind me jerking off in my bedroom to the thought of you, right?”
Peter snorted. “No, no, please do whatever you want. But if you decide to have an intimate relationship with anyone else, I’d like to be informed first.” Stiles chuckled at that, thinking that his boyfriend was joking. He put his head back on Peter’s chest once again, relaxing. See? Everything was turning out just fine. Stiles had his boyfriend. His asexual boyfriend who was still very attracted to him. Once again: what more could he want?
- Two weeks ago, give or take –
“No.”
“Stiles-“
“I don’t know what you’re suggesting or implying or whatever the right word is right now, but no.” Stiles snapped, wagging his finger at his boyfriend who was leaning against the counter. “You’re suggesting very stupid things and I don’t want to hear them because they’re not true. Besides, I’m cooking. And unless you want me to burn literally everything, I suggest that you leave this subject alone and never bring it up again.”
Peter hummed and, like the asshole he was, just started smirking. “That you don’t want me to bring it up again sure is saying something, dear.”
Stiles’ cheeks burned red. In fact, he was flushing all the way down his chest. It was a wonderful look on him. Or at least Peter thought so. The werewolf enjoyed making his boyfriend uncomfortable from time to time like this, in a teasing manner of course. He wasn’t that sadistic. “You’re an asshole.”
“An asshole who loves you so much that he wants you to be happy and is even suggesting you hook up with his nephew for that.” That statement nearly made Stiles cut off his own fingers. He cursed, shooting Peter a glare over his back. The wolf just blinked innocently. “Hey, I’m just saying what I see, love. There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to two people. I do have to admit that the Hale family, the remainder of it at least, is a hell of a bunch of hot people.”
“Sometimes I wonder why I’m with you.”
“Because I’m Peter Hale,” The wolf said as if that explained anything. It probably did because there was no one like Peter. “Didn’t I tell you before that I am more than okay with you being intimate with someone else? Besides, I know Derek and I trust him. I’d be happy to see you having fun with you.”
Stiles spluttered. “No! No, hell no! Peter, you can’t- we’re a thing! And he’s your nephew!”
“I’m very well aware of that, yes.”
“There’s just no way I can be with Derek.” Stiles shook his head, trying to put his attention back on the dinner he was making. Or trying to make, at least. Peter was making it a little difficult for him.
“Mmh, but do you want to be with Derek?” Peter asked. “I’m not suggesting a break up happening between us, dear. I’m merely saying that you have needs, and don’t even try to deny that because I can in fact smell it on you, and those needs seem to amplify whenever you’re near me or near Derek. And while you know that we can’t do anything together because my penis won’t respond-“
“You’re making this even weirder than it already is.”
“You do know that my nephew would be a very willing participant.”
That seemed to freeze Stiles’ brain. Peter got hit with a whole bunch of different kinds of emotions coming from his boyfriend (mostly confusion and shock), so he gave Stiles a moment to recollect himself. The younger man eventually turned off the stove and turned to look at the wolf. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that both you and Derek are idiots who have been dancing around one another for months now. I mean, sure, I expected this from you but Derek? The man has werewolf abilities. He should be able to smell it on you.” Peter sighed, shaking his head. “Sometimes I do wonder if he’s a lost cause.”
Stiles squinted at him. “Are you serious right now?”
“Yes, Stiles.” Peter took a step closer, taking Stiles’ hand to place it on his chest to let Stiles feel his heartbeat. It was more of a nice gesture, really. Because over the years Peter had gotten so good at lying that his heartbeat wouldn’t jump anymore. Not that it would anyways, because he wasn’t lying. He would be more than okay with this. “I’m one hundred percent serious about this. I know about your feelings for Derek, and I know you feel the same way for him as you do for me.”
“And you’re not mad about that?” The young human asked, keeping his hand on Peter’s chest. “Because I’ve been trying to get rid of those feelings, believe me. You’re… You’re supposed to be it for me, you know? And it isn’t because you don’t want to have sex with me-“
“I know. Stiles, you worry way too much about things, do you know that?” Now Peter took both of Stiles’ hands, holding them in his own and smiling softly. “I know it isn’t because of my sexuality. The way you smell around Derek is the exact same as you smell around me. You, dear, you like us both. And Derek likes you the same way I do. And, as an added bonus, I know for a fact that my nephew is not asexual.”
Stiles hummed a little. “Okay… So… What are you proposing?”
“I’m proposing you and Derek have a little talk. Preferably with me around so I can gloat with how wonderfully uncomfortable my nephew is going to look.” He grinned darkly at his boyfriend, leaning in to kiss Stiles’ lips softly. “And before you ask: yes, I do think Derek has a mighty fine face.”
“But you’re-“
“His uncle. Yes, I know that. But for wolves it’s… Different. We’re a pack, we’re close. Incest isn’t as strange and illegal as it is in your world.” Peter explained, making Stiles let out another little ‘huh’ sound. “So yes. Him and I would be okay with being together even though we’re related. In fact, I’m sure he would very much enjoy being that close to me once again.”
“This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.” Stiles breathed out, shaking his head a little. He pulled away, turning back to the dinner he was cooking. For a moment Peter was convinced that his boyfriend would ignore the suggestion that Peter proposed, but then Stiles spoke up again. “So, what’s Derek’s favourite dessert? I’m thinking that if we do plan on scarring him for life with this conversation, we’re going to at least need a nice dessert to make it up to him.”
Peter grinned. “Pie. Cherry pie.”
- Now -
Derek shifted uncomfortably on his chair. Peter and Stiles were seated on the couch and for some reason Peter was staring at him all smug. Which wasn’t exactly something that Derek liked. There was always a reason for a look like that and the fact that Stiles had baked him a pie was even more concerning. A cherry pie, at that. His favourite dessert, something he was sure Stiles hadn’t known. Not unless Peter told him.
“How’s it taste?”
“Good,” Derek answered Stiles’ question. When he’d been invited over to watch the Mets game, Derek thought that the rest of the pack would be there as well. Peter had invited him, saying that Stiles would be there as well, so it wasn’t that weird that Derek had just assumed they’d be joined by the rest, right? Apparently, he was wrong and it was just the three of them, which was making things a bit awkward. “Like homemade cherry pie.”
Stiles beamed at him before he settled back, eyes on the TV again. It was silent for a while, but eventually Peter spoke up.
“Why don’t you ask him now, darling? I don’t think Derek could smell more anxious.”
“Now? But he hasn’t even finished his pie yet.” Stiles pouted. Okay, so they were buttering him up for something. Derek glared at his uncle. No doubt that guy had everything to do with it. Peter just smiled innocently and nudged Stiles’ side. “Fine, fine. Don’t nudge me. I’m sensitive. I bruise like a peach, you know?”
“Stiles.”
“Alright, get off my back dude.” Stiles sighed before he looked at the very uncomfortable werewolf seated on the chair, holding onto his little plate of pie. He looked adorable, like a lost puppy. “We wanted to ask you if you want to be a part of this relationship.”
“Way to be subtle about it.” Peter sighed, shaking his head. “Though, Derek does like it when we come straight forward, hmm?” Derek just blinked, probably reeking of confusion. Because that was what he was feeling: confused. And terrible, because they were probably making fun of him. Peter had somehow smelled it on him- or maybe Stiles was the one who had figured it out. Derek couldn’t exactly be sure, but one of them had found out and that was the worst thing ever. Why? Because Peter and Stiles had this wonderful relationship going on and Derek didn’t want to ruin it. He really didn’t want to ruin their happiness, what they had together. “Derek, darling, breathe.”
“I am. Breathing. I mean.” Derek stumbled over his words, twitching in his seat.
Peter snorted. “Barely.” He shifted slightly in his seat. “Perhaps I should explain. As you know Stiles and I have been in a relationship for quite some time now, almost two years now actually. And while our relationship has been perfect, recently we have been in a bit of a predicament. You see, I’m asexual and Stiles here is still very much in his teenage years hormone wise.”
“Peter!” Stiles punched Peter’s arm- not hard of course, but Stiles doubted Peter would feel it anyways. He was kind of immune to human punches. “I hate you, you’re the worst. You can’t ever take anything seriously.” He pouted a little, looking at poor Derek who was looking even more confused by now. “I know this ass over here is trying to make it sound as if I’m planning to use you as my sex slave, but that is definitely not happening. We- yes, Peter. You too. You’re the one who brought this up in the first place- We want you to be included in our relationship.”
“I can smell it on you when you’re around us, Derek. You hide it well, but I’m much older. And I’m the Left Hand, you know it’s my job to figure things out.” Peter smiled at his nephew whose cheeks turned a dark red. Oh. See? He was caught. And they were definitely making fun of him because there was no way this was real. His fantasies would not just pop into real life like this. “And Stiles is right, we don’t want it to just be sexual things. Especially not me. I for one want this to be cuddling and loving touches, just as Stiles and I are doing. And bonus, you and Stiles can have sex.”
“Uh.”
“I think we broke him.” Stiles breathed out, staring at Derek before he looked at Peter again. “I really think we broke him, Petey.”
“Just give him a moment, he’ll be fine. I’m sure.” He smiled softly at his boyfriend, pressing a kiss to his lips before he got up, walking over to his nephew and leaning in, pressing their lips together in a soft kiss. Derek shivered at that, melting into the kiss. When Peter pulled away that dumb self-satisfied smirk was on his lips. “See? He wants it. Told you so.”
Derek blinked. “You guys aren’t making fun of me?”
“No, we’re not. We’re serious about this. We’d like to try this with you, to figure out how this can work with the three of us.” Stiles softly said, getting up and walking over to the two wolves. “And seriously, it’s not a sex thing. I uh, I’ve kind of had a crush on you since… Well, forever. I guess. I just… I thought that it wasn’t normal since I am in a relationship with Peter. But he-“
“Is amazing and he told you that you could be in love with two people at the same time.” Peter grinned happily, winking at Derek who just swallowed. He was still a little shaken up. It was a lot of information to take in, don’t blame him. “So? What do you say?”
“I-“ Derek paused, staring at the two in front of him. Did he want to be in a relationship with his uncle and his uncle’s boyfriend? Once again: in werewolf pack dynamics it wasn’t that strange to have incest going on, it just worked differently for them. But that didn’t mean that Derek wasn’t still shy about it. He eyed his uncle, then Stiles, and then nodded. “Yes. I’d like that.”
Peter grinned, moving to hug Stiles before he held out his hand for Derek to join them. “Well, what are you waiting for? Join us, dear. You know you want to.” Derek smiled nervously, getting up and letting himself be enveloped in their hug.
Stiles moved, pressing a kiss to Peter’s cheek and then to Derek’s lips. Yeah, he had Derek and Peter both. That felt right. Seriously, he couldn’t want anything else.
|
Hospitals are kind of a nightmare for Oliver to navigate.
Like, a literal nightmare, not just the usual “oh, I don’t know what wing I’m in, what floor am I supposed to go to, I can’t find a map and all the employees look busy and I don’t want to interrupt them to ask for directions” sort of nightmare.
(Though that’s still a thing, too.)
No, it’s the kind of nightmare that looks like a veritable Gordian knot of corpse roots, writhing and sprouting and withering constantly before Oliver’s eyes as he carefully weaves his way through the halls, like he’s taking a tour of H.P. Lovecraft’s worst dreams come to life. Or doing that thing they do in movies, where the hero has to dodge their way through a room full of motion-sensing lasers. Or like playing Operation with a pile of sentient spaghetti. If the spaghetti was evil and also made of fear.
Well, Oliver wishes he looked like a spy movie protagonist, at least. It would probably be more accurate to say that he looks like an escaped mental patient, drawing stares from hospital workers and patients alike as he awkwardly hopscotches over obstacles that only he can see, ducking and squeezing and contorting himself to avoid any possibility of direct contact with any of the End's many appendages. It's a huge hassle, but it can’t be helped. Touching a corpse root is a uniquely unpleasant experience, and a few sideways glances from strangers is a price he’s willing to pay to avoid it.
(Oliver is pretty sure he just saw two nurses whispering to each other while shooting him concerned looks. Hopefully he can accomplish his task and get out of here before someone calls security on him.)
A tendril flails wildly past Oliver’s head, nearly clipping him in the jaw as it goes. He ducks absent-mindedly under it as he stops to consult the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, comparing the number written on it to the number of the closest room he can see. Looks like he’s in the right area, at least.
(He’s briefly distracted by the sound of a flatline ringing out from a nearby room. One absolutely overrun with pulsing black veins. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the inky mass of them immediately begin to ripple and engorge, siphoning away the terror of the deceased’s final moments. The End’s beautiful machinery at work. Oliver doesn’t know why it even bothers to take avatars. It seems to get by just fine on its own.)
Aaand it looks like the direction he needs to go in is blocked off by a broad river of roots, spilling out along the floor and neatly bisecting the hallway before snaking off in the direction of whatever poor soon-to-be-departed souls they’re attached to. Great. Just great. God damn it. This is a pain in the arse. Why is he even doing this.
(He knows why he’s doing it. It’s because the Web told him to. Or, more specifically, because Annabelle Cane implied that she would send spiders to crawl into his mouth while he sleeps if he didn’t do her this one small favor, and Oliver isn't sure if she’s bluffing or not, so he’s just going to go ahead and do as she says. Same difference.)
(She could have just asked.)
Oliver pauses, backs up a few steps, looks back and forth to make sure nobody is watching him, and takes a running leap over the tentacular floor hazard in his path, sticking the landing neatly on the other side. Ha. Success. Now, where was he. 357, 358, 359...ah, here.
Jonathan Sims is immediately recognizable when Oliver eases the door open and peers inside. Not because of how he looks; he mostly just looks like a man who’s been through a meat grinder. He barely resembles the prim, professional academic Oliver vaguely remembers from his death-dreams. If not for Annabelle’s directions, Oliver probably wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a crowd. Or, rather, out of a hospital ward.
No, Oliver doesn’t recognize Jon by his thin, scarred body, or his ashen face, or his pronounced eye bags. Oliver recognizes him by the thicket of corpse roots prowling restlessly around him, making frustrated grasping motions, held at bay by something Oliver can't see. Huh. Looks like being a high-level minion of Beholding comes with one hell of a benefits package.
The sight of the Ceaseless Watcher invisibly arm-wrestling Terminus for possession of its Archivist is so fascinating that Oliver almost doesn’t notice Jon’s other visitor until he’s right on top of her. She’s hunched in a chair next to Jon’s bed, a short, stocky woman wearing a black t-shirt with a cute cartoon ghost logo on the front. She looks tired and worried. She is also, Oliver can’t help but notice, very pretty.
And now she’s looking at Oliver like he’s an intruder. Oops. Oliver wasn’t expecting to encounter resistance on this mission.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone else would...be here," says Oliver, who is not very good at improvisation. Or coming up with lies on the fly. Or conversations in general. God, what should he do? Should he just leave and come back later? “Uh, I like your shirt.”
And now she probably thinks he was looking at her boobs. Damn it. It genuinely is a cute shirt, though. Oliver kind of wants one. It would go with his whole theme.
She thankfully ignores the shirt comment. Is she glaring at him? Is that a glare? Maybe that’s just what her face looks like. It’s still a nice face. “Who are you?”
“I’m, uh, a friend of Jon’s.” Oliver decides to try to keep it as simple as possible. Less ways for him to trip himself up. A Web developer he is not.
“...right.” Yeah, okay, she’s definitely not buying it. And she’s still not moving. What now? Is there anything he can say to make her go away?
"I kind of wanted to...tell Jon something? Something kind of personal?" Oliver hints, in what he hopes is a convincing tone of voice. Her eyebrows are slowly rising. Oliver realizes what he just implied, and hastily course-corrects. "Oh. No, no. Not like that. God, no."
Now her eyebrows are starting to look judgy. Those are definitely judgmental eyebrows.
"Not that there's anything wrong with that!" Shit. That sounded even worse. Her eyebrows are still doing the thing. Oliver feels sweaty. This is what he gets for trying to do something borderline altruistic. Why couldn't he just be evil. Evil people don't blush when talking to beautiful women, he's pretty sure.
"I've dated guys!" Oliver continues, for some reason. And then, because it seems important that she know this, and because he can't seem to stop his mouth from making talking noises, he also says, "Not...not exclusively, or anything. But I have."
And now she's looking at him like he's a bloody martian. God, Oliver needs to get out more. He doesn't talk to humans enough. He’s forgetting how to pretend to be a person. Or maybe it's just the fact that being around pretty people of any gender tends to make him lose IQ points.
"I'm Antonio, by the way," he says, because that's a thing that people do, right? Introduce themselves? Should he offer her a handshake? No, he shouldn't. His palms are moist. Oliver shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“You're...not human, are you," she says, after a small eternity of silence. She doesn’t phrase it as a question.
Oliver's shoulders slump with defeat. Well, at least he can drop the “how do you do, fellow person?” act now. “Yeah. I mean, no. Not human. Anymore. Technically."
Her expression is tense and wary. She looks like she’s one step away from standing up and putting herself between him and Jon like a shield, which, while a touching gesture, is kind of the opposite of what Oliver is going for, here. When she speaks, her voice is flat and cold. "I met something like you, once."
There's a pregnant pause.
"I mean. We don't...all know each other," Oliver finally replies, which feels like a surreal thing to say to another black person, but that's apparently just how Oliver's life is now. What the hell is he going to say next? I'm not anti-human, some of my best friends are human!
She does not look impressed. "It was evil." Which, yeah, okay, that's fair.
"Uh. Well. I wouldn’t say I’m evil, exactly. I'm more...neutral. True neutral." Yes, because describing your moral code in D&D terms is definitely something that trustworthy people do. Can you get it together for one fucking second, Oliver?
She continues to look at him like he’s the creepiest creeper to ever creep. Oliver takes a bracing breath, sighs it back out, and decides to try a bit of honesty. “Look, the only reason I’m here is because someone told me Jon was in a coma, and they think I might be able to help him.”
And now she’s looking at Oliver like the idea of him helping anyone with anything ever is seriously suspect, which is a bit unfair, honestly. What did he ever do to her? Oliver forges on, feeling kind of defensive. “I mean, I'm a death guy, so comas are kind of in my wheelhouse. Dreams, too. I think it's because sleep is basically practice for death. Wow, that sounded ominous. I'm sorry."
She’s still sitting there. Oliver feels like a bad comedian on a stage, waiting for the tomatoes to start flying. “If it wasn’t clear, I’m not actually planning on killing him.”
Ghost girl continues to stare at him with undisguised hostility. Oliver continues to slowly wilt under the weight of her gaze. Is there an entity that embodies the fear of humiliating yourself in front of attractive people? Oliver might be thinking of switching alignments.
(Oh, wait, that’s just Beholding, isn’t it. That explains a lot, actually.)
“You know what, I'll just. I'll come back later,” he says, at last, trying to muster up an appropriately apologetic smile. He breaks eye contact and backs away, gingerly eases the door open, and steps outside. She watches him go with her merciless, merciless eyes. Fuck his entire life. Why is this happening. Why him.
“Have a nice day!" Oliver says, like an absolute lunatic, before he closes the door behind him. Then he takes a deep breath, buries his face in his hands, and prays for death.
And then he stops doing that, because sometimes, when Oliver asks Death to do things, it says yes.
-
The next time Oliver goes to visit Jon, instead of the intimidating cartoon ghost woman, there’s a cute chubby guy with glasses sitting next to Jon’s bed. Oliver immediately pivots on his heel and heads right back out, because nope, nope, nope, he has learned his lesson, he's not doing it a second time.
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Dream was walking back from dropping off Tubbo at Phil’s house. Tubbo being very close friends with Phil’s son Tommy. Dream always felt bad when he left Tubbo there, claiming not wanting to bother Phil so much. Tubbo being still 12 and young.
Of course Phil shutting down the claims just as fast as he made them. Phil always stated that Dream and Tubbo were like second sons to him and Kristen. Kristen saiding that he was secretly her favorite. The two of them laughing as an inside joke for them.
But now Dream was walking back home, his steps wavering the closer he got to his house. Schlatt isn’t the best father, Dream still remembered when he was. Tubbo being too young to remember when their dad would tell bedtime stories. Some days he would bring back ice cream for them to enjoy in the backyard.
Somehow remembering how his dad used to be made things worse to accept him now. The conflicting feelings of his father, some days doubting if his father is as bad as he thinks he is. But deep down in the back of his mind, the more rational part of him argues that the bruises and injuries make things even worse.
Stopping outside of the entrance of his house, his dad is supposed to be home from work. Dream wishes that his dad decided to go get black out drunk at some local bar today. That he has run out of bottles to drink at home.
The click of the lock, makes him stop. Closing his eyes he rips the band-aid right off, quick and fast. Letting the door creak open, the one wish he had gets proven to be wrong.
There laid Schlatt; what Dream hoped would be passed out drunk. Gulping, Dream took a hesitant step into his own home. Dreams' eyes never leave the figure. A creeping cat avoiding its owner's notice.
Dream's heart took a stop when Schlatt moved his arm, and now a deer in headlights Dream froze. Schlatt had settled down, but Dream didn’t move again. Seconds felt like minutes when Dream built the courage to move again.
Not wanting to be stuck there again if Schlatt decided to move again, Dream took fast steps towards the hallway. If he can make it upstairs and into his room, he hoped his dad would never know he was home. It’s not like Schlatt will go out looking for him.
Avoiding the creaky step, that would resonate throughout the house. He climbed upwards, running one hand against the wall.
Dream let out a small breath when he reached the top; in triumph or relief.
His padded feet moved along the fake wooden floor, the small steps of his shoe had Dream paranoid. He kept looking behind him and straining his ears for any little noise. He didn’t think twice to open his door. Once his hand was on the handle he pushed it open.
Dream visibly flinched when he heard a loud thump, fear gripped his throat. The door swung open far too much with little to no resistance. He’s opened this door hundreds of times. There has always been a resistance if you tried to open the door.
He closed the door quickly, leaning his back against the door. It struck him then when all his thoughts were racing that his dad said; when sober. That he was planning on oil the doors, he must've done it.
Dream breathes in hoping that the air would push back the tears of fear. This day was going good, his friends and him had gone out for ice cream. His bruises were healing and didn’t hurt. Tubbo was having fun and Phil’s house. Of course he had to fuck this up.
Dream didn't move at all, he kept his back to the wall. Staring at the window, it being the only light source from the moon. That kept his eyes busy while his ears were searching for any evidence that Schlatt woke up.
Once again time moved slowly, it being a turtle with an impatient hare. Dream let out a shake when he heard the couch squeak with weight being moved on top. Dream begging the Schlatt was just turning to his side.
He closed his eyes in instinct to hear a bit better. More fear clogged his throat when he heard the creaky stair. Dream tried his best to completely still his body, his only hope was that his dad would think he wasn’t home.
He heard the steps right outside his door, “Dream?”
Even if Dream wanted to answer he physically couldn’t, the clog in his throat was choking him. Once he heard his dad keep on walking down the hallway. Dream cursed himself when he stepped away from the door and to land on the on fucking tile that cracked.
Both his steps and the ones outside stopped. “Dream.” There was an edge of anger in his voice now, no longer questioning but knowing.
Pressing his lips he swallows down his choke and hopes he doesn't stutter, “Y-yeah, dad?” Dream pinched himself for stuttering.
“Why din’t you answer me the first time.” Schlatts voice was hard. Dreams mind was racing, clinging onto any thought that could make a reasonable excuse. Even Dream knew that wouldn’t matter.
“Sorry, dad, had my headphones on, sorry.” Schlatt didn’t answer him immediately and part of Dream had hoped that he would buy it. Dream was still disappointed when he heard the handle on the rattle. Another wave of fear when he realized it was locked, Schlatt didn't like lock doors.
“Boy! Why is there a lock on the door!”
Dream didn’t want to answer, panicking between opening the door or just keeping it locked. He knew if he didn’t open it it would be bad tomorrow, but he opened it now it would be bad now. And right now he wasn't thinking about tomorrow.
“Dream, open the door.” His voice went calm, a deadly calm. That made his fear triple in weight in his throat and stomach.
Dream stepped back to a wall in his bedroom, his hands pressed into the wall. Hoping that he would melt into the wall and disappear.
When he heard a bang against the door, he sank to the ground. Schlatt has never tried to force his way into a room before. Schlatt never stopped banging the door, and Dream could swear he heard a crack of wood. But the whole commotion he could never be sure.
He never went back to think about it, when he saw the yellow light from the hallway peak through the hole in the door. Shock overrode his entire system and froze.
A hand reached through the hole, feeling around for the handle. He unlocked it. Schlatt stepped into the door, and Dream could only stare in fear in the spot where Schlatt stood.
Nothing had happened but tears were already falling down his cheeks.
“YOU don’t lock the door Dream!” Schlatt was shouting and walking over to where Dream was curled up against the wall. Schlatt had a gloss over his eyes when he was looking at Dream. Dream could see the anger in his face and it still scared Dream.
Dream could only let out a small whimper and hide his head. Schlatt pulled him from his legs, a surprised Dream tried scrambling away from the vulnerable position. Schlatt pulled him up from the collar of his shirt and punched him right in the jaw. Dream was twisted to his side from the punch and pain. For good measure Shlatt kicked him, causing Dream to twist in the other direction. Dream curled up in himself.
“It’s YOUR fault she’s DEAD! I Couldn’t save her because she locked the door because of you!” Schlatt screamed at Dream while not stopping the kicks to his legs and torso. Dream also didn't stop crying, the words hurting more the kicks.
Schlatt started dragging him closer to the other wall, Dream screaming in pain and fear of what would happen.
All that was happening Dream couldn’t keep straight on what was happening, his double vision wasn’t helping. The next thing he knew a hard punch to his jaw, had him seeing black and another punch to his temple. Dream was utterly unconscious from the hits, Schlatt didn’t realize until Dream was completely limp.
Sclatt panicked for a minute, before checking his pulse fearing the worst. When he felt one, small relief went through him. He left Dream on the bed and went back to his room. Taking another bottle with him to help him sleep.
When Dream woke up again, it was still night time. His door was closed but he could see the hallway light through the bottom crack. When he moved he felt his bed sheets underneath him. Taking in a pained gasp when he moved to fast to sit up. His arm curled around his torso.
Slowly he remembered fragments of what happened; what he guessed a few hours prior. He managed to sit on the edge of his bed. He took a deep breath in, checking if it hurt if he breathed too much. Luckily there was no such pain.
Sitting there he started to try and remember what happened. The thought that he caused his mother’s death, had his eyes going glassy. Deep down he always blamed himself but had no proof, he never told anyone anyways. But now confirming that even his dad thought made it more concrete.
Dark thoughts swirled around his mind, of what-ifs and how he could do differently. How he managed to chose the one path that lead to his mothers suicide in the bathroom. He didn’t even remember his mothers death.
Rubbing his face he felt a busted lip, dried tears and blood mixed together. He stood up, hand leaning on the wall for assistance. Dream walked, more liked stumbled to his door. His hands shook on the handle.
He didn’t hear any noise, not even the house settling in. So he thought it safe for him to walk downstairs.
The stairs were harder than usual after his fathers episodes. After step after step, he reached the bottom. All the lights were off in the living room and kitchen. His stomach rumbled but the mere thought of food had the taste of ash on his mouth.
So he kept walking to the doorway, leaning on for him to catch his breath. He wanted to check the time, but then remembered he probably left it in his room. The thought of going up the stairs felt much harder than going down. Deciding to leave his phone, it's not like he’s going to need it.
Dream was going for a walk. He stepped out the doorway, his arm still holding his torso. It wasn’t doing anything but the comfort of it there was nice.
Following the sidewalk, he finally reached the start of the trail. There was a river that ran through the city, a trail and bridges lined the side. It was secluded with trees and usually only used in the mornings.
Chances of him being the only one for a long time were high and he was betting on them. His steps were leisurely, he was enjoying the trees. The small breeze from the water was refreshing. Dream had a set destination of a bridge, it was high enough and there was rushing water underneath it.
The walk somehow felt so much longer, the pain making it harder to take even a small step. The path was concrete so he wasn’t in danger of tripping on hitting his feet.
Reaching the bridge he walked to the peak of it and stood there, hands resting on the rusted metal painted red. The wooden planks underneath him creaking in age. Dream slipped off one shoe from his heel and did the same with the other. Moving them gently, he organized them next to him. Dream stepped up to one beam support, now the railing only reaching to his thighs. He could easily lean forward and he would fall.
Dream threw one leg over the railing, still staring at the water blankly. Bringing the other leg, the only thing keeping him there was his hands holding him up. The air was cold.
“Dream!?” Dream was shocked to hear his name, he whipped his head over to look. There stood Phil, he had a coat with his hat. A face of utter shock and fear written all over his face.
Dream was looking between Phil and the water. Weighing the choices in his mind. He heard the steps come closer at an alarming pace. Dream started to panic, not having enough time. A shaky smile came to his face when he looked at Phil; Phil was only a few large feet away. Dream let go of the railing.
“Dream!” Phil rushed to the railing, it dug into his stomach to where it was painful. Phil wasn’t concerned about that. He was looking at the water, begging that he would see Dream pop up from under the water.
For Phil time was going too fast, minutes past and Dream didn’t reach the surface. Phil already had tears in his eyes, but now that it felt more solidified in his mind had him sobbing.
Dream had just jumped off, oh god.
Phil fumbled with his phone, tears still carving their path down his cheeks. Hysterical sobs squirming their way out through his mouth. Blinking away the cloudiness from his eyes, or at least trying to. Phil debated on what to do, getting antsy when he couldn’t make up his mind.
At last Phil called the police, reasoning they would be able to do more than emotional support for the man. To at least try and find Dream, or more his body.
The thought had Phil shaking with fear, Oh God what if they do find him but not alive. That’s when Phil started to think about his family as the ringing of the phone continued. What was he supposed to tell Tubbo, that was Dream’s brother.
Dream’s friends, all of them. Someone will have to tell him and Phil was already dreading it. The horror of this all was worse. Then again Phil wasn’t so sure if he could remove the memory of Dream letting go. Dream. Who was like a 4th son to him and Kristen.
If Dream is dead. And Phil is begging the Gods that he’s still alive. Just unconscious. That he’ll wash upon shore gasping for air and a beating heart. The worst Phil is letting his imagination wonder is a few broken bones, nothing time won’t fix.
But time won’t be able to fix death, at least not for Dream.
Phil cursed in anger for the emergency services to take so long to answer. Going through the routine to which he hopes won’t have to go again.
“Sir can you tell what happened?”
“I-I I saw someone jump, I k-knew him. Oh God I don't know, I-. He was just here an-and now.”
“Oh okay, you said it was at the main bridge right, Jordan river?”
“Yes.” Phil didn’t know if he could go on. Holding back his crying was hard enough while talking. “Okay Sir, I sent out an ambulance and some patrol. Can I ask you to meet them at the start of the trail?”
Phil nodded, it took some seconds for him to understand that the other person couldn’t see him. A simple hum was all the other person got for affirmation. Phil didn’t think twice before hanging up, not bothering to be nice.
It felt like his hands were stuck under tar when he tried to release them from the grip he had on the railing. Gulping, he kept walking back. Somehow that distance will change things, that distance will help him forget.
His back hitting the other side of the railing managed to shake him out of his stupor. Phil started at a brisk pace towards the way he came. He wasn’t quite sure what to do next, there wasn’t exactly a manual.
The thoughts wandered back to what he was to say to the others. Phil doubts this wasn’t a good time to use humor as a good way to break it to them.
Hearing the wails of the police had him looking up, now there were red and blue lights bouncing off the open bushes and trees. The night makes it even more visible.
He met the officers at the head of the trail, Phil couldn’t give them much. Unfortunately he was still in an unshakable shock. And the questions they asked only made the tears painful. They left him alone after that.
There sat Phil, behind an ambulance. He was given a bland grey blanket that looked more warm than it actually was. Maybe it was just him that couldn’t stop shaking. Phil’s hands were still ringing his phone, the decision of calling Kristen weighing on his whole body. In the end he thought it best to tell them when he got home, it felt like it’ll be easier on them.
Even if he did call them in the middle of the night telling them something had happened. Wouldn't it be worse for them to just sit here and be able to do nothing like he was. Phil was already here; painfully.
One of the medics asked him if he was alright once again, nodding solemnly at the question. The medic went on again, this time asking if he would like to go home. Once again Phil nodded.
Before walking off home; which wasn’t too far off he did walk this path routinely when he couldn’t sleep. An officer stopped him, asking for his phone number so they will be able to call him if they find anything. Phil gave them his number, stuttering here and there. And so Phil walked home, the lampposts being the only constant light.
Phil stopped in front of his door, scared of what might be behind it. He hesitantly opened the door to his own house. Nobody was waiting for him, Kristen was still asleep in their room and the boys in theirs. Phil let out a sigh of relief, for some reasons he was expecting everyone to be downstairs ready to integrate him on what happened.
He climbed the stairs as slowly as he could without stopping, from anxiety or tiredness. Trying to reset himself at the front of his bedroom door. He pushed it open, half-asleep Kristen merely said a small ‘hey’.
When Phil took too long to join her in bed she looked up to him. Questions swirling her mind to find the reason that kept him. Phil could see her sit up straighter when she noticed his red eyes and tear stains. Rubbing sleep from her eyes she noticed he was shaking.
The whole situation made Kristen just get out of bed to join her husband in comfort. Dread filling her entire body.
An urgent “What happened?” was all that left her mouth.
“It’s Dre-Dream.” His voice stuttered from trying to leave. Kristen’s whole demeanor changed when she heard her son's name in his mouth. No longer unknowing worry, but now worry that a mother can possess.
“Phil. W-what about Dream, Phil” She said his name like it would invoke something in him. That he would be able to explain the past and the future immediately.
“I was walking, by the trail. Like I always do, an-and I saw him there! He was leaning against the rails, I was too late! Kristen! I-I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” Phil managed to slump against her shoulders, Kristen not noticing too much or caring. The whole thing is still processing in her mind and not being able to connect the dots that were so easily laid in front of her. It was a matter of if she wanted to connect the dots.
“N-no.” Now with her knees weak both of them slumped to the carpet in their room. Her arms lay numb beside her while Phil hugged her from the neck. “Dream?” She asked, wanting to be sure he was talking about him. Needing that reassurance that it was him, begging that it wasn’t. Phil nodding in her neck.
“Th- The boys, oh no.” Her crying made it so much harder for Phil to understand her, but her got the message. He didn’t answer, more like he couldn’t although he wasn’t sobbing as he was before words still weren’t able to form correctly.
Minutes passed, long painful minutes that took hours for them to register as minutes. Both of the adults now had red rimmed eyes and tracks down their cheeks. Looking into each other's eyes they nodded. They need to tell the boys right now.
Stumbling to their feet, each other helping the other in their footing. Kristen rubbed the wetness from her eyes to seem some part of her stable. Phil used his sleeve to do it.
They held onto each for as much as they could before silently deciding to split off to wake the kids. To wake them up in the middle of the night, just to tell them that Dream. Their Dream that they have known since elementary, some even younger that he was hurt. None of them thought about the other possibility.
The entire household that was living there was gathering in the living room. Kristen sitting at the edge of the couch, hand on top of Phil’s shoulder. Kristen had felt it upon herself to them, Phil had one through enough just as to see Dream jump.
Kristen opened and closed her mouth to say something, and whenever something came to mind the build up of tears in her eyes stopped her.
“Mom?” Wilbur asked, afraid of what happened to get his parents to this state. The other three opted to stay quiet as well.
Taking a deep breath in Kristen once again tried to start, holding her breath in for a second she started.
“Something happened, something bad. And there isn’t much we can do, but we have to be there for each other no matter, o-okay?”
This made everything so much worse, instead of trying to help things. Kristen made everyone get more nervous and worried.
“Dream- Dream got hurt, really bad and we don’t know- we don’t know what will happen.” Phil spoke. It made everyone turn to look at him.
“Dad we are not 5, what happened.” Techno said, even behind his hard voice there was an edge of fear and panic underneath it. It was only reasonable, although Dream and Techno weren’t always best friends forever they were close enough. Close enough for Techno to be a friend that Techno likes, unlike his friends he deals with.
Phil and Kristen were going to go on, a ring of a phone call vibrating in Phil’s pocket startled everyone. Phil rushed to pull it out and answer it, at the same time start walking to the kitchen for some privacy.
The boys and Kristen were now the only ones in the room.
“Kristen, what happened to my brother.” Kristen was even more scared to answer that, especially to Tubbo, Dream's brother. How were you supposed to tell someone his brother just tried to kill himself.
And finally admitting that to herself, that Dream tried to kill himself. That Dream let go off the rails to fall off the bridge, that he was betting that it would kill himself. Kristen could only close her eyes to hold back her tears.
“H-he jumped, I’m s-sorry Tubbo, I-i’m so sorry Tubbo, he ju-jumped.” Kristen managed to get through all of her crying. Tubbo went still, the only movement coming from his tears that fell from his face.
“You’re lying. H-he wouldn’t do that.” Techno refused to believe it, he just wouldn’t. There would be a universe where Dream tried to off himself. Why was he in the universe where one of his few true friends would try to kill himself.
“That’s not funny mom.” Tommy said, although tears were already falling from his eyes. He was gripping his arms almost painfully. Tommy and Dream had a playful relationship, bullying each other relentless. Tommy always enjoys their banter, and Tubbo tries his best to be a peacekeeper.
Wilbur didn’t say anything, the only thing going through his head was the memories of him and Dream hanging out together. When they would listen to music and sometimes make some music together.
And there was Tubbo, catatonic. The information that his brother, the brother he looked up to tried to jump off a bridge to kill himself. Thoughts that Tubbo was part to blame, that he made Dreams life hard, so much that he tried to kill himself.
Phil came back to the room. Looking worse than her ever has in his life, or as much as Kristen has known him. And knowing this Kristen feared the worst and at the same time knowing. Knowing that whatever he was going to say, there was no happy ending.
And so Phil finally spoke, “They found his body.”
“So he’s okay right?” Tommy asked, not wanting to be the only other optician. That if they found him, they found him alive.
“They found his body.” Phil repeated, begging Tommy would figure it out, not wanting to explain something so torturous and painful.
Tubbo could only murmur, “He’s dead.”
That finalized everything in print, that Dream wasn’t coming back. That Dream somehow managed to successfully kill himself. Why did he have to be so good at everything, why couldn't he fail at one thing. Just one thing.
Techno had tried to hide his tears, not liking people seeing him as vulnerable as he is now. Storming off somewhere in the house to be alone and deal with his pain by his terms. The terms that he could be able to have control over.
Wilbur was quite, sobbing fat tears as he stared at the floor. Nails digging into his skin, it wasn’t like he could feel the pain, the pain of Dream’s death numbed everything else.
Tommy yelling and screaming that they were lying and they had to be wrong. Kristen had rushed to hug him to try and muffle him while comforting him. Phil had moved over to bring Wilbur and Tubbo into a hug.
And Tubbo who wasn’t responding to anything, not to his name nor any movements. All Tubbo could do was be stuck inside his mind, running over everything that involved his brother.
Along the line they had all fallen asleep from the emotional exhaust. When they woke up no one spoke, they all mindlessly moved. Phil and Kristen got to organizing, as well as having to do the hard calls of calling Dreams friends.
Spanap had just hung up, but Phil heard the sob that he led out.
George must have forgot that Kristen was on the other side of the call, she had to end the call after minutes of crying coming from George.
Bad asked lots of questions, most of which Phil couldn’t answer and he himself wanted to know. The question of ‘why’ still rings in his head.
Ant stayed quiet muttering a small sorry before hanging up the phone.
The funeral was devastating, Phil and Kristen had taken themselves to do it. Everytime they tried to call schlatt; Dream’s father they were sent to voicemail. Dream was put into a suit, that even if he was alive would probably complain about wearing it. In the end tubbo had put a green rose next to dream.
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What was it about her that turned every man into a total prick in three months or less? Henry had started out a sweet, slightly nerdy, nice-guy. Then in just ten weeks, while he had been talking about moving in together just a few days earlier, he suddenly had a job in a city three hours away and was moving his furniture when he remembered to call and let her know he was leaving. Just like that. Gone.
The highway was pitch black heading to her sister's beach house. After the call, Erin needed some time away. She had four nights off from her nursing job, so she called Riley and asked if the house was available. Riley was six years older than Erin, and married to a stuffed-shirt, Wall Street type, but she always came through for her baby sis. This was no exception.
Erin had been to the beach house, balanced on its stilts a storey above the sands, last summer with Riley and her kids. She thought she remembered the way, but in the dark, she began to wonder if she'd missed the turn-off.
She slowed her little Tercel in order to peer at the roadside more closely, to see if she could identify any landmarks. There was a loud "pop" followed by an even louder bang, and the steering wheel ripped from her fingers to spin wildly. She slammed on the brakes as she regained her grip on the wheel and managed to get the car to the shoulder.
Resting her head on the steering wheel, Erin took a few deep breaths to still the hammering in her chest. She had never blown a tire before, but from the sound and the way the wheel behaved, she assumed that was what had happened.
She opened her door and stepped out of the car. The driver's side looked fine in the little light provided by her headlights reflecting off the high grass beside the highway.
Walking around the car to the passenger's side, she blew out a breath seeing her rear tire in shreds. Those tires were only a year old! She was going to have a fit when she got home, talking to the manager at her favorite garage.
Lucky for her, she had AAA. Crawling back in the driver's seat, she pulled the card and her phone out of her purse. Damn! No service! Now what was she going to do? She hadn't seen a car for about the last ten minutes. She tried to remember how far back it was to the last gas station, or convenience store, or anything really. She hadn't been paying attention, but she didn't think she'd passed any businesses in a long time.
A sound caused her to jump. It was another of those popping sounds she heard before her tire blew out completely. Great! Was another tire going flat even as she sat there trying to figure out what to do next?
She was about to step out of the car when she saw headlights come over the rise behind her and she remembered to flip on her flashers, hoping the driver was a good Samaritan, not a psycho killer.
An older Durango passed her slowly, pulling in front of her and dropping into park. A dark form of a man stepped out of the drivers seat and headed back toward her. A sudden wariness caused her to lock her door and roll her window down just a couple of inches. The man was caught in the glow of her headlights for just a moment. He looked normal enough, about six feet tall, muscular, dressed in jeans and a button down shirt. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the badge clipped to his belt. What were the chances of the first car along to belong to an office of the law?
"Good evening, ma'am," he drawled in South Caroline style, eyes down, wavy dark blond hair messy from the breeze, "Did you have an accident?"
"No, not really. My tire blew out and I skidded to a stop here," she explained.
"You're travelling alone, then?" he asked, looking around her into her car.
"Um, yeah. I don't have phone reception here, but maybe you could contact Triple A for me. They can send someone to change the tire and I'll be on my way," Erin replied, feeling a little nervous again.
"No need," he replied, yanking a mini flashlight out of his pocket and circling the car, looking both inside and outside, as if he suspected more than a simple blown tire.
Erin wasn't sure what he was looking for, or what he meant by 'no need'.
"I'm not very good with automotive repair, so if you'd just radio for a service truck...," she suggested, feeling vulnerable.
"Pop your trunk," he ordered, "I'll change the tire for you."
"Oh," she responded, suddenly realizing she couldn't open her trunk from in the car, so she was going to have to get out of her relatively safe spot.
As she unlocked the car door, she noticed the man had started scanning his flashlight beam over the grass near the car. As she got out and came around to the trunk, he ignored her and scoured farther afield. She popped the trunk and pulled up the mat to reveal the spare.
He continued probing the darkness while she stood there getting more and more nervous.
"Are you looking for something in particular?" she asked, "Are there wild animals or something?"
"No, ma'am," he said, turning back to her, "Let me get that for you."
He proceeded to remove the tire and jack, hoist the car, change the tire, and began to put the materials away again without saying another word.
She watched him, thinking he would probably be good looking if he ever smiled. His bone structure was a little heavy, but well-formed. His eyes were light, but she couldn't tell what color in the poor light of the little flashlight.
"Um, thanks," she said, almost with a questing in her voice, "That was really nice of you."
"No problem," he answered, still not looking her in the face. "You passin' through?"
"I'm actually looking for the road to take me out to Beachcomber Bay. My sister has a house out there I'm using for a few days," she answered, surprised he showed any interest in her at all, after hardly speaking or looking at her this whole time.
His eyes met hers and she stifled a gasp. His eyes were light green and silver, with darker green rims on the inner and outer edge of his irises, and the pupils swiftly went from pinpoints to wide pools and back again.
"You should go back home," he said forcefully, but not entirely unfriendly. There didn't seem to be a threat in the words, only advice, which for the life of her she didn't understand.
"Uhh, thank you again for the help," she mumbled, backing to her door and opening it just enough to slip in and close it behind her. She tried to lock it without being too obvious.
"You passed the Beachcomber exit back about three miles. Have a good night," he said, returning to his car as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
She waited while he pulled away. When his taillights disappeared over the next little ridge, she started her car. Checking the mirrors she pulled out into the road and did something she had never even considered doing before: she drove straight across the grass median between the lanes and turned back the way she had come. She didn't want to risk catching up with her strange Samaritan, and suddenly she needed a glass of wine and a hot bath worse than ever.
|
* * * * *
Angelina
I can't believe that I am sitting on the ground in this park after midnight, literally petting a wolf. His low growl brings my gaze back down to earth, and the look in his eyes is equivalent to hunger. It almost frightened me; except for the fact I knew he wouldn't hurt me. This beautiful wolf in front of me was going to be my mate! I had known since I was 18, but I wondered if he did. Could he tell that I would do anything he would ask me? Could he feel the heat rolling off my skin? Could he smell my arousal?
I stood up at the same time that he got on all fours. He was still trying so hard to look like a puppy rather than the glorious wolf that he was to not frighten me. I went and sat on the park bench to be level with his eyes. He came over to me and wedged his way in between my legs. Oh my god, I couldn't believe how wet I was getting just knowing that this wolf would soon claim me. Or at least I hoped he would. I know that he could smell my arousal because his nose twitched as he came closer to me. He touched his cold nose to my knee as he slide closer to me. My thighs started to quiver as he nose start to disappear under my skirt and then I felt something close to heaven.
"OH MY GOD!!!!!"
Joseph
The smell of her is intoxicating. I can't help but slide my nose up her dress. My head starts to spin and I fight to keep my wolf under control. Higher and higher up, I snake out my tongue and taste her through her soaked panties.
"Oh my god," I groan to myself, coming out in a strangled howl. The taste of her is the perfect mix of spicy and sweet. I press my tongue against her pussy, feeling her squirm. Pressing my tongue back and forth, feeling her panties soak under my tongue. I can hear her soft moans of pleasure, and I can't believe my ears. My dream girl is enjoying this. Does she have a thing for dogs? At this point I don't care. I just keep licking. I snag her panties in between my teeth and slid them down her legs, and she actually lifted that perfectly round ass of hers to help me get them off. She was definitely enjoying this.
I return my tongue and nose back to her pussy. Feeling her juices on my tongue makes my cock grow even harder. I keep telling myself to back off, that I might scare her but the wolf in my growls to take her. Make her mine forever! I slide my tongue into her hole slick with the juices dripping out of her tight little pussy. I turn my tongue inside of her to make sure that it touches every single inch of the hot walls contracting my tongue. As I slide my tongue in and out of her my nose rubs against her clit. My cock grows even harder and my wolf more eager to claim her as I hear the moans slip past her lips. I can't stop my self from licking her even more. My curiosity gets the better of me as I slide my tongue far enough under her to lick her perfect tight ass. She squirms but lifts herself up just slightly to give me better access. I slide my tongue in between her shapely ass to lick her from back to front, making sure that my nose keeps rubbing against that glorious part of her sex that seemed to make her more urgent in her need. As I continue to do this for the third time I am rewarded to the sound of her ecstasy filled scream as she comes so fast and so hard in my mouth it almost chokes me. I quickly accommodate this new found pleasure to swallow all of her love into me. God she tasted so good.
I feel her slowly push my head out from under her skirt. The look in her eyes is full of lust. She intertwines her hand in my fur leading away from the park bench farther into the secluded park. Far enough back she finds a clearing were she hastily starts to undress in front of me. I am scared to move a muscle in fear that I am dreaming all of this. Her body is glowing gloriously in the full moon. She drops to hear hands and knees facing away from me, wiggling her tight little ass as an invitation. She looks over her shoulder at me, biting her bottom lip, almost making me cum just in that small action. Then her voice calls out to me.
"Please.... I need you!"
I couldn't have stopped myself even if I had wanted to. I move behind her and pressed my all ready throbbing cock to her well lubricated pussy. Slowly entering her I am amazed at the tightness the surrounds my member. Even well lubricated she was difficult to get into. The reality of this tightness hits me. Oh my god.... she is a virgin. I growl almost torn between my human instinct to preserving her oblivious gift for a more appropriate time or my wolf's cry to claim her that instant and make her truly and only mine. I didn't get to chose. In my moment of hesitation, she planted her hands in the dirt and thrust her hips back against me, breaking past her barrier with a sharp intact of breath from the sudden sensation of my rock hard cock filling her new open pussy. I hold perfectly still and let my new found love the time to accommodate to my size. Slowly I feel her start to stir under me. I begin to move against her. Withdrawing on a few inches and then sliding back into her, pushing my wolf down to make sure that she had pleasure more than pain. The feel of her pussy gripping my cock was unbelievable. I can feel her pulling me deeper and deeper into her, as if to touch her very soul. My cock aching for its own release but not willing to do so without the satisfaction of knowing that it had done its job well.
Then I start to realize a change. I look down at my dream girl to see her start to shimmer. Oh my god is it possible. As she meets ever one of my thrust into her, I notice that her body starts to shift. Her all ready olive toned skin starts turning darker, almost matching the chocolate brown of her hair. She impales herself over and over again on my throbbing cock. Listening to her moan and whimper as she pushes closer and closer to her orgasm. I can feel my cock start to twitch and swell in anticipation for my own release. I look up at the moon to try to regain some control, but lost it when I looked down and in place of my dream girl was the most beautiful chocolate brown wolf I have ever seen. My senses snapped as I start to pound my enlarger and aching cock into her. I knew now what this meant. Wolves mate for life. Fuck... I hope she was supposed to be my true mate. She was. I could feel in every stroke, ever touch, every moan of hers. She slams back into my one last time before throwing her head up and releasing a howl so beautiful it was music in my ears. I slam into her on last time, my knot sealing us together, as my own release takes over and lean down and bit her neck to claim her as forever mine, and inn doing so sending her into yet another orgasm.
Slowly our breath turns back to normal and I realize that my dream girl was lying under me yet again. Wary at what to expect of do, she looks at me again. Those beautiful eyes showing nothing but love. How could she love me? She doesn't even know me. I pull myself together and gather my senses to my core to shift back into my human form. Her eyes look over my naked body. The look of hunger reignited in her eyes. Then she spoke words I would never have expected to her.
"Hello Joseph. My name is Angelina. I have waited a long time for you."
No other words needed. We embrace yet again and this time.... we both turned.
Face to Face with the Full Moon.
|
They travelled in a limousine, windows dark and bullet-proof, bodyguards nearby. Rupert had quickly made arrangements and shepherded Erin out of the council building with a promise that there was someone she had to meet immediately. He had refused to talk after that.
The city had dropped away and the houses were few and far between when the driver looked back at Rupert and asked in disbelief, "Here?"
Rupert nodded and pointed up a poorly maintained gravel drive into a stand of trees, bare of leaves but still dense enough to hide what was beyond the bend.
As the car bumped and jolted along the drive, Erin sensed the power that she had come to recognize as shields. She could also feel along the forest floor and sense the presence of animals watching the car progress along the drive in a way that didn't feel natural. Then she felt the tingle of a powerful being unlike anything she had felt before. Where was Rupert taking her?
Erin looked at Rupert almost fearfully, but his smile was one of delight, not triumph or menace. Whoever he was bringing her to meet, he was truly convinced the person was good. Erin reigned in her fear and tried to keep an open mind.
The car pulled to a stop before a small, well-maintained farmhouse. Rupert jumped from the car excitedly, holding the door for Erin. A small, black woman of indeterminate age came out on the porch, looking critically at them all.
"Alma!" Rupert called out as he bounded up the three porch stairs, pulling Erin along behind him, "This is Erin, our Queen!"
Erin wondered if this level of excitement was good for a man of Rupert's age, and she worried at the severity of the look Alma was giving them both. Alma did not appear happy to see them, regardless of Rupert's obvious excitement.
"Why are you here?" Alma asked in a low, quiet voice, staring angrily at Rupert.
"Be polite, Alma," Rupert enjoined, "Take your Queen's hand."
Alma reached out slowly, her petite hand covered in thin, delicate skin the color of weak coffee. Erin touched her hand gently, feeling the hum of Alma's shields ratchet up, and a tingle begin in her fingers that swiftly turn to an electric current. Erin pulled her hand back with a jerk.
Alma faced Rupert, her piercing dark eyes pinning him in place, his smile slipping away.
"Is this some kind of trick, Rupert? You know I don't want to be part of your council, never have, never will. Who is this girl?" Alma said, her low voice menacing.
Rupert faltered, trying to smile, but only managing a grimace. "She's our Queen, Erina, only she goes by Erin now. I swear Alma, she's a channeler."
Alma's gaze turned toward Erin, looking her up and down. Alma slowly paced around Erin, surprising the queen when she touched her at the nape of her neck. The flow of energy was palpable, but not uncomfortable. Alma continued to move around until she again faced Erin.
"When did you know?" Alma asked, those dark eyes never leaving Erin's face.
"Not until this morning, when Rupert told me about those who could channel the power of, well, everything." Erin stammered.
Alma turned her eyes to Rupert and he nodded, a smile again starting to lift the corners of his mouth.
"Then come inside, girl. There is much you need to learn," Alma said, turning and heading into her home.
Rupert waved Erin ahead of him into the small sitting room through the front door. The room was neatly done in a style consistent with an earlier era, but quaint and comfortable. Erin followed Alma to a love seat where they both sat, turned slightly to face each other.
"Your power is far greater than anyone thought. The ability to tap into the energies of the Earth, and of people around you, makes you a formidable fairy. You are the first channeler in the royal family in centuries, and this ability is probably what saved you when the rest of your family was killed," Alma explained.
Erin sat quietly, letting this information sink in. She was different. It had been a shock to find out she wasn't human, but at least she had been a fairy, and had people like her with whom to associate. Now she was different from them as well, and from what Rupert had told her, she would be feared by the very people who she sought to bring together and rebuild a peaceful society with. She shuddered at the prospect.
Alma spoke again, but this time her voice was soothing, gentle, "You are in a position to change things for all fairies, regardless of their shape or powers. You are poised to create the society many of us have dreamed of for hundreds of years. You need to learn how to use this power to bring about a new order, to end rivalries, and reduce fears. Is that what you want?"
Erin simply nodded, her eyes tearing up at the sheer magnitude of what faced her.
Alma turned again to Rupert, "I just put on some water for tea. I'll bring that in for the two of you while I go pack a bag. I guess my statement about never joining your council may have been a bit overblown after all." She shrugged and left for the kitchen while Rupert reached out and took Erin's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"It will be all right. You'll see," he said, smiling at Erin.
********
The days passed in a blur while Erin learned about Fairy society, the current state of affairs, and her own powers. Nights were a little quieter, held in Luka's reassuring arms. He had only smiled broadly at the revelation of her abilities, showing no sign of the fear Erin had dreaded. Many others had not accepted it so easily.
The councilmen that Erin had released from service were trying to raise support to oust her from power, and with the discovery of her new powers, several other councilmen had joined them, some even calling for her to be placed in a special jail to reduce her threat. Luckily, most of the council remained committed to Erin and to the effort to integrate everyone back into one society.
A meeting with Riahn and her congress, as she called it, was announced. It was to be held at a conference center that had been built in the middle of nowhere and abandoned by the humans, a perfect venue for the new government. The Fairy council purchased the building along with close to a thousand surrounding acres, thereby assuring that fairies of any shape could attend council meetings.
The meeting was still three weeks off, but Erin was nervous and wanted to be on-site as the new government center was arranged. Security was increased at the new site so Erin could remain there.
Just a few days after arriving at the new government headquarters, Erin heard a ruckus from outside her window and turned to see what had her normally quiet security detail yelling and arguing. What she saw caused her to jump from her seat and run down the sweeping staircase and out the front doors.
"Garrett!" Erin screamed, "And Sophie! I'm so happy to see you! I hadn't heard from you all since the rescue, and no one seemed to know where you had gone."
The guards stepped away from the wolf pack they had been trying to displace from the front gates at the sound of their Queen's voice. Garrett and his crew entered the property, looking it over appraisingly.
"Nice digs," Garrett said, waving his hand to take in the building. "It's a super idea to have the council out here," he pulled Erin into a hug, "I knew you would do the right thing."
Erin hugged him back, then hugged the rest of the pack as well. "Where have you been?"
"Evading Riahn, mostly," Sophie answered. "Her goons followed me for days, and she had teams after Garrett and Ron, too. We led them on a merry chase cross country before dropping out of site for a week or so until they gave up. But how about you? There's something different, a glow about you."
"Well..." Erin hesitated, "a lot has happened."
"Hello!" Luka called out from the doorway of the council building. "How about you all come in from the cold?"
The group moved inside for more handshakes and hugs as they joined Luka, as well as Luka's father and Nigel. After settling into one of the conference rooms, Garrett gave a full report of their evasion of Riahn, and Erin brought them up to date on the changes in the council.
"But I really want to know about you," Garrett probed, looking intently at Erin, 'Something is different, and I don't just mean the mating. For one thing, your eyes are even more striking than before: A Caribbean blue laced with glittering silver."
Erin blushed, still not used to the bluntness of the Weres.
"I found I had a bit more power than we originally thought," Erin admitted, "but I thought I was keeping it under wraps pretty well. I guess I'll have to work on that some more before the meeting."
"A bit more!" Garrett exclaimed, "it smells like a volcano-more, not a puddle-more."
Erin looked confused and Luka explained, "Children coming into their powers are considered puddle-jumpers, meaning they have a little power that they aren't very good at controlling. From that term, some people have expanded to refer to powers as levels of natural power, with volcanoes being the highest amount of controlled power, while tsunamis are tremendous power out of control. Channelers are often feared as tsunamis."
"You're a channeler?" Sophie asked in awe.
"It would seem," Erin answered with a shrug.
Everyone just stared at Erin for a few moments before Luka broke the silence. "We have a meeting with Riahn's people scheduled for a little over two weeks from now. With you here, we can start really working on the plan. So far we have a number of the rebels in agreement with our reintegration plans, but a lot of them won't commit until they hear from you. I think they suspect we have you in captivity, but now that your whereabouts are clear, we can move forward."
Shaking his head as if to clear it, but still unable to remove his eyes from Erin, Garrett agreed, "certainly. Let's get these alliances built, because we know Riahn isn't going to agree. The only way to bring our people back together is to go behind her back. Do you really think she'll come to the scheduled meeting?"
"No," Luka replied, "but we have a plan for what we do expect. Let's order some lunch and we'll get you up to speed."
********
That evening the Council held a banquet to thank the pack for their roles in helping Erin escape the rebel camp. Erin expressed her gratefulness, and her regret that the Spirits of the Woods who had initiated the escape had been captured, and vowed they would be released as swiftly as possible.
After the banquet, most of the council members departed and many of the pack went to get some rest in real beds for a change. Garrett and Sophie remained with Erin and Luka, just talking and enjoying one another's company.
Luka began to notice that Sophie touched Erin more often than she touched either him or Garrett, and since Weres were known to be heavy touchers, it was quite a bit. As they all sipped wine in front of the fire, Sophie's touches seemed to last longer, turning into strokes and caresses. Luka was surprised to find it made him a little hot to watch Sophie seduce Erin, and to watch Erin's muted, but still present, responses. Erin leaned into Sophie's touches, occasionally reaching out to touch or stroke her in return, and smiled a sexy, languorous smile at her over time.
"I'm beginning to think there might be some details about the escape that I never heard about," Luka stated when they were all well lubricated on the wine.
Erin blushed, so Luka knew he had guessed correctly. He pinned Erin with his vivid green eyes and found hers were nearly silver, with dark blue outlining the irises. Interesting!
Sophie leaned in to Erin and whispered something in her ear. Erin turned and the two women began to kiss, first lightly, then with more passion. Luka found his jaw dropped and his cock hard.
Garrett softly cleared his throat, drawing Luka's attention, but the women continued their making out.
"You know Weres use scent and taste to recognize and evaluate one another," Garrett stated by way of explanation. "We all got to know Erin during our escape," he continued, putting up a hand in mild defense as Luka's face turned stormy, "but only Sophie became intimate..." he hesitated, "well, intimate by Were standards," he finished sheepishly.
Luka still looked angry, but he couldn't maintain the feeling when he turned back to Sophie and Erin locked together, hands exploring. Erin looked up from nibbling Sophie's neck and raised her eyebrows questioningly at Luka. He gave a slight nod and moved to sit behind her where he slipped his hands around her to begin to unbutton her blouse.
Garrett watched as Luka lifted Erin's blouse from her shoulders and unhooked her bra before asking, "Do I get to play as well?"
Sophie smiled and crooked her finger to draw Garrett to the area behind her. He sat and began the same moves on her.
As Sophie descended to take one of Erin's nipples into her mouth, Erin threw her head back onto Luka's shoulder. He nibbled her neck, then whispered in her ear with a grin, "I never would have suspected you of having such sexual appetites."
Letting out a breathy moan as Sophie sucked her nipple deep into her mouth, Erin responded, "I guess my many years of enforced sexual repression are to blame," before turning and capturing Luka's mouth in a deep, sensual kiss. Keeping his eyes open, he watched as Sophie sucked and nibbled Erin's breast, finally reaching up to cup the other breast and twirl the nipple between his finger and thumb.
Sophie trailed licks and kisses down Erin's ribs, across her stomach and to the edge of her slacks while Garrett caressed Sophie's back, running his fingers lightly down her spine and just inside her waistband. Sophie deftly opened Erin's pants letting one finger trace down her lower abdomen to her lacy panties before turning and starting to open the buttons on Garrett's shirt.
Luka gently tugged Erin to a stand and slipped her slacks over her hips to puddle at her feet. As he began to pull her toward the bedroom, Erin leaned down to brush her fingers under Sophie's hand, motioning her to follow them.
Once in the bedroom, Erin disrobed Luka before pushing him playfully to sprawl on the bed. She wiggled out of her panties before climbing over him. She felt a hand stroke over her butt and down the back of her thigh, sending a shiver through her. Luka quickly flipped her onto her back and began licking the shell of her right ear, lightly flicking his tongue across the sensitive skin.
Warm hands began to massage Erin's left foot as cooler fingers drifted up the inside of that leg. Those teasing fingers would reach her upper thigh only to turn and caress down the top of her leg. Each stroke came a little closer to her aching center, but never actually reached it. All the while, Luka's silken tongue found the spots on her ear and neck that would make her moan and gasp, revisiting each one until she was ready to scream.
The drifting fingers coasted smoothly over Erin's lower lips and onto her belly, making a circle that brushed the underside of her breasts, then returned to the skin over her pubic bone. Erin thrust toward the fingers, trying to encourage them to touch her hot center, but they continued a path down her right thigh.
Luka continued his teasing licks across Erin's collar bone, then around her right breast, finally lapping at her nipple in short, inflaming flicks. Erin grabbed the hand currently caressing her belly and pulled Sophie to her lips for a deep kiss.
Luka's hand trailed down to between Erin's thighs, lightly stroking her silky soft labia, then dipping into her wet center to swirl the slickness up and down her slit.
Garrett was the first to notice, being behind Sophie, nibbling her back and flicking her nipple with one hand. The air seemed to buzz with energy, and he could feel a tingle like a low-amperage current wherever he was in contact with Sophie. The current stopped when Sophie pulled away from Erin briefly to look back at Garrett.
"What's wrong?" Sophie asked quietly, placing a hand on the side of his confused face.
"Touch Erin," he ordered gently, with no further explanation.
Still watching Garrett's face, Sophie laid a hand on Erin's upper chest, stroking lightly toward her breast, and quickly jerked back.
"What is that?" she asked, reaching again to stroke Erin's arm and again pulling back.
Luka lifted his head from Erin's chest, smiling slyly, "Since Erin connected to her Earth powers, she hums with energy when she feels pleasure. It's quite stimulating."
Seeing the pleasure on both Luka's and Erin's faces, Sophie leaned in for another kiss, and Garrett waited only an instant longer before pressing up behind Sophie to become part of the circuit.
Sophie growled softly, deep in her throat as Garrett's hard shaft rubbed along her butt. She arched her back making the angle easier to access, but Garrett wanted something a little less sedate than laying on their sides, and he shifted, pulling Sophie's ass into the air and entered her from behind.
The sound of wet friction was too much for Luka. He moved over Erin's hips, spreading her thighs, but leaving her kissing Sophie. He hesitated long enough to really take in the erotic site of Garrett taking Sophie from behind while she continued to kiss Erin with relish. He felt the pulse of energy in the air, as well as the soft zing wherever his skin contacted Erin's.
Brushing his cock up and down Erin's slit, Luka hummed with the energy she emitted. Sliding deep within her, he had to concentrate not to embarrass himself as he had the first time he experienced this new power. It was amazing, to be sheathed in silky heat and to feel every cell vibrate with the energy Erin channeled! Luka began to move, slowly at first, gaining speed as her ground against Erin's luscious body.
Erin met Luka's thrusts with abandon, simultaneously dueling tongues with Sophie. This experience, of having another couple in her bed, and of sharing her experience with another woman, was wildly erotic and she felt her orgasm building the moment Luka entered her. Within a minute her first release pounded through her body, spreading to the others as waves of pleasure.
Gritting his teeth, Luka pressed deep into Erin, moving very little, until the force of her orgasm gentled and he was in control of himself again. Judging by the collapsed couple beside them, the power of Erin's release had been too much for Sophie and Garrett and they lay panting and spent.
Erin began to respond again to Luka's insistent rhythm, her hands playing over his chest, swirling his tiny nipples and tracing his ribs. With a moan he lowered himself to capture her mouth, nipping her lips and caressing her tongue. Her nails down his back made him rear up, only to return to her neck intent on laving every sensitive spot.
Erin panted, mewling softly as Luka sucked her earlobe into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue. The electricity between them was increasing. Luka increased his thrusts as he whispered his love into Erin's ear. When he suddenly sucked a nipple into his mouth, it put Erin over the top, and with a deep moan her tight channel convulsed around him, dragging him over the precipice and together they cried out their pleasure.
*************************
Erin loved to run in the early morning. Now that full security was finally in place, she could indulge herself on the many acres surrounding the new Council Chambers. Her pedometer showed she had jogged almost three miles when she stopped at a small lake to watch the sun crest over the trees at the horizon.
It was a cold morning, the grass crisp with frost, and the forest floor eminating the rich aroma of pine needles: a perfect time and place to clear her head from all the mess of the last six weeks. Unfortunately, Erin could feel the presence of intruders and knew the calm beauty of the morning was soon to be shattered.
Swallowing down the bile of anger and fear that threatened to rise into her mouth, Erin turned from the rising sun and watched the still dark forest around her. She liked having the lake at her back. It gave her a sense of security knowing that her enemies couldn't easily come at her from behind.
She bit back a smile that threatened to give too much away as she grounded her feet solidly and felt her fingers twitch with the energy of the land. 'Bring it!' she thought to herself, 'there's no time like the present.'
One by one Weres began to emerge from the trees. Several were large cats, their graceful gait full of contained power, and the rest were wolves, slinking along the tree-line, teeth barred, occasional snarls and low growls emitted from their throats. Once the Weres had her surrounded on the land, other beings began to materialize from the gloom: Spirits of the Woods, Elementals, and Fae. A quick estimate put their numbers at around eighty, significantly more than Erin's security force. She shuddered, but covered it by drawing calm from the placid water behind her.
Riahn strode forward, coming to within twenty feet of Erin before stopping. The look on her face was pure malevolence, her smile one of triumph.
"You are the stupidest royal in a very long line of stupid royals. Did you really think those shields were strong enough to cover more than a hundred miles of border? We breached them with hardly a twitch," Riahn began, pacing. "And to think it was this easy to track you and find you alone! Have you no sense at all?"
Erin remained silent, shielding her mind from those who were trying to breach it for information.
"We got your insulting invitation to sit down and negotiate," Riahn continued, "but I much prefer to take what I want by force. I have no interest in equality of representation," she spat out, "Were's and Elementals are the strongest Fae, and we intend on making the rules from now on."
"Really? Are you sure about that?" Erin asked, sarcasm slipping in even though she tried to keep it smooth. "My impression is that all Fae have strengths -- and weaknesses. I have come to believe we are only truly strong when we stand together."
Riahn covered her ears in exaggerated horror. "Listen to the platitudes! You sound like those weak humans that espouse non-violent protest and equality for everyone. There is no equality! You are only as strong as you are, and will only achieve what you want by taking it!"
Erin looked around at Riahn's gathered forces. She felt anger radiating from many, but there were those who seemed to be listening to her, so she addressed them, "Do you all agree? Do you each have enough strength to individually get what you desire for yourselves and your families?"
"Don't talk to them!" Riahn demanded. "I am the queen of this people, and you will speak to me only."
Erin turned back to Riahn, "But I am finished talking to you."
Riahn appeared abashed, then furious. "Who do you think you are to stand here, alone, surrounded by my people, and dismiss me? This war is over and I have won."
Erin smiled. As much as she tried she couldn't keep from gloating, "Really?"
Riahn glared, turning to the wolves she communicated telepathically and four large beasts moved forward and circled Erin. Riahn looked at a particular Elemental and said, "Now!"
The lake began to roil and a water spout formed, arcing and surrounding Erin before stilling and appearing as a glass dome over her with the wolves still pacing the inner perimeter.
Erin continued to smile, benevolently now.
Riahn let out a snarl before ordering, "Kill her!"
The wolves actually looked confused for a moment before two of them turned and started toward Erin. Erin continued to look mildly at Riahn as the first wolf lunged and was deflected without so much as a twitch from Erin. The wolf yelped pitifully as it flew at the wall of water and was deflected back to the ground where it landed with a heavy thud. The second wolf went for Erin's ankles, only to act as if an electric shock sent it flying back toward the water dome.
Riahn looked utterly confused, but snarled a new order at the elemental, "Drown her!"
The water began to implode toward Erin before she smiled again and the water was suddenly absorbed into the ground. The two wolves that had not attacked her backed away, teeth barred.
"I believe some of your so-called congress are interested in an egalitarian society," Erin began casually as she swept her arms out as if to hug the entire group. A buzz of energy surrounded them all, emanating from Erin's outstretched fingers. Riahn looked stupefied.
Erin's forces melted out of the forest and stepped casually into the electrical field, raising their arms as if to join hands around the perimeter. They glowed softly as they posed themselves equally along the field.
"You had the opportunity, Riahn, to bring this division to a peaceful end and possibly avoid many of the consequences for your actions, You chose to continue to use violence. Anyone who has not committed a crime is welcome to join us now with no retribution. Those guilty of acts of violence against Fairies or humans will stand trial and receive punishment for their crimes. It is time to choose."
The beings within the circle looked confused, glancing toward Riahn, then Erin, then the strange energy field surrounding them. An Elemental hovering near Erin moved first, bowing to Erin before stepping backwards into the force-field where he glowed softly like the others. Several others followed his lead and did like-wise.
A Were turned abruptly and bound toward a gap between the Fae encircling them. As he leapt to cross the circle a buzzing preceded a sizzling sound as the Were was thrown back into the circle, fur scorched and smoking. He landed in a heap and another Were rushed forward to nose at him, whimpering over his dead body.
"The guilty will pay for their crimes," Erin repeated simply.
The remaining Fae within the circle sat or lay upon the ground, submitting to the superior power of Erin and her forces. Riahn did not.
With a roar and a flash, Riahn turned into a panther and lunged at Erin, claws extended and mouth open in a terrifying scream. A collective gasp went up from everyone present, and, as if in slow motion, they watched as the large cat flew at the Queen. Erin shook her head sadly and closed her eyes just as the panther twisted in agony and plummeted to the ground, broken at her feet.
Erin gazed at the once majestic beast, a steely resolve in her continence. When she looked up at the remaining beings within the circle she saw true fear.
"You are all under arrest. You will be interrogated and go to trial. Your punishment will be decided by a panel of judges composed of every race of Fae. Do not resist and no one will be harmed." With that the force field dissolved and the security forces gathered the remaining Fae and began to lead them through the forest.
Several of the members of Riahn's group who had joined Erin in the circle began to come forward with questions, but Luka discouraged them from approaching the Queen now, telling them there would be a statement released shortly that would answer most of their questions.
Erin stepped forward and glided to her knees in front of the broken panther. She reached out a hand and stroked the silky fur. "What a waste," she murmured. "May the glory of the Fae always be protected from the avarice of a few." She continued to pet the dead leader as she cried softly.
************************
Within the week, everyone who wished to be had been evacuated from the rebel camp and situated on Council lands. One Were pack remained in the old camp, choosing to make it their home, and a family of Spirits remained as well. Several of the Were packs that had relocated to Council lands had applied for loans to start their own compounds nearby. Erin was strongly encouraging the very rich Fae to make those loans as a sign of good faith.
Franco returned to the Council. He forgave Erin for leaving him behind, even though she continued to feel awful about it. Even after his experience as a captive of Riahn's forces, Franco led the push to reintegrate all of the Fae into one society with equal rights and privileges. He declined a position as a judge for the war crimes tribunal, stating his role as a witness for the prosecution would involve him more than enough in the process.
Erin had been surprised by the willingness of the Elementals to come under her rule. She had learned that Elementals have a solitary nature, seldom socializing even with others of their own race. Because of this, their numbers were very low. They seemed pleased that all the new government asked of them is to keep them updated on where they chose to live, and to maintain secrecy from the human world. Beyond that, they had freedom their kind had been denied for centuries. It made some of the Fae nervous, but it made Erin very happy.
Elections would be held in June for a new council made up of representatives from each race. Erin hoped that eventually the elections would be truly free and open, not divided by race, but for now, this was a place to start.
Erin sat in her desk chair, turned looking out the window at the snow covered forest where the sounds of hammers cut the brisk air as members of her kingdom built homes on the lands nearby. When hands slid down her chest and a warm breath brushed her cheek, she sighed and closed her eyes.
"It's time for my Queen to take a vacation," Luka spoke softly beside her ear. "I have our tickets booked. We leave tomorrow for the Caribbean."
"Tomorrow?" Erin jumped, "I can't leave now!"
Speaking forcefully, Luka replied, "You will never think it is a good time to go. We leave tomorrow."
Erin started to argue, but realized Luka was probably right. Shrugging, she stood up and wrapped her arms around her mate, nuzzling into his neck. Nothing about their courtship and mating had been normal, but Luka insisted they take a honeymoon and act like regular people for a week. If she was honest, there was nothing she would rather do.
"All right, my love. We leave tomorrow."
Amazed at her capitulation, Luka swept her up in his arms and headed for their rooms, ignoring the shocked faces and giggles in the hallway. Closing the door behind him and locking it, he set Erin back on her feet.
"What was that all about?" Erin laughed.
"As of five minutes ago, you were relieved of your responsibilities to the kingdom," he said with conviction, "Your only responsibility for the next eight days is as my wife."
Erin couldn't help but laugh at the stern face Luka was giving her.
"So you don't take that responsibilities seriously, huh? We'll see how seriously you take them after I've tied you to the bed and tortured you for a few hours," he continued, scooping her up again and heading for their bedroom.
They both knew Erin was stronger, magically, and that keeping her tied up would be her choice entirely, but at this point, neither cared. Finally it was their time, and they didn't plan to waste a minute of it.
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Thanks for reading and don't forget to vote!
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Settled in the huge soaking tub, glass of wine in one hand and the phone in the other, Erin laughed at the whole situation with Riley.
"Those southern cops can be a little intimidating, but wow, you got the cream of the crop!" Riley said, "I'm glad you got there safe. You set the alarms, right?"
"Yes, I set the alarms the minute I got inside," Erin responded in that "duh" tone she always took with Riley when she tried mothering her.
"Okay, then. Have a good time. Call me if you need anything, otherwise, call when you get back home Friday. Love you."
"Okay, sis. Love you, too," Erin said, then clicked off the phone and set it on the floor.
She hoped someday to have a big garden tub in her bathroom like the one she was in, and the view of the beach from the huge window over it was nice too.
She sipped her wine and leaned back, letting the hot water soothe away some of the tightness in her shoulders that had started with Henry's phone call, and only progressed with getting lost and having the flat tire.
She could laugh about the policeman now that she was safe in her sister's beach house, but at the time, it was super creepy. She wondered if the local police had any remedial customer relations courses she might suggest he sign up for. Still, he was really kind of hot, if she thought about it, dark and broody, with that strong body.
Just thinking about the police officer's body sent a shiver through Erin's body. She stroked her own breasts, wondering what it would be like to have a real man in her life. Her relationships always seemed to end before they moved into the physical phase.
She was pretty embarrassed that at twenty-three she had only reached third base a couple of times, and never actually had sex with a man. Twirling her nipples between her fingers, she felt the warmth gathering between her legs.
Gently massaging her breasts, she looked critically at her body. At five-eight and 136 pounds, she was built pretty well. Her breasts weren't huge, but they were nicely shaped, and a generous handful. Her abdomen was flat and flowed smoothly into her trimmed mound.
She trailed a finger down her belly and into that cleft between her legs. A moan slipped from her lips. She wasn't a prude. She'd love to have a boyfriend that found her irresistible, that couldn't keep his hands off of her.
Rubbing tiny circles around her clit, she imagined the cop strolling in to her darkened bathroom, slipping into the water with her and taking over the actions that would bring her pleasure. Rubbing harder, she imagined him taking her in the water, never saying a word.
Her back arched and she came quickly, immediately feeling silly for fantasizing about a guy that creeped her out, and obviously had no interest in her. She really needed to find a boyfriend that wasn't interested in respecting her.
The hair on the back of her neck started to rise, and her arms, sitting out on the side of the tub, got goosebumps. She opened her eyes, turning immediately to look out the huge window beside her.
She had left the shade up, thinking it was too late in the season for many people to be out on the beach. None of the houses had been lit up on the street when she came in. Now, as she scanned the sand for whatever had given her the feeling of being watched, she wished she had pulled the shade, or maybe just used the shower.
There was no one in the swath of light coming from the spotlights attached to the rear of the house. She squinted into the darkness and thought she saw a dark shape, but told herself it was nothing but her imagination. She blew out the candles that were providing the only light in the bathroom and surveyed the beach again.
A figure, barely visible in the outer reaches of the light, definitely moved toward the water to the south of the house. She watched closely, but it became stationary again, and she started wondering if it was just something blowing in the wind that got caught up on a pier or whatever.
She shook herself. It was just a spooky kind of night for her, and she needed to pull herself together.
She leaned until she could reach her towel, holding it up toward the window as she rose, quickly wrapping it around her and stepping from the tub. She was in such a hurry she slipped, landing hard on her hip. Glass shattered and she wondered through her pain what she had knocked down in her fall.
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes hoping she would be able to get up without getting cut on whatever she had broken, but there was no glass around her. She pulled herself up, testing her right leg tentatively. It held. She turned to look around the tub for the broken glass.
The window behind the tub had a hole the size of a pizza pan in it. How in the world had she managed to send something flying through the window three feet above the tub?
Shards of glass lay all over the side of the tub. That didn't make sense. If she had sent something flying through that window, the glass would be in the driveway below. Something had come through the window from the outside!
She looked around the tub, but didn't see anything. Reaching in the tub, she carefully swished her hand back and forth in the water, raking the bottom of the tub. She came up with three shards of glass, but nothing else.
She rose, confused. Something came through that glass. She turned, reaching for her robe on the hook. In the dim light, she thought she saw a spider on the wall, and jumped back. Coming closer, she saw it was something embedded in the wall.
Turning, she looked from the thing embedded in the wall toward the window and beyond. It suddenly became crystal clear. The shape on the beach had shot at her!
Fighting dizziness and nausea, she leaned against then slid down the wall. Sitting in the dark bathroom, she tried to piece together what had just happened. It occurred to her, if she hadn't slipped getting out of the tub, she would probably be lying on the floor in a pool of blood right now.
Why? Why would anyone shoot at her? She was a nurse at a mid-sized hospital in a mid-sized city. There was nothing special about her: no money, no intrigue, not even a boyfriend who might be in some kind of trouble!
She suddenly realized she might still be in danger. What if the shooter was breaking into the house to finish the job?
She crawled across the floor to the phone she had put down earlier. When she clicked the talk button, she breathed a sigh of relief to have the dial tone buzz in her ear. She dialed 911 with shaking hands.
"911. What is your emergency?" a nasally, gender-non-specific voice said, almost making Erin laugh, her nerves thrumming.
Whispering, Erin explained, "I was taking a bath and thought I saw someone out on the beach. I was getting out of the tub and slipped. When I got up, I found the window shattered and what I think is a bullet in the wall."
The nasally voice responded, "So you think a trespasser shot through your window at you?"
"Yes," Erin whispered.
"Are you injured?"
"No, I'm fine," Erin hissed, "can you send the police to check it out?"
"Of course. I have the address as 84 Palmetto, in Beachcomber's Bay. Is that correct?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's it," Erin answered.
The phone line clicked off. Erin, worried the line had been cut, poked the talk button and got the dial tone again. That was weird. She thought the 911 operators usually stayed on the line with you.
Keeping the phone in her hand, Erin crawled to the bathroom door before standing and trotting down the dark hallway to the room she had her things in. She quickly dressed, and still clutching the phone, headed downstairs to wait for the police to arrive.
Within a few minutes, a car cruised down the street slowly, pulling into the driveway. It wasn't a police car. In fact, standing beside the window and peeking around the curtain, Erin was pretty sure it was the same car that had pulled off the highway to help her!
The same man got out of the car, badge still attached to his belt, and walked to the front door, where he knocked loudly.
Erin wasn't sure she should answer it. This night had been too strange, but how could he know about the 911 call unless he was a real cop? She relented and went to the door.
She opened it, expecting him to be surprised to see her again, but he barely nodded to her before walking into the hall. She closed the door after quickly glancing around outside.
"You think a gunshot broke a window?" he asked, flipping open a notepad.
Didn't this guy ever introduce himself?
"Yes, upstairs in the master bathroom," she said, starting up the stairs. She led him to the bathroom doorway, but once there he grabbed her arm and indicated she should stay where she was.
He entered the room, pulling out his flashlight rather than turning on the light. He shined it at the window, then following the probable line of fire, moved to examine the wall.
He used a penknife to dig the slug from the wall, turning it over in his fingers before slipping it into his pocket.
Erin wondered if there was any procedure in place for this sort of thing around here, since the actors on the crime shows never handled evidence bare-handed, and they put everything into those little evidence bags, not their pockets. She got that prickly feeling again.
"Did you see anyone?" he asked, peering out the window again.
"I may have," she answered, but at the quick look he gave her, amended, "I saw something move, way down the beach, but I couldn't tell if it was even a person."
He strode out of the bathroom and down the stairs. He didn't say a word, but swept on through the house to the terrace doors. Opening them, he stepped outside and looked up and down the beach. He seemed satisfied there was no one still around. Abruptly he returned to the house, locking the door behind him.
"This place have alarms?" he asked, scanning the room.
"Yes. They were on until you came. And everything was locked," she replied, trembling again that he had the same thought she did.
"Must think he got you then," the officer said, moving around the room, checking windows, pulling shades.
"Wait! What?" Erin asked, confused, "Why do you think that?"
"Because now that they've found you, they won't stop until you're dead," he said simply, moving to the dining room, still checking locks.
"Who's 'they'? And why would anyone want to kill me?" Erin faltered, real fear taking hold.
"There's a lot you don't know, and I can't tell you all of it," the man said, still stalking the house methodically, "You aren't a normal human, and the people who want you dead aren't either. You should have taken my advice and gone home."
"Who the hell are you?" she screamed, grabbing his arm and pulling her hand back just as suddenly. He was very warm, and his muscles were rope-tight and quivering under her grip.
"Let's just say I've been watching you for a long time and expecting this to happen," he said, turning away. Then under his breath, "Though the council said it wouldn't."
"Who's the council?" Erin asked, wishing he would stand still.
"Can't tell you."
"Who wants me dead?"
"Can't tell you."
"What am I if not a human?"
"Can't tell you."
"What's your name?" she asked, getting ready to mouth the words 'can't tell you' along with him.
"Luka," he said, finally turning and looking at her. His eyes were that striking silver-green, and in the semi-darkness they seemed to swirl and change. She refined her opinion of earlier, even without a smile, he was handsome, in a dark, almost sinister way. She shivered, not sure if being with him was any safer than being alone.
"You aren't a police officer?" she half-stated, half-asked.
"Not really, no," Luka answered, still looking straight into her eyes. "But I am your protection."
"My protection," she repeated vaguely.
He took her by the shoulders, giving her a little shake. "I know this is all new, and confusing, and I can't explain much, but you have to believe me. You are in danger! If we're lucky, whoever shot at you thinks he got you, so no one will be looking for you for a little while. We need to use that time and get you someplace safe."
She felt faint looking into his eyes which seemed to darken as he gazed at her. How could any of this be true? He had admitted he wasn't a police officer, and that was what she needed. She broke away from him and headed for the phone on the wall. As she lifted it, he pulled it from her grasp.
"Who do you think you're calling?" he demanded.
"The police. I've been shot at," she started to explain dazedly, like she was piecing it together for a child, "you call the police when someone shoots at you."
"The police can't help you," he said, hanging the phone back up.
She picked it up again. He just stood there with his hands resting on his hips. She dialed 911. It rang.
A simple, old-fashioned phone ring-tone emanated from Luka's pocket. He pulled out the phone and said, "911. What is your emergency?" in that nasal voice.
She hung up and immediately dialed her sister's number. His phone rang again. She hung up again. She dialed her own home number, fingers shaking, eyes growing large with fear. His phone rang again.
"H-how can you do that?" she asked, putting the phone back and trying to calculate how to get out of the house and away from this madman.
"Does it matter?" he asked, still looking into her eyes, standing calmly in her sister's kitchen, hands on hips, fake badge at his waist.
She shook her head slightly, backing away. "Who are you really?"
"I told you, I'm your protection. Now get your stuff, we need to go," he answered, following her slow retreat to the hall.
"Sure. I'll just go up and get my bag," she said, starting for the stairs.
He grunted and went to the door, peeking out a sidelight. He turned back to her as she started slowly going up the stairs backwards. "Hurry up! I don't know how long it will be before they realize you aren't actually dead."
She turned and flew up the stairs. She grabbed her bag, then decided it might slow her down, so she just pulled her purse-strap over her shoulder and headed for the upper terrace off the master bedroom. As quietly as she could, she opened the door, slipping out into the slight chill of an autumn night. She ran down the steps, hugging the outer edge of the stairs and ducking as low as she could to scoot around the lower terrace landing and on down to the driveway below. Glancing at the beach, she put her car key into her door and threw herself into the driver's seat, but as she pulled the door shut, something stopped it, and she looked up to find Luka standing beside her, grip tight on the door.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, face showing the edge of his anger.
"Let go of my door!" Erin demanded, kicking at him and hoping her sudden show of bravery might surprise him enough to get him to let go of the door. It didn't.
"I want to show you something," he said calmly, swinging the door open and beckoning her with one finger. When she didn't move, he pointed down, and still holding the car door, he started to kneel.
She hesitated, but finally moved out of the car and squatted down.
He pointed to a tiny light glowing under the dark car. "Want to know what that is?"
Heart sinking into her stomach, she turned to him, eyes huge.
"That's a bomb. And if you had started your car, it would have ignited the gas tank, taking you, your car, and the entire house down with it," he explained in the voice of a kindergarten teacher explaining why hitting is a bad way to handle a disagreement.
She stood up, teetering a little. She started to reach into the car for her purse, but stopped herself, scared to even rock the car at this point.
Luka roughly moved her aside, holding onto her arm, and leaned in grabbing her purse. He shoved it into her hands, then turned, grabbed her bag which he must have carried down, and tugged her up the driveway to his car. Opening the passenger door, he nudged her into it, then threw her bag in the backseat and walked around to the driver's side.
She didn't say anything for a long time while he drove east, sticking to the deserted highways and state routes.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked eventually.
"A place I know. They won't know you're alive for a few more hours, and with any luck we'll be there already. Once there, they won't be able to find you through the charms," he answered, giving her more information than he ever had, while still saying almost nothing.
"How will they know in a few hours? If they're watching the beach house, they already know, and if they aren't, how will they find out?" she asked, confused and exhausted.
"They'll be monitoring your life force. If it doesn't fade in the next few hours, they'll know the hit wasn't successful. Then they will start trying to find you again, so you have to be somewhere they can't penetrate with their magic."
"Magic?" she laughed, and it threatened to turn hysterical, but she settled herself down again. "Magic? Like voodoo and abracadabra?" she asked dismissively.
"Real magic. They can't kill you with magic, you're too strong, but they can use it to find you, and bullets and bombs kill just as effectively," Luka answered, looking at her intently. "Don't you feel it? The magic? Haven't you noticed how things tend to go right for you all the time?"
She immediately thought of Henry. And Chuck before him. And John, and Justin, and Derrick. No, she didn't really feel like things went right for her so very often.
"No," was all she answered.
Luka shrugged. He seemed happy enough to forsake conversation, so she rested her seat back and tried to piece together the information she was going to need when she got away from him and found the police.
And she was going to get away.
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Than has a habit of saying one thing and then doing the complete opposite. Normally this is the kind of behavior that would lead to a few aeons under Meg’s whip, the one specially reserved for oathbreakers, but with Thanatos, it’s not like that. He doesn’t lie, at least not intentionally.
He tells Zag that he thinks his attempts to escape the underworld are childish and selfish and stupid, and then risks his career—arguably the thing about which he cares the most—to help him do it. He speaks impatiently of the mortals he shepherds, but the shades of the House whisper respectfully about him, if not fondly. Mother Nyx tells Zag that the gentle death Thanatos promises frightens mortals. For most it’s a rest, a reward, a reunion, but they don’t know it yet, and so there are no temples to Thanatos on the surface, no offerings or festivals as there are for the other gods.
Humans, Achilles once explained, spend their lives trying to keep death as far away from them as possible. Even the Olympians tread widely around him, knowing, as Zag does, that it is Than who will outlast all of them, Than who will collect and guide their souls when the time comes. To Zag this is a comfort, the surety of returning to the arms of his oldest friend, whose prickliness is second only to his loyalty, whose kindheartedness is rivaled only by the quiet restraint in which he hides it.
This is to say that when Thanatos heaves a tired sigh and says “Really, Zagreus?” upon finding him in the temple, Zag tries not to take it personally. He gets where Than is coming from, but it’s not his fault the temple’s in an extreme state of disrepair, or that its priests have such good aim. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, in this case—high off his ass on satyr venom and half-buried in a pile of rubble is not the least dignified Than’s ever seen him.
“I bet Meg does this stuff recreationally,” he tells Than, squinting up at him. Glowy in the dusty beams of light that streak the chamber, Than looks like some kind of nymph. “Does—does she? Oh, gods, do you both? Like, together? You should, you need to unwind,” he says, reaching up a hand or three to smooth away the frown lines creasing Than’s brow. He misses, by a lot. Than’s hair is very soft.
“No, Zag,” says Than. “Megaera and I do not ‘do’ satyr venom recreationally.”
Zag’s mind has already pitched onwards. “Forbidden goat juice,” he realizes. “I gotta tell Dionysus. He has satyrs too but he says they’re different. You look nice in... the sunlight.” Breathing has become a labor that requires constant effort and attention. Than’s face does something complicated before disappearing from his vision entirely.
Zag bites back a desolate noise and redirects the weird, fuzzy energy filling his veins towards lifting pieces of masonry off his legs. He has to go kill his dad. Many things have become blurry in the past however-long-it’s-been, but he’s managed to hold on to this one certainty with the tenacity of Cerberus’s middle head.
“Ugh, this well is dry,” Than reports when he comes back into view. “Oh, no, what are you doing.”
“Not a great job,” Zag admits, because he is at least self-aware. One of his hands is occupied, clasped over the enormous puncture wound in his neck opened up by the dart that fired the venom. It’s difficult to move stone with only one arm, and also he thinks that hand might be broken? Everything is turning green, green, green.
Than makes a sound that, from anyone else, might be a sound of concern. Zag assumes he has gotten something stuck in his throat.
“I’ve never seen you like this,” he says, tongue thick in his mouth. “In the—in the daylight, I mean.” He doesn’t want to stop looking.
“Yeah, this is new for me, too.”
“But you go to the surface all the time,” Zag says, confused. “You’re always—you go guh-dong and then you go up there. Here.” Than is mouthing guh-dong silently but Zag barrels on with all the verbal articulacy of a chlam. “You, and Meg, and—and Tis, and ugh, Alecto, and Nyx, and your brother—”
Than covers Zag's mouth to cut him off before he can begin listing every single person they know, for which Zag is grateful because he’s depressing himself and also running out of breath. “You all come and—and go,” he explains, once Than removes his palm. You all come and go, and I stay here. This is something he doesn’t even want to talk about, much less to Than, but to his growing horror he finds that he’s unable to stop. His hand hurts, and the hot liquid flowing down his neck hasn’t staunched the way it usually does, and something feels very, very wrong in the region of his lungs. He has no idea how much of that he said aloud. Than’s face, his warm, patient eyes, offer him no hints.
Zagreus has had a lot of deaths and most of them have been unpleasant. Meg makes it fast, when he loses their fights; in Elysium, the exalted sometimes give him the courtesy of a mercy kill if it looks like he’ll take a while to go. Otherwise there’s usually some choking and panting and the occasional wet sob, but mostly there’s a lot of waiting, and a lot of pain. Even his father prefers to leave him where he falls, fingers clawing lines into the dirty snow beneath him. Sometimes he can roll himself over and look up at the sky. This one feels like it’s going to be one of the worst, but Than is here, and the sunlight, so maybe—
“Does this count as… a gentle... death?” he manages, or thinks he does. His hearing’s going, too. From the darkening corner of the chamber, a carved snake watches them.
“It can.” Than finally sits down, next to him like they’re just two friends waiting for the river.
“What do… you do,” he asks. “For them.” For mortals.
Than shifts, brushing one night-cool hand over Zag’s fevered forehead and into his hair. Zag blinks up at him, dragging his unfocused gaze away from the serpent. Than looks back with infinite patience, infinite kindness, each as terrifying and reassuring as the other.
“It’s alright,” he says, and Zag has no choice but to believe him. “You can close your eyes.”
Zag closes his eyes and the snake disappears, the temple along with it. Than stays. Zag feels a kiss pressed to his brow, a thumb ghosting a careful line under his left eye. “You better not... do this…. for all the mortals,” he tries to say.
He doesn’t need to see to know that Than is smiling at him. “I’ll see you at home,” he says, and then the river arrives to its ruined temple, and Zag lets himself go.
|
Anakin Skywalker was dead.
It had been true from a certain point of view when he'd told Luke on Tatooine, and now, with the destruction of the Death Star, it was even more so. There were multiple sources of Imperial intelligence placing Darth Vader on the Death Star in the hours before it's destruction, along with Princess Leia. They were both dead.
The spies had said he'd interrogated her before the station had blown. Had that been the last thing he'd ever done? Torture his own daughter?
Obi-Wan tightened his fists and tried to be relieved that the Sith Lord who had terrorized the galaxy for so long was gone, but all he could feel was empty.
"Ben! Ben! Have you seen this?!"
Obi-Wan turns around, tearing his eyes away from the blank spot in the sky where days before there had been a moon-sized battle station to see a sandy-haired boy jogging towards him.
"Luke," he says, voice coming out sharper than he intends it to. "I am pleased you are enjoying Alderaan, but if you're here to tell me about another plant or fountain, I will be forced to remind you that I have visited green planets before."
Luke's grin is impervious to his sarcasm. "No. It's the news from Tatooine."
Obi-Wan bites back a comment about the only newsworthy things to ever happen on Tatooine being people dying in podraces and record-setting moisture yields.
He was dismissive enough of his first Padawan's emotions, and he's never been able to stop wondering if being less cutting in Anakin's youth would have led to him being less mistrustful in those last days. He will not repeat the same mistakes twice.
"What is it, Luke?"
"Someone's overthrown Jabba!"
Obi-Wan's brain momentarily freezes.
Excuse him, someone had done what?
"And it wasn't even a crime lord! The news says they're organizing democratic elections."
That… that can't be right. Obi-Wan has always kept an ear close to the ground while guarding Luke on Tatooine. He would have known if there was some sort of revolt brewing.
"Luke…" he says carefully. "It's not uncommon for criminal governance to hold rigged elections for the sake of a cleaner image."
Less common, since the Empire, but still far more likely than legitimate democracy on Tatooine.
"No!" Luke shoves a datapad into Obi-Wan's hands, shaking his head emphatically. "Look at this! They already have an interim queen and she's a twilek slave girl. Or was a Twilek slave girl, because they also have a constitution and slavery is illegal now!"
Obi-Wan stares at the screen. There is, indeed, a constitution, and he numbly opens it and begins reading.
It's a real constitution. A good constitution, and one that seems oddly familiar, too, like he's read it before…
Bail agrees.
"It's the Nubian constitution," he says, when Obi-Wan asks him. "The old Nubian constitution, from before the Empire--though it looks like it's had several sections of ours grafted in as well. And there are a few… other sections that seem distinctly... Tatooinian. I'd guess those were added by someone else, probably their interim queen. You said she was a former slave."
He looks to Luke, expression contorting. "And you said this was written by a couple of bounty hunters?"
Luke shrugs. "That's what the news outlets seem to think? There's not a lot of information on the people who did it." A look of curiosity crosses his features. "What do the Tatooinian sections say?"
"They include a lot of extremely specific and harsh punishments for certain crimes relating to slavery, including vengeance killings and executions by both rancors and something called a Sarlac" Bail grimaces. "I'm not sure I want to know what that is."
"You don't," Obi-Wan agrees.
"Huh," says Luke. "I wouldn't have expected that from Queen Oola. I mean, execution, maybe, but she doesn't seem like the type to be that… brutal."
"We'll have to look into it when we get back," says Obi-Wan, stroking his beard. "I know you… approve of this, Luke, but whoever did this is an unknown. Their motives could be less benevolent than they appear."
Luke nods, bouncing, and assures Obi-Wan that of course he knows that, he's not an idiot, while Obi-Wan's fingers tighten around the datapad.
He can't tell if it's his paranoia and grief playing tricks on him, or if the force really is trying to tell him something, but there is something about this.
Anakin is dead, he knows. Has been dead for years--but everything about this feels like him. Tatooine. Freed slaves. A Nubian constitution and a girl who used to dance for Jabba as a queen.
It's everything he would have wanted. Everything he had planned, once, before the war and the Jedi and the chancellor had broken down his hope so completely there was nothing left. All of it together, happening just days after Vader's death can't be a coincidence.
Obi-Wan puts it down to the cruelties of Force, instead.
***
In the beginning, Leia had thought that whatever she was doing with Vader might be something akin to starting an independent rebel cell with only two people, but freeing the slaves of Tatooine could not be more different from the Alliance.
The Alliance had been all secrets and espionage. Lives had hung in the balance, but there hadn't been much outright brutality, not until that last day where they'd been caught with the plans. On Tatooine, everything is closer. She sees tracks of tears cutting clear paths over dusty skin, sees so many beings shot that the bright lines of blaster fire burn behind her eyes even when they're closed.
She doesn't like the executions, but she doesn't find them quite as horrifying as she thinks she should. It's hard to, after seeing a child blown to pieces in front of her eyes, after meeting his mother in the next town--sold, two years before--and hearing her sobbing screams when she learns of her son's death.
That woman executes her son's killer herself.
The part of Leia that is Alderaanian hates it but the part of her that has always been blazing fire and hunger for justice wouldn't stop her if she could.
Vader himself gets stranger the longer they stay on Tatooine.
He seems to belong to the deserts in a way that he distinctly shouldn't. He slides into place here like it's where he was always meant to be, as much a part of the landscape as the sandstorms and the cliffs. Leia is an outsider, as much as she is a beloved one. She doesn't speak Huttese, doesn't understand what it means to share water or recieve a Japor snippet or take back your freedom for yourself. Vader, somehow does.
It's unsettling to watch all the things that made him Vader in her eyes drop away so easily. He still carries his lightsaber, but there comes a day when Leia realizes she hasn't seen it turned on in weeks, opting instead for the beat-up blaster rifle he'd brought along in order to comply with the strict method-of-execution laws he'd forcibly added to the constitution. And his accent, the heavy, Imperial Standard meter that has pronounced judgement impartially on countless worlds, loosens into a thick outer rim drawl in a matter of weeks.
The accent is… disconcerting. Despite the deep bass and mechanical edge and diction that still sounds like it was drilled into him at an Imperial Center diplomatic academy, it still sounds human in a way she's not quite able to square with him, even having traveled with him as long as she has. It's all wrong, and Leia finds herself searching harder and harder for the reason the Dark Lord of the Empire can fit in on Tatooine and she can't.
She finally finds out when they get to Mos Espa
"You can't kill me!" the wrinkled old Toydarian gasps as Vader drags him to the square to stand with the others in this town who are marked for death. "I've never detonated a transmitter!"
Vader laughs, low and bitter. "Then it's a good thing ripping families apart also merits execution."
The Toydarian's jowls wobble as he shakes his head. "I've never sold a family apart!"
One hand, at Vader's side, curls into a fist, and Leia has a feeling that if this weren't already an execution, the Toydarian would be choking to death.
"Shmi Skywalker," Vader says, voice ominously steady. "You sold her son to Jedi thirty-two years ago. You had full opportunity to let them take them both, but you refused."
"You have no proof!" the Toydarian shouts. "You can't kill me over ancient allegations!"
Vader shoots him.
Leia gapes. Gapes at the holes burned through the Toydarian's chest--three of them, the mark of vengeance-for-family. Gapes at Vader, as he casually slings his blaster rifle back onto his back.
Suddenly, a couple of things make a lot more sense.
Tatooine feels different.
He can see it in the people--children play along the edges of the streets, their shouts and laughter freer than he's ever heard it, and adults in scrappy clothing walking through the market with a a new straightness to their spines--but he can feel it in the force, too.
It isn't lighter, exactly. The air is too full of violence for that; still tangled with impressions of fear and hatred and death along with burning, fiery hot exhilaration, but he can tell that it will be, in time, the tight, salt-soaked knots of misery that have always festered beneath the surface finally cut.
No. There is still darkness here, but the force ebbs and flows in a strangely balanced tide, the deeper parts of the dark settled like a sleeping krayt dragon while the light thrums with energy--refreshingly alive in a way Obi-Wan hasn't felt since he was a crecheling.
"Luke!" A high pitched voice yells "Luke!"
Obi-Wan turns, just in time to see a small Zabrak girl, probably only six or so years old, throw herself at his new apprentice.
A faint oof escapes Luke as he catches her, but he recovers quickly, smiling crookedly down at her as he remains his balance. "Hi Chella."
"Look at this!" she raises her arm and beams up at him.
Obi-Wan is confused for a moment why she's showing him an empty arm before he sees the thin white scar line slicing across the girl's wrist. It's straight and surgical, and it only takes a second to realize what it's from--a slave chip removal.
Luke notices a second earlier than Obi-Wan does and laughs, sliding his hands beneath her arms before lifting her into the air and swinging her in a circle.
"We were freed by a princess!" the girl says after he sets her down, bouncing on the balls of her sandaled feet. "Me and mommy both! She had funny hair that looked like pallies on her head and she was almost as pretty as Queen Oola! I gave her a Japor snippet!"
Luke ruffles her hair, careful of the nubby horns that peak out through the brown curls. "I bet she really appreciated that."
The sounds of the market go distant, and Obi-Wan's eyes snap to the girl. "A princess," he says, throat dry.
"Mhm!" Chella's head bobs up and down in a nod. "A princess of a whole planet!" She straightens her back. "I can't be a princess ever because Tatooine doesn't have one, but when I'm grown up I'm going be queen."
Luke laughs. "I'm sure you will be."
"Chella," Obi-Wan says, voice tight. He has a very bad feeling about this. "What planet was this princess from?"
She screws up her face, lower lip poking out into a pout. "I think it was called… Aldrenn? Idunno. But she came here! To make a democracy!"
Alderaan. Obi-Wan's heart stops for a moment.
Leia.
He thinks a part of him had known it from the moment Chella said she'd met a princess, the force murmuring in his ear, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. Hadn't wanted to think about what it meant if it was true.
Because if Leia had made it off that station--
There was only one person who could have gotten her out that quickly.
Only one reason he would have done it.
"Alderaan," he says weakly. "The planet is called Alderaan."
"Wasn't the princess of Alderaan the girl from the hologram?" Luke says, voice rising with confusion. "Didn't she die on that massive battle station?"
"No," Obi-Wan says, slowly shaking his head. "I don't think she did."
Vader must have found out somehow that Leia was Anakin's daughter. Tortured it out of her, something in his mind whispers.
He winces.
Leia wasn't supposed to know the truth of her parentage any more than Luke was, but there must have been something Vader had found while rooting through her mind during that interrogation that had tipped him off. And once he'd found that…
She would have been an obvious choice for a new apprentice.
Leia had strong shields, but there would be no hiding her immense potential in the force from Vader once he realized who her father was. He must have chosen to take her and run, rather than take her into the Inquisitorius where she'd be in easy reach of Palpatine. The Death Star--that'd probably been him--a declaration of war between him and his former Sith Master.
He'd probably done it himself. He would have had access to the plans, and the trench run that had seemed so suicidal to the resistance's pilots during the frantic minutes the Death Star had hung over Alderaan would have been easy as breathing for him
--Or--the thought hits Obi-Wan like a stream of icewater--he'd made Leia do it.
Obi-Wan hadn't seen Leia face to face since she was small, but he knew from Bail how passionate was, how completely and totally devoted she'd been to the Alliance, and he remembers how brightly the force had burned in her as an infant.
Anakin had blown up a droid control ship from the inside when he was nine. If Leia was even half as attuned to the living force as he had been, she could have done it.
And if she had done it, under Vader's guidance, she would have done it with the Dark.
He forcefully pushes that thought out of his mind. He knows all too personally just how fast and sudden Falling can be, but Leia isn't Anakin. She hasn't been raised in slavery or spent more than half her life under the personal attentions of a Sith Lord or had her mother die in her arms.
She also hasn't been trained, another voice in his mind whispers.
He silences it.
The only piece of it all that doesn't fit is why Vader would bring her to Tatooine. Why the two of them were freeing slaves, out of all things.
Obi-Wan's eyes flicker back, against his will, to the little girl's wrist, and a vision of a nine year old Anakin a few days into his apprenticeship, eyes lit up with excitement as he shows Obi-Wan the scar on his sternum where Master Che had removed his chip, crashes into his mind with so much clarity it physically hurts.
He closes his eyes and tries to force it away. He can't attribute Anakin's motives to Vader. It will only lead to foolish mistakes, and that's not something he can afford, not with Leia's soul on the line.
"Chella," he says, crouching to look at her at eye level. "Do you know where we can find the princess? Her father is very worried about her."
She shys away from him. "You're lying."
Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow at that, wondering for a moment if the child is force sensitive. A quick probe shows that she isn't, but her mind is wreathed in a thick cloud of suspicion nonetheless.
"Why do you think he's lying, Chella?" Luke asks gently, also dropping to his knees.
Her guarded expression doesn't budge. "Because he is."
"I met the princess's family on Alderaan," Luke says. "They were sad she was gone."
"Not her father," Chella says, folding her arms across her chest. "The tall man with the armor and the droid breathing is her father. I figured it out."
Luke starts to shake his head, but Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and places a hand on his shoulder.
"Chella," he says, turning his eyes on her. "Do you know what adoption is?"
Chella's head dips, shaking a no.
Luke makes a choking sound and spins to look at him. "Wait, what?"
"Sometimes a baby doesn't have parents to take care of them," Obi-Wan says, ignoring Luke for the moment. "So someone else chooses to take care of them and become their parent instead. That's what happened with Leia. It wasn't safe for her birth father to take care of her, so she was given to someone else." He meets her eyes. "The father who raised Leia loves and misses her very much."
Luke continues to gape. "And her birth father is Vader?"
"Yes," he bites out.
It's a lie as much as a truth--as far as Obi-Wan is concerned, Leia is Anakin's, and only Anakin's. Vader had given up any claim he had to the twins when he choked Padmé half to death on Mustafar--when he'd proven--definitively--that there was nothing more important to him anymore than his Sith Empire, not even his family.
Obi-Wan still doesn't understand it. He isn't sure he will ever be able to understand it. Not from Anakin, who would have died, gladly, for any of them. Who had loved more violently and intensely than he'd ever done anything else.
Vader isn't Anakin.
He is a Sith, and Leia is power, and he will have tried to claim her, the same way he had tried to claim her mother. As much as Obi-Wan hates it, it would be stupid to assume neither of them will mention it when he and Luke track them down, and he can't do anything to put Luke's trust in him at risk. Their stories have to match.
It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
Chella's eyes light up at the answer. "I knew it! Tilii didn't believe me, but I knew! He acts like her father!"
Obi-Wan shakes his head. "The man in the armor is very dangerous. We need to find Leia so we can help her get home to the father that cares about her."
Chella scowls at him. "Well I think they both care about her. And her Alderaan father had his turn already. So she should stay on Tatooine."
"Chella," says Luke. "Darth Vader is a bad man. He… he killed my father."
Chella winkles up her nose. "Your father must have been bad, then. He's scary but he only kills bad people. Like slavers. And people who hoard water."
Luke purses his lips. "I promise we won't make her come with us if she doesn't want to," he says softly. "But her Alderaan family is missing her a lot. We need to see her so we can tell them she's okay."
The little girl looks back at Obi-Wan for a long moment before seemingly making up her mind. "...Mos Espa," she says, turning back to Luke. "She said they were going there next."
When night begins to fall, and it's time to find somewhere to stay the night, Vader leads them back to Watto's shop.
He can tell the moment Leia recognizes where they are because she stiffens, glancing again over the looming shelves of scrap and spare parts.
She bristles. "You can't seriously be intending to spend the night here."
"It is uninhabited."
She shoots him a baleful look. "It used to be inhabited."
Vader almost laughs. As if Watto's junk shop would be enough to drag up any kind of useful trauma after nineteen years spent living in Mustafar. "I am not bothered, young one."
She scowls at him. "I'm not so sure I believe that, Skywalker."
Vader tenses.
If this conversation had happened two months ago, he probably would have thrown her through a wall for daring to speak that name, but he's self aware enough now to realize there's some truth to her words.
He's spent the last nineteen years being the antithesis of everything Anakin Skywalker ever was. Had thought he'd crushed that part of myself too thoroughly for it to ever come back.
And then he'd gone and thrown away everything he'd ever done for the Empire in a single reckless maneuver because his emotions had gotten the best of him, and if that wasn't an Anakin Skywalker move, he didn't know what was.
He's still struggling to process it. This--running around on Tatooine of all places, helping a known rebel establish a democracy--is not what he'd thought he wanted. He is a Sith Lord. Sith Lords don't create governments for other people to run, or free slaves, or let impertinent young teenage girls order them around.
But Vader has. Is. And, as he searches himself, he can find no source of hate or powerlust strong enough to make himself stop.
He loves this. He loves this and he hates it, because he'd thought himself too strong for love, thought he was past being ruled by his attachments and his past as a slave and it turns out he is neither.
He thinks, maybe, in spite of all his power, he never stopped being Anakin Skywalker.
He's not sure he cares. For all he'd sacrificed, it's not like being Vader had ever been better.
"It is fine, child," he says, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch upward behind his mask. "There are places on this planet that carry far worse memories than here."
Leia folds her arms over her chest. "There's still no reason to stay here. There are plenty of people who'd be happy to host us."
There probably are--have been, in every other town they'd visited--but that's beside the point. "We are not here only to sleep."
"Oh really?" she says. "And why else are we here, then? Privacy?"
"R11 requires modifications," he says, striding over to the nearest shelf of parts and beginning to scan it for anything useful-looking. "I refuse to work with an astromech that isn't equipped with rocket boosters."
It's not the full truth--there is more he wants to upgrade than just R11, but he almost doesn't dare say the rest of it out loud.
He's worn the suit for so long now it almost feels like a part of him. Vader is the suit--is superhuman strength and looming height, machine and death and faceless darkness.
Anakin isn't Vader anymore.
He picks up a component from off the shelf, thumbing away the faint layer of sand, and particles of grit cling to his gloves.
It's going to take more resources and time than they have right now to do anything more than the basics--there's a lot he won't even be able to touch without proper medical facilities and a med-droid--but his prosthetics are terrible enough that even in a junk shop on Tatooine there are things he can improve.
***
Leia wakes in the middle of the night to the cold, slithering feeling that something is wrong.
Her heart throbs in her ears as she stumbles out of bed, beating with an unexplained urgency, and an image flashes through her mind, clay and sand and desert-night cold. It fades as soon as it comes, disintegrating into nothing but the sensation of fear and pain.
She throws off her worn blanket, feet landing on the gritty surface of the floor before she's even fully awake, stumbling out the door and out the hall. She knows without knowing that there's still time, but not enough of it, slipping away like sand through the neck of an hourglass.
They have to go. Now.
A dim light illuminates the hallway, coming from the one room still awake, and Leia follows it. Vader. Good. She's not sure what he's still doing awake so late at night, but it's good that she won't have to wake him.
Stalking into the back room, she blinks her eyes a few times to adjust to the brightness. R11 is there, plugged in to a power source but still activated, and Vader is bent over a work table practically buried in metal and scrap, piled up so high it partially blocks her line of sight.
He moves, stepping around the table, and Leia has to choke back a shriek because one of his arms is gone.
"You should be asleep," he says, a faint note of disapproval in his tone.
"Why are you missing a limb?" Leia hisses, voice a choked whisper.
"It is cybernetic," he says, picking up a mechanical arm from off the table.
Leia stares at it for a moment in mesmerized fascination before pulling her gaze away. "How long will it take you to get that back on?"
There's a slight tilt of his helmet as he prepares to answer, but Leia cuts him off, deciding she doesn't care. Vader missing an arm is still enough of a menace to suit her purposes. She swivels on her heel, marching towards the doorway. "Never mind. We're leaving now. Grab a weapon."
She feels a heavy hand on her shoulder, pushing her to turn around. "There is a speeder behind the building. It will be faster."
She pushes his hand away, grabbing a blaster from the edge of the table. "Fine. Show the way."
He doesn't talk, thankfully, as he leads her outside. It's not til they've both climbed into the vehicle that he asks her where they're going.
She closes her eyes for just a moment, before blinking then open again and jabbing her finger eastward.
His head swivels to face her, and his hand on the controls of the speeder stills. Even without being able to see his eyes, there is the unshakeable sensation of them burning into her.
"Why are we going there?"
"Instinct," she forces out through gritted teeth."Very strong instinct."
His gaze bores into her, helmet tilted ever so slightly in the way she's begun to learn means examination.
Anakin wordlessly follows Leia's directions as he guides the landspeeder through the streets, pausing just long enough for her to give him a terse nod left or right every time they hit a split in the road. Her fingers are tightly clenched in her skirt, knuckles white, and she doesn't hesitate at all in her judgements.
The path they take is all too familiar.
It's been years, but Anakin remembers every turn on the way to the Most Espa slave quarters from Watto's shop. The shape of every building. The angle of every street. There's a part of him that expects Leia to command him right back to the doorstep of his old home, and he's almost confused when she doesn't, guiding him instead to one of the neighboring dwellings.
A shout rings from inside, followed by a scream.
Leia makes a move to run to the door, but Anakin raises a hand to stop her, throwing it open with the force, and two blaster shots fly out, the first going high over both their heads. Leia jumps out of the shooter's sightline, but Anakin doesn't bother to move, letting the second glance off his armor.
Standing inside the door, a Weequay woman stares at him, blaster still smoking in her shaking hand.
Behind her, a bulky twi'lek with an electroprod stands over a dark haired human man. A trio of children with matching coloring cling to the human man's legs, shrinking into his shadow.
"Put down your weapons," says Anakin, breath hissing through his respirator as he stalks through the door.
The Weequay woman drops her blaster, stumbling backwards far faster than she should with a blaster rifle still trained on her.
The twilek is cooler, slowly taking a step backwards before easing his fingers off the electroprod and letting it fall to the ground. Anakin doesn't miss the tightness in his knuckles and the anger writhing around him in the force.
It's the kind of hot, red hatred that calls for vengeance that had become all too familiar since he and Leia had started hunting slavers. So many of them seemed to think they'd been robbed, and had the simmering hunger deep down to retaliate accordingly. It was probably hypocritical of Anakin to be so disgusted by that, but he, at least, had never felt like he had a right to own another sentient. He'd always known it was something fundamentally evil, even if as Vader he hadn't cared. Had forced himself not to care, because if he had, maybe he would have realized sooner that Anakin wasn't dead.
Leia steps in through the door behind him, blaster poised to shoot. "Who are you?" she asks, face twisted in a scowl.
"More slaver scum," Anakin answers for them.
The Twilek man's face twists. "You," he sneers. "You think you can come in here and do whatever you like, but it won't last. Do you think the rest of the syndicate won't come after you?"
"Oh, they will," says Anakin coolly. They haven't yet, either because they're still looking for an entire organization, or because they're still trying to stem the blood flow from all the operations he'd cut off at the knees when he'd killed Jabba. But they would come for him eventually. "They will not be successful. And it will be far too late for you."
The twi'lek does a good job of not showing his fear, but Anakin can feel the twisting stench of it in the force anyways. Good.
"You are under arrest for assault and attempted kidnapping," Anakin says, tone blank. "Do you dispute these charges?"
The human man straightens up, shoulders still tense, and shakes his hair out of his face. "You can add attempted murder."
There's something oddly familiar about him. Too familiar for him to just be one of the former slaves they'd helped free. The dispersed edges of his force presence lick at Anakin's as if looking for an old bond.
It takes Anakin too long to realize that's because it is, and when he does, he stiffens.
There aren't many traces of the boy he remembers in the face of the man before him, but based on where they are, based on the way he feels...
It's Kitster. Kitster Banai.
As soon as he thinks it, he knows it can't be anyone else. As a young padawan, freshly ripped away from Tatooine, Anakin had longed to see Kitster again far too much to forget him completely, in spite of all his early lessons on 'letting go' of attachments. He'd spent too much time dwelling on his visions of returning, daydreaming of the day he'd go back for him and his mother and everyone else he'd known and unchain them all.
There's a twisted part of him that still wants the happy reunion he'd imagined then. It's stupid. He knows that if he'd come here before Leia, if the emperor had sent him to Tatooine and he'd come across Kitster and recognized him then, he would've killed him. He doesn't care, not that much, but…
He'd told Kitster about that dream, before being taken by Jinn. Told him he would come back for him. But first he'd been a Jedi Padawan that was too attached, and then he'd been a Jedi Knight who was fighting a war, and then Anakin had failed, and Darth Vader had had no room for dreams.
He wonders how long Kitster had waited for his childhood best friend Anakin to come back as a Jedi and free them all before closing the door on the idea. If it had been after the purge, when news finally came to Tatooine that all the Jedi were dead, or if it had been before. During the war, perhaps, when the holonet was flooded with images of Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker, fighting for the rotten, sick, thing that was the republic at the head of an army of slaves.
He could have left the order then. Should have, as soon as he'd finished his training. It was what he would have done had he not forgotten what it was like to be that little boy on Tatooine. Become a Jedi, his mother had said. He'd become a Jedi. He'd gotten what he'd joined them for, and then he should have gone home.
He's always known what his destiny was, and it was this. Freeing Tatooine. No Sith. No Jedi. Just the sand, and the desert wind, and the bodies of slavers at his feet.
Anakin doesn't say anything to Kitster after taking the slavers outside and executing them. There are two parts of him warring internally, one that can't bring itself to speak and one that wants to scream out who he is. That wants to pull his lightsaber off his belt and ignite it and say the name Skywalker and see Kitster's shocked face. It seems wrong on some level that Kitster doesn't know. But the mask is a wall between them, and Anakin says nothing.
Kitster doesn't want to know everything that's happened to Anakin in the last thirty years. Anakin doesn't want to tell him.
He's still only beginning to realize just how much he's lied to himself over the last nineteen years. He'd been so focused on progressing as a Sith, on power, and for what? So he could play out some grand revenge plot against the Jedi?
The only power he'd ever wanted was the power to save Padmé, and the Sith had failed in that every bit as much as the Jedi had. He should have left Palpatine as soon as he'd woken up after Mustafar.
"What happened to your arm?" Kitster asks.
"It was under repair," Anakin says. "Didn't have time to put it back on."
"You knew to come here."
"The princess did. She only brought me along."
"The princess." Kitster stirs the title in his mouth. "I'm surprised you're not more careful about throwing that title around. There are rumors."
Anakin shifts, and his armor creaks. "What kind of rumours?"
Kitster hesitates before speaking. "Rumours about a dead core princess and an Imperial enforcer"
Anakin's skin prickled. "Where did you hear this from?"
"Oh," Kitster's voice is light, but his eyes are still dark. "You know. You gather things. It's not hard to figure out she's the Alderaanian princess if you pay attention to talk. Neither of you have been very subtle."
"And me?"
Kitster doesn't blink. "Not everyone on Tatooine is entirely ignorant about the higher ups of the imperial military."
Anakin raises an eyebrow behind his mask. "Among the slave class, they are."
The corners of Kitster's mouth curl into a bitter smile. "I had special reason to care."
It feels dangerous to ask, but Anakin does, leaning forward slightly. "And what was that?"
Kitster doesn't answer at first. The silence lingers, cold and taut, until he finally looks up to meet Anakin's gaze. "What does the Jedi killer want with freeing slaves, Lord Vader?"
It's the first time Kitster has addressed
him by name, and to hear him use that name makes Anakin hate everything about the situation even more. It may only have been a day since he'd stopped using it himself, but even after so short a time, taking it back up sounds like going back to a cage.
An impulsive answer to Kitster's question rests on the tip of his tongue, and instead of checking himself, he lets it spill out. "I'm not going by Vader anymore."
Kitster's eyes are a challenge. "Then what are you going by?"
Anakin feels something dangerous, like the sparks on an electrified wire, one second away from jumping, as he opens his mouth. "Skywalker."
There's a long pause as Kitster stares at him, a flurry of microexpressions flickering over his features as he tries to process that. There's anger, first, and unimpressed disbelief, as if he can't believe Vader would dare to speak such a ridiculous lie, but Anakin can feel the moment when things shift and click and his tumult of emotion turns into blank shock.
There's a breath, and his mouth forms a shape before he breathes out, seemingly unable to bring himself to address Darth Vader with Anakin's name.
"You…" he says, something hoarse in his voice. "You better not be lying to me. I'll kill you for daring to use his name if…"
Anakin is stiff. "It is my name."
Before he was Vader, he would have leaned in and done something reassuring--hugged him, put a hand on his shoulder--but he doesn't remember anymore how to touch another human being. It feels wrong now, to do it with Vader's body, all steel limbs and hard armor.
It doesn't matter, because Kitster leans forward and hugs him instead, resting his forehead against Anakin's chestplate. "You…" he says, choking up a little. "I thought you were dead."
His voice goes quieter, and he swallows. "I always watched the holos for you during the war, when I could… Anakin, I thought you were kriffing dead."
Anakin has to force himself not to move, damping down the panicky instinct to shove him away in the force. He's not a sith anymore. He doesn't care about sentiment making him weak.
He'd liked physical affection, when he'd been Anakin Skywalker. He can learn to like it again.
He wets the inside of his mouth. "I… Kitster…"
"No," Kitster shakes his head. "Don't. Don't try to explain anything. I know."
Kitster doesn't know. He can't. No matter how much information he has on Darth Vader. But it is permission, permission to say nothing, and Anakin takes it.
***
When Leia wakes up the following morning and wanders back to the back room of the junk shop, Vader is still missing an arm. It's the other one this time.
"You have the force," he says, raising his head to look at her. His hands don't pause in their precise movements, and he wedges a multitool into the wrist of his disattached arm, cutting a wire without even looking down. Content to just leave her with that abrupt statement, apparently.
"Excuse me?"
"The force." He waves his fingers at one of the shelves of parts lining the room, and the parts on it shift, drawing patterns in the fine layer of dust that covers the shelves.
"I'm afraid I'm not sure what you're talking about, Lord Vader," she says, planting her arms on her hips.
"Skywalker."
He snaps back the correction with no hesitation, the complete and utter certainty in his tone a far cry from the simmering tension she'd sensed after calling him that the night before.
Leia doesn't want to dive into the tempest of whatever must be going on in Vader's head to drive this sudden switch, so she doesn't. "Fine then."
His eyes linger on her, looking through her skin to something underneath, and she shifts where she stands, not liking it.
"The premonitions you exhibited last night are typical of an untrained force-sensitive," he eventually states.
"What?" She actually laughs at that. "You think I have Jedi powers?"
When he doesn't contradict her, the laugh trails off.
"It's not the force," she says. "The force lets people... move things with their minds, play with other people's heads. I've never done any of that."
"Those skills require training," he says, prodding at a wire on the arm on the table. It's fingers twitch. "Latent force sensitivity would more likely manifest as heightened reflexes and the ability to read others' emotions, along with unusually strong... instincts."
Her inhale is half a beat sharper than she wants it to be.
She doesn't want to even consider what he's saying, but memories brim at the back of her mind, and too many things about her that never quite made sense suddenly do. The way she'd always been prodigiously talented at piloting ships and speeder bikes, in spite of never being taught or putting in any real practice. The way she'd always been too good at reading people.
"All children in the Empire are tested for the force as infants," she says, fingers tightly tucked into her fists.
Vader's gaze on her feels too heavy, pinning her down where she stands. "Your parents are the reigning monarchs of a core world. It would not be beyond their power to alter your results."
It wouldn't have been. Her parents could have faked her test results, could've buried the real ones under a dozen layers of lies and deletions and deviation, could've done any number of things--but they still would've needed time. Time to reprogram droids, time to arrange for plants in the imperial military structure to handle her information--time they wouldn't have had. The Inquisitorious didn't give families a say-goodbye period. They administered their tests, and if a child's numbers were high enough, they took them or killed them right there.
They wouldn't have had time, unless they already knew.
Creeping doubts started to edge their way into Leia's mind anyway.
Leia's birth parents had died at the end of the war. Her father was infamous for having been close with several Jedi, and she knew that he and her mother, at least, had been friends.
Her birth mother, at least, had been friends with father, and he was infamous for having been close with several Jedi.
If force sensitivity ran in families…
"My parents would have told me," she says.
"A mere awareness of one's sensitivity can make one easier to detect." says Vader, setting down some of his tools. "Given they intended to parade you in front of the Imperial Senate once you reached an appropriate age, telling you would not have been wise."
"They didn't plan that," Leia says, instinctively snapping back. "That was my idea."
"Whose decision it was is irrelevant. What matters is that you are force sensitive, and untrained."
There's an… expectation in his words, and Leia is suddenly aware of the air pressure around her.
"You want to train me."
It's not a question.
He inclines his head in acknowledgement. "Yes, young one."
Leia barks a laugh.
Her. Trained by
Vader
. To use… to use the force.
"Your awareness of your powers will further open your connection to the force regardless," he says. "It is foolish to resist."
The image of him standing beside her with a hand on her shoulder, guiding her hands into the necessary position for psychically strangling someone, flashes briefly in the back of her head, and she stares at him.
No thank you.
"I'm not interested in learning how to murder people with my thoughts," she somehow manages to say.
There is something in the way Vader's shoulders hunch in response to that that looks almost uncomfortable. There's a part of Leia that thinks it might even be shame, but she files that thought away. She doesn't want to think about whether or not Vader feels guilty for all he's done.
She still can't read him that well, anyway.
"That is a specialized technique," he says. "You would not have to learn it."
"I don't want to learn any of it," she retorts. "I'm a politician, not a Jedi."
The snappy replies are easy to slip into, a familiar shield. She's not really thinking. She doesn't want to think about this, about how it's probably practical, how the rebellion could
use
a Vader, someone who can dig into people's minds and know unknowable things and go toe-to-toe with the Emperor's finest and live.
Vader makes a sound that sounds almost like a snort. "You think the Jedi weren't politicians?"
"They were peacekeepers,” Leia says, stumbling a little over the words. They match what her father has always told her, but as soon as they leave her mouth she finds herself off-balance, doubting.
Bail Organa had known Jedi, sure, but…
Vader had been one.
Vader had also killed all the other Jedi. It was highly likely he was unjustly biased.
"I would not train you to be a Jedi, young one," Vader says. He is too calm, standing there, and Leia doesn't like it. Not the dark shadow falling over her or the way his calm words feel almost inevitable.
"I wouldn’t prefer being an Inquisitor," she scoffs, drawing her defenses tighter around herself.
"The inquisitors are mere tools. Not true students of the force. I would not insult your potential by treating you as such."
"And what
would
I be, then?" Leia asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
Vader is quiet for a long moment, longer than she expects. "An apprentice."
She raises an eyebrow. "And that means what?"
At this, he actually flinches, so tight and restrained Leia almost misses it.
"It is a Master's duty to teach and guide their apprentice to a fuller understanding of the force," he says. "To aid them in their strengths and weaknesses until they are ready to walk the path on their own."
The words are… unexpectedly gentle, and there's something about the way he says them that makes her think they aren't his, at least not originally. She remembers that he'd called the Emperor
Master,
back on the Death Star, and wonders if it was him who first said them to Vader, or someone among the Jedi.
"You would be teaching me what I want to know?" she finally says. "Only that?"
In the split second after she asks—when the question hangs on her tongue, answer still uncertain, Leia feels a trap click shut. He has her, either way. She can feel the force in her, the swirling throb of instinct, hungering.
The galaxy needs her, and it needs her to be strong, and if Vader can give that to her, she's going to let him.
***
When Ahsoka became Anakin's student, she had already known how to touch the force, and their first lesson together had been how to stay alive on a battlefield. They'd barely had time for training in the Force's more mystical aspects, and even when they
had
scraped together enough time between battles and high-stakes missions to meditate together in the belly of a Venator, half the time it had been her guiding him, because he'd spent his entire apprenticeship skating by on the fact the force shrieked so loud in his ears he didn't have to listen and had never
really
picked up the proper form. The Inquisitors, too, already knew the force by the time he got to them—the younger ones because he left them to learn amongst themselves until they were old enough to be worth bothering with himself, and the older ones because they were ex-jedi.
Anakin doesn't know where to start, with Leia.
He can feel her in the force, and she doesn't feel like an untrained child—her shields are locked down and iron tight—but she doesn't know what she's
doing.
Based on what she'd told him before—her confusion at the idea of mind tricks and even telekinesis, she doesn't even know how to deliberately touch the force.
Anakin knows he must have learned this for the first time himself, once. He'd been an older student too, when Jinn and… his former master found him, if not so old as Leia. Whatever methods they'd used to teach him would probably be suited to her, had he remembered them.
He doesn't remember them, though.
Although it's a frustration, Anakin doesn't regret it. Remembering Tatooine hurts less than he'd thought it would, after everything he'd suffered here, but thinking back to his apprenticeship under Kenobi still makes him feel every bit as ready to strangle someone as it had before he'd escaped the Emperor, once-happy memories turned poison under the stark light of betrayal.
He instead thinks back to the younglings at the temple, the ones he'd never quite fit in with as a young padawan. They'd had games they would play for learning the force, for practicing their control. There are no feathers in the junk shop, so instead he finds a scrap of flimsi the drawer where Watto kept his financial records before settling down cross-legged on the floor of the workshop. It's slow—the twisting of the metal in his legs a familiar burn—but
possible
, in a way it hadn't been only days before.
Cautiously, Leia sits down across from him, mimicking his posture.
"Alright then." She takes a deep breath. "What do I do?"
Vader pauses, sizing her up again. Abilities of perception, but not manipulation. Which meant… she knew how to let the force come to her, but probably not how to pull on it or channel it once it had.
"The first thing you must know," he tells her, "Is that the force is in everything. The difference between you and those blind to the force is not that you have it and they do not. It is that you have the ability to hear and command it."
Her fingers clench. "And how am I supposed to command it when I barely know it's there?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
Anakin hesitates. "Which side of the force you wish to command."
"Which… side?" She looks completely open and curious, body listing slightly forward and eyebrows only slightly furrowed. As if she doesn't even know what she's asking.
Because she doesn't.
"There are two sides to the force," Anakin says, haltingly. "The dark and the light."
He stops right there, somehow unable to continue.
He knows where this conversation should lead—to him proclaiming the superiority of the dark, guiding her to reach into its depths, but something inside him, something small and petty, rebels at the thought. The light is weak, pathetic and unreliable, but had the dark been any better in the end? It had betrayed him, just as surely, with Padmé's death. Her death at his own hands.
He owes no allegiance to the sith any longer. Sideous had kept him as bound and chained as the Jedi ever had. He is under no
duty
to turn Leia, and part of him wants not to, precisely for that reason.
"The light side of the force is cold and uncaring," he says.. "It will make you the same, and then it will abandon you when you need it most. The Dark holds far more power, but at the expense of everything you hold dear."
Lea stares at him, features blankly composed, but through the force, he can feel her incredulity. He's surprised at his own vitriol, but even after saying it, it still feels true.
"Excuse me,
what?
What kind of choice
is
that?"
It is an emotion unsuited to the moment, perhaps, but Anakin still feels something within him flicker at the word
choice
from her lips.
Yes. For her it would be a choice.
"A terrible one."
"Remind me why I wanted to do this again?" she mutters.
"The force is power," he says. "Power at a price. Even the Jedi, with their weaker strain, were warriors of legend before the Empire erased them from history." He pauses, and the steady beat of the force, of Tatooine, thrums inside of him, alive and waiting. "I will not force you to pay it."
She looked at him, and though it should not have been possible through the mask, he feels as if she’s looking him directly in the eyes. "The Jedi used the light?"
"They did."
"Then I want to learn that." She raises her chin, challenging, as though she thinks he will refuse her.
Anakin feels only a faint stirring of amusement. It's petty, and childish, but given her upbringing, she has no doubt been regaled with stories of the Jedi since she was in her youth. Let her memorialize them if she wants. He will teach her the truth of them—he doubts she will be quite so smitten when she knows with full accuracy what they were like.
"
Close your eyes."
For just a moment, her eyes actually widen, before what he's saying seems to register and she snaps them closed.
"The dark and the light side of the force are opposites in many respects," he says. "While a connection to the dark side is fueled by hate and suffering, a connection to the light is most powerful when one completely empties themself of emotion."
Leia’s mouth pinches into a frown.. "If you can use any emotion to fuel the dark, then why use hatred and suffering?"
"Because they are the most powerful."
She continues to stare, brows creasing. “But that’s… not really true, is it? In some cultures, certainly, but it seems unlikely that such a thing is somehow built into the fabric of the universe. And if it was…”
She traces a finger across the floor, drawing a line in the ever-present dusting of sand.
He tilts his head slightly, prodding her to continue, and she looks up through her dark lashes, suddenly uncertain. “It just… wouldn’t it be love?”
Anakin struggles for an answer, but finds nothing, can't even find evidence within himself that it's true.
He'd slaughtered the Jedi Order out of hatred, and he'd stayed close to his master out of hatred, but it has been a long, long time since that hatred was enough to sustain him. Everything he's done the last few months has been for love of the long dead. For Ahsoka, of Padmé, of his mother…
"...I might agree with you," he finally says. “However, it matters not. It is more… a path. In the end, love always leads to hatred."
"That…" Leia says, and though he can see her trying to smooth the distaste in her features, he can still feel the discomfort emanating off of her. "Who does that come from, the
emperor?"
Behind his mask, Anakin smiles bitterly. "The old Grandmaster of the Jedi Order."
She is quiet for a moment. "That can't be right."
"He was not wrong." He looks down at his mechanical fingers, flexing them into a fist. "Though I never believed it when I was a Jedi."
"But you do now?"
He blinks at her. "I have lived it."
"Who—"
She cuts herself off, suddenly, swallowing, the look in her eyes like she knows she's gone too far.
She is right to retreat, but the fear needles him. He has grown used to the lack of it, and it bothers him to see it now.
"Ask, young one."
He doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding as harsh as it does, but his vocoder has never been good at ‘gentle’, and his voice comes out as sharp static.
Leia shakes her head, keeping her eyes on her lap. “That was inappropriate. I apologize.”
“It is of no consequence.”
The words are still heavy, weighed down by the electronic echo, but he feels her ease, if only a little, and she dips her head in a furtive nod.
“So,” she says, taking a conspicuous breath and letting it out again. “How exactly do I… empty myself of emotion?”
|
The smell of an omega hits Satoru like a truck. His vision thins, the maids’ worried voices are fading, and the skin under his dragonfly-patterned kimono is on fire. He’s just presented two weeks ago, and his alpha instinct is still new and raw, so much that it disorients him. Satoru doesn’t like it, the foreign feeling of being in a passenger seat of his own mind like this. His control is slipping, and it’s bad and disgusting, and Satoru’s underpants are so, so wet.
Satoru is under a haze, and he knows he’s started walking on his own, but holds no power over his limbs. Their scent reminds Satoru of the woods, deep and dark and fresh, dangerous but also tempting.
He snaps back to himself suddenly and Satoru registers the grip of a hand on the nape of his neck, near the scent gland. It’s firm but grounding, and Satoru blinks, his mind getting a bit clearer somehow. He wants to get closer to that scent, that touch, struggling, but the hand doesn’t budge. Satoru unintentionally lets out a whine. It sounds incredibly childish, but he just can’t help himself.
“Alpha brat,” a man, a tall man—Satoru realizes—calls him. He has dark long hair, green eyes, and is wearing a dark blue kimono. He doesn’t look—doesn’t smell familiar, so he’s probably not from around here. The man seems a little rough, not like an image of a typical omega Satoru has in his mind, but admittedly, that doesn’t matter at all.
Nothing matters when he smells this good.
“You’re so rude,” the man says again, still holding Satoru by his neck, and it’s starting to get really annoying. “Has no one taught you any manners? How disappointing of the Gojo family,” he sneers, staring down his nose at Satoru. Even his nose looks delectable right now. Satoru wants to devour him.
“Put me down,” Satoru demands, his voice shaking, but he doesn’t care.
“You reek,” the man comments. “Go jerk yourself off or something.”
“Toji!” another man scolds, and Satoru notices that they’re not alone. This man is older, an alpha, but there’s some sort of resemblance to the omega—Toji, that’s his name—so they’re probably related. Satoru doesn’t realize that he’s growling until Toji briefly squeezes his neck, so he stops, his cheeks flaming.
“This brat is in rut. You can probably excuse his absence from the meeting,” Toji says.
The older man sighs. “You should go to your room now, Satoru-sama. We can introduce each other properly next time.”
The hold on Satoru’s neck loosens, the fingers withdraw. Toji’s hand then lands on Satoru’s shoulder and pushes him away. “You hear him, Satoru-sama,” Toji sounds mocking. “Shoo.”
“This is my house. I can go wherever I want,” Satoru says hotly, embarrassment and lust burning inside.
“So you must know the way to your own room.” Toji smirks, tilting his head. “I won’t have to accompany you then.”
The thought of Toji—this good-smelling omega—walking with him to his room short circuits his brain again. The scent becomes so overwhelming, and Satoru can see nothing other than the bare skin peaking above the collar of his kimono.
“Cut it out, Toji,” the older man says again, shaking his head. He looks weary, and like he wants this to be over. “Don’t tease the kid.”
“We’d better go now, Jinichi,” Toji says and turns around, before starting to walk away from Satoru whose feet feel rooted to the wooden floor. “See you around, brat,” he says over his shoulder, amusement in his eyes.
And then, he’s gone.
Satoru doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, breathing harshly, the hardest he’s ever been in his 13 years.
One of the maids hesitantly pulls him out of his trance, and Satoru begins to walk back to his room.
Toji, Satoru thinks, his smell still clinging to his sense. Since these things take time, he’ll have to be patient for now, but Satoru will find him again one day.
And Satoru has always been good at waiting.
It’s been five years since their first meeting, and Satoru thinks he’s been waiting long enough.
Toji is here, in the same room as him, while going into heat. It reminds Satoru of all the times Toji has been nothing but a tease, always there with the other members of the Zen’in family visiting the Gojo estate, always close but not close enough. Always on the periphery, but every time Satoru chased after him, he slipped away. Disappeared.
Not this time though. This time, Satoru thinks through the lust, Toji allows him to be there, to comfort him through his heat, and Satoru is determined to show him how grateful he is for the gift.
“Stop stalling,” Toji growls from the futon—Satoru’s futon, his brain supplies wildly—looking mad with want. Satoru crawls forward, humming soothingly. Toji is still in his kimono, made disheveled on their way to Satoru’s room, his eyes glazed and face hot. The alpha in him tells Satoru to pounce, to mark, to claim the omega in front of him, begging to be fucked through his pheromone, but Satoru deliberately slows himself down. He’s not like all those alphas, Satoru reminds himself, lost in their own impulse and blind to their partner’s pleasure. He is the strongest after all.
“I’ll take care of you,” Satoru says as he gets closer, face to face, his hands slipping inside Toji’s kimono and pushing it off carefully. Toji’s skin is burning, so heated that Satoru’s hands must feel like a cool balm on him, and Toji’s arms come up to pull Satoru down against him. They both groan at the close contact, and Satoru can smell a fresh wave of slick dripping out of Toji, making his mind dizzy.
“Come on,” Toji whines, shoving Satoru’s own kimono off. Satoru tilts his head and slots their mouths together, drinking Toji’s little moans directly from his tongue, letting the man manhandle him this way and that to get both their clothes out of the way.
“What do you want?” Satoru asks between kisses, his hands now kneading Toji’s sculptured ass. “What can I do for you?”
“Fuck me,” Toji pants, and Satoru shifts down to mouth at his neck. Toji’s scent is so strong here that Satoru feels an overwhelming urge to bite him right then and there, and Toji, Satoru is not sure if the man is conscious of the action, but he tips his head away to expose more of the bare skin, tempting and downright sinful.
“I will,” Satoru says, a confirmation more than anything else, and continues lapping at the flawless skin on the other man’s neck, occasionally sucking on his pulse point, eliciting another moan. Satoru is drunk now, Toji’s skin and scent clouding his senses, wiping everything else away. All that remains is this moment, Toji under him, demanding but pliant, perfect.
He brushes his fingertips against Toji’s hole, twitching and wet, so wet Satoru wonders if he can slip in just like this, before pushing his two digits in. Toji accepts him pretty easily, and sucks him in even further.
Toji must have picked up Satoru’s spike of arousal through his scent, because he bites Satoru’s earlobe and says, voice low and decadent, “You can put it in, Satoru. I’m in heat. It’ll be so easy. I’ll be so good for you.”
Distantly, Satoru is impressed with Toji’s control. He’s the one in heat but it seems more like Satoru is losing his mind. Scissoring his fingers and testing the resistance, Satoru is inclined to believe Toji’s words, but he hesitates, though the alpha inside him is already snarling after hearing the explicit permission from the omega whom he’s now three fingers in, deep to the knuckles.
“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” Toji says, a rhetorical question, moving his hips to the rhythm of Satoru’s hand. “I can smell it on you, baby,” Toji coos. “Will you let me take your cherry?”
Satoru’s hand stutters, and he has to quickly squeeze the base of his dick to stave off the orgasm. Toji cradles his face, soft kisses on Satoru’s nose, eyelid, and forehead.
“Jackpot,” Toji singsongs, and his scent gets impossibly stronger, luring Satoru in, deeper and deeper until Satoru loses sight of the exit. “I want your knot, Satoru,” Toji says directly into his ear, and Satoru shivers. “Won’t you be good for me?”
“I will, I will, I will-” his voice breaks off, and he removes his fingers so fast he’s afraid it’s too rough, but then Toji cants his ass up, chasing after them, and Satoru’s higher brain functions are gone.
He lines himself up with Toji’s winking, gaping hole, braces himself, and pushes it.
The feeling of Toji all around him is nothing like he’s ever experienced before, hot and slicked and deliciously tight, and before Satoru knows it, he’s coming inside Toji.
Toji moans, loud and obscene, and he’s kissing Satoru again, licking into his mouth, sweet as anything. When Satoru comes down from the high, enough that he notices their surroundings again, he finds that he’s still hard.
“Looks like my heat triggered your rut, baby,” Toji guides Satoru inside him again, and Satoru groans, teeth itching. He’s still a bit sensitive, but with his reverse cursed technique and his rut, Satoru is now chasing after that crash again, and this time, he’s intent on taking Toji over the edge with him.
He pulls out, and Toji almost snaps at him, but Satoru flips him around and thrusts in, and everything is alright once more. With this position, Toji kneeling under him, Satoru can go in deeper than before. He slips a hand under Toji and tweaks his nipple. Toji shouts and tightens around him. If Satoru hadn’t come before, he would surely have done it now.
It feels crazy, the underlying scent of thunderstorm filling Satoru’s nose, the pleasure so pure Satoru thinks his heart almost stops. Their movements are getting faster, more erratic. Satoru can feel his knot growing, starting to catch on the rim of Toji’s hole. His teeth itch again, so he licks Toji’s nape, grazing his scent gland, and leaves a dark hickey there. Although it’s not quite enough, the sight of a mark, however temporary, sates his alpha’s urges somewhat. He laps around the blossoming bruise again, hungry and begging.
“Go ahead,” Toji croaks, sounding wrecked. He bows his head down further, says, “Bite me, baby. I’m yours.”
And who is Satoru to deny his omega this ? His teeth sink down, tasting blood, and Toji’s body goes absolutely laxed for a moment, allowing Satoru’s knot to slip in. Suddenly, Toji’s orgasm hits, his voice so loud Satoru’s sure someone’s bound to hear them but that's the furthest thing from his mind. Toji’s wall twitches around him, milking his knot, and before Satoru knows it, he’s coming inside his mate again.
It goes on forever. Their blissful haze feels unbreakable like this, and Satoru slumps down, exhausted, with Satoru’s come still filling him up little by little and Toji underneath him, whimpering in response. Satoru tries to pull out experimentally, only to find that they’re physically locked together, impossible to remove without injuring at least one of them, so he carefully shifts on his side, pulling Toji with him against his chest, nuzzling the bleeding bite mark and and occasionally lapping up the blood.
Toji sighs, deep and relaxed, pushing back against Satoru. After a moment, with Satoru absentmindedly playing with his nipples, he notices that Toji is hard again, with the man moving his hips in a tiny circular motion. “I’m in heat. Sue me,” Toji says, voice ruined.
Satoru tightens his arms around the man—Toji, his omega—and starts to rock his hips, aiming for the man’s sweet spot, punching out a litany of soft ah, ah, ah, ah. “Don’t worry,” Satoru tells him, nibbling on his earlobe. “Let’s make up for lost time.”
“Five years, ah, fucking brat. Made me wait, mmm, five years,” Toji turns his head to glare at him, but the effect he’s aiming for is not quite there when Satoru can see the fondness in his eyes.
Satoru captures his mouth in a deep, slow kiss, savoring this moment. “Don’t worry, Toji-san,” Satoru says, smug. “Let me make it all up to you.”
Toji snorts, “Fucking virgin.”
Satoru presses a smile into his temple. “Not anymore.”
|
The rate Yeosang gets for Wooyoung’s cousin’s great aunt’s house is hard to beat. The place is furnished and spacious - probably too much space, really. “If I hadn’t already signed my lease, I’d have taken it in a heartbeat” Wooyoung says when he texts Yeo his relative’s number. The family connection is what locks in the unbeatable price. It’s full of the great aunt (long deceased) stuff, but he’s told if he doesn’t mind that too much it’s a great place.
Given that it’s furnished, he doesn’t have a ton to add to the house. Move-in is easy, and most the touches are cosmetic (save for the mattress which he needed to be his own - like hell is he using some hag’s old mattress, god rest her soul in heaven or whatever). He figures that she might’ve kept some other useful stuff around, though. Stuff like flashlights or snow shovels. So, he goes exploring.
From the front door, there’s the living room to the left, the stairs leading to the second floor directly in front of it, and the kitchen to the right. Upstairs there’s the master bedroom and master bath, along with another smaller room. He checks the basement which turns out to be full of storage. Musty old boxes with faded labels, tools that haven’t seen use in years.
However, one thing sticks out.
He damn near shits himself when he sees an aquarium with a…
Thing?
He calls Wooyoung and asks what the fuck it is. He sends a picture, too. Wooyoung doesn’t know. He admits he’s not close to that side of the family, though he vaguely knows that aunt was an animal lover. Apparently had tons of pets. Apparently not all of them were lucky enough to find homes after her passing.
Pitying the creature, Yeosang moves the aquarium upstairs into the living room. Whatever it is, it’s been neglected, poor thing. It’s black and wet looking, an amorphous blob of sorts. Yeo doesn’t see any eyes or legs. The only thing he does know is its name. Written on a nameplate affixed to the side of the aquarium is its moniker: “Mars”.
Yeosang tries google and concludes that it’s a giant slug. Or a newt. He’s not positive. Luckily, their diets have some crossover. He ventures feeding the thing even though it lowkey terrifies him. He tries lettuce, bugs, grubs, pellets - stuff for newts or slugs. It seems alright with lettuce but won’t touch grubs.
It seems to like carrots, he notes. Fresh veggies in general appear to be the preferred food which is fine in Yeosang’s book. He hates buying bugs anyway.
Life goes on like that for awhile as the last days of summer fly by. Yeosang settles in. He goes out with friends. He goes out with guys. He hooks up with guys. He gets ghosted by guys. Classes start, and he throws himself into his studies, ignoring the gnawing feeling of inadequacy dragging him down.
Said feeling of inadequacy hits him particularly hard one night when he gets ghosted by his crush - a hot hookup he’d seen a few times named Park Seongwha. The guy is everything. Hot, educated, well-mannered. He’s got a job and a semblance of a life plan without being so regimented that he’s a stick in the mud. He also apparently isn’t that into Yeosang.
Whatever.
Yeosang stays up too late studying, and when that bores him, he pounds back some soju. Tipsy, he points to the black blob in the aquarium and declares that “Mars, you’re my buddy”. And Mars does become his buddy in a way.
Sometimes, Yeosang thinks the creature is growing, but it’s hard to tell. He talks to Mars. The aquarium’s in the living room, so it’s pretty easy to just ramble to the thing. It’s always there, always available, never talks back and never judges. Yeosang starts feeling pretty relaxed around it. It doesn’t even have eyes, so he doesn’t feel watched, and it’s never demanding.
It’s logical that he thinks nothing of nodding off while watching TV when it’s in the room. He doesn’t even notice the top of the aquarium go askew. It isn’t until he wakes up and notices the strange black lump on his couch that he realizes it’d somehow opened. Yeosang swallows nervously and tries reasoning with it. He has no idea if it’s poisonous, if it’s dangerous, if it wants to eat him or wants to latch on like a leech.
He pulls his sweater sleeve over his hand and goads the creature, “Let’s go back to the cage now,” He requests softly. The thing moves shockingly fast, sliding up his arm onto his shoulder. It takes some convincing to get the creature off his shoulder and back into the cage. Yeosang is very conscious of the lid from then on out. For awhile, he’s paranoid, but he doesn’t notice any further incident, so the paranoia fades.
School. Work. Occasional social life, coming home exhausted. Talking to the strange black creature with which he cohabitates. That’s Yeosang’s life at the beginning of the semester. More of the same. Nothing new. Nothing exciting.
One thing does change, though. His dreams. They grow more frequent, more intense, more elaborate. He wakes up uncomfortable, sweaty with his boxers clinging to his skin, soaked through with come. No longer fleeting visions and sensations; they’re vivid and so damn real. Always about Seonghwa, though, always. Yeo wonders if it’s some sort of a sign at first, but save for a quick sexting session he’s gotten nothing out of the guy. He starts to wonder if the deep meaning of his frequent dreams are really just that he’s desperate and lonely.
He can’t shake them though. They start melding into memories, these dreams of Seonghwa. At first it’s crude. A blowjob here, a handjob there. It starts getting more involved; he’s pinned against the bed in the dead of night or spread out on the couch. One that particularly affects Yeosang is a dream in which he finds Seonghwa just standing by his bed, watching him sleep. Maybe waiting for him to wake up. Then the black haired man pulls him into a kiss, passionate, hungry, needing. A kiss that’s too good to be real.
It’s gut wrenching, and all of Yeosang’s pent up frustrations and doubts pour out, he cries begging the question as to why Seonghwa doesn’t like him, why he’s not good enough. He knows it’s pointless, it’s just a dream, and the black haired one has no response. He just kisses, kisses, kisses, and laps up the tears.
He begs for a response, for anything, like his subconscious reflection of his crush is gonna do anything. The other draws back and looks at Yeo, eyes wide with confusion and weirdly enough, distress.
Seonghwa is confused, at a complete loss. His mouth twitches like he wants to say something, but he can't speak. He looks troubled. Yeosang realizes it's hopeless and he just lets go: "Whatever. Make me feel good. Don't wanna feel anything but you," and by that the hazy man of his dreams can abide.
Yeosang closes his eyes and surrenders. He surrenders to the kisses, the cool hands that somehow seem to be everywhere, wrapping around and filling every single nook and cranny until he's dazed, damn near consumed. His entire body's on fire, oozing pleasure, and it's so much that he can barely breathe
It ramps up, more and more and more and then he genuinely feel like he can't breathe. He's on the precipice between pain and pleasure, teetering dangerously, and his eyes shoot open.
That's when he sees it.
Black, slimy, tendrils wrapped around his entire body, filling him, sucking him, stroking him - they're everywhere. They're slick, secreting something that makes his skin tingle. He tries to gasp, but that's stifled by the girthy mass in his mouth. He cocks his head - that he can do - and he glances behind him to see Seonghwa - but not Seonghwa. It's got the human's body, but from its sides and back protrude those things, amorphous, black tentacles eagerly clamoring to cover and touch and caress every bit of Yeosang's skin.
It squeezes him. Wraps a slick appendage around his throat, around his torso, around each of his legs and his arms. It squeezes him close and hard almost as if in some perverse facsimile of a hug.
All the while the expression on "Seonghwa's" face is peaceful, calm. He nuzzles Yeosang affectionately, the human arms wrapped lovingly around Yeo's waist like a back hug. Yeosang's brain is so, so heavily impeded, mind melting in the heat and slurry of pleasure. Still, he tries to make sense of what the hell is happening, he tries to determine if this is a dream or a nightmare, where he is. How can he wake up?
He feels his body floating. The contact with the human's bed is lost, and Yeosang's body is lifted. He starts flailing, and his hands are bound. When he looks down at "Seonghwa", his expression is dark and intense, desirous. Hungry. But for what? Yeo sees the start of human legs darken into slick, black trunks of appendage. Of god knows what. Whatever the hell it is, it's spreading, like vines the black spreads into tendrils big and small, dropping down the the side of the bed, covering the carpet and running up the walls until Yeosang's nearly trapped in a web.
It resumes. Something Yeosang can understand, that he knows - the pleasure, the consumption, the pumping and fucking and suckling on all the right places. His body shudders with everything coming at him, and when he comes, he comes so hard it pushes tears out of his eyes.
But it's not done, and neither is he. It relinquishes slightly, holding on gently, somehow intuiting his limits, but always pushing him just at the very edge. He's twisted like a rag doll, and at this point he's certain he has to be dreaming. Happy to come to the conclusion, his body goes slack and his mind blank, content to empty itself in favor of pure pleasure. Every time he thinks he's spent, he's proven wrong. It's like the thing fuels him and he fuels it. Even in his dreams, there are limits, though, and Yeo comes to his eventually, blacking out as he feels fluid pumping into him for - well, he doesn't know how many times it's been
Yeosang wakes up the next morning feeling fatigued. His limbs feel heavy, and opening his eyes up is a chore. When he does manage to do that, he nearly has a heart attack. Just inches from his face lays another. Eyes pitch black as night bore into Yeosang's as the face hovers close. Yeosang yelps.
It's Seonghwa?
He shouts and makes demands - "What the hell?" "How are you here?!" But then...
Seonghwa blinks confusedly. There is no answer. Just a confused tilt of the head and wide eyes.
Yeo runs (or, well, limps) to his bathroom, horrified.
Last night happened.
Somehow, some way, it happened. He feels sticky and sore enough to prove it. He rushes to rinse off the previous night’s escapades, wondering if he’d done any hard drugs or if there was asbestos in the walls making him hallucinate.
“Seonghwa” wordlessly follows him. It steps into the shower with Yeo, confused as ever and strangely attentive. He hovers needlessly close no matter how many times Yeosang demands “get out!”. Given what he’d seen the previous night, Yeo’s disinclined to mount any major protest. That thing lifted him into the air like it was nothing. It could probably snap his spine in half if it felt like it.
After a lot of goading and pointing, “Seonghwa” somehow does get the message and leaves the shower (only to stand right outside the curtain and stare). It follows him everywhere - though at a distance with enough prompting. Yeo’s heart hammers panickedly as he throws on clothes and gets his stuff together. All the while this naked “man” follows him and watches curiously.
Yeosang leaves for school as soon as possible - even though his class doesn’t start for three hours. He figures he can do some research on this “thing”. He starts to run out the door, but naked “Seonghwa” follows him out, too. Yeosang squeaks, mortified - what if someone saw?! He pushes the thing back inside and tries to leave again.
It follows.
This happens a few times until Yeosang has to re-enter his house. He pushes the thing all the way in, noticing the empty couch. He pushes it by the shoulders, and it sits on the couch, the same wide-eyed look on its face. Yeosang says sternly “Stay here. Do not move.” In truth he’s panicked, not sure what’ll set the thing off.
That’s when he finally connects the dots. He catches sight of the aquarium lid across the floor. It’s almost as if the thing got thrown off. Yeo narrows his eyes and reads the little name tag. “Mars”. He remembers all too well the feeling of Mars slithering up his arm, the way the strange, pulsating mass moved. How it would sit there. All that time Yeo didn’t think he was being watched, but was he?
“Mars? You’re Mars ?” He asks it. It tilts its head curiously, and for the first time there’s some sort of spark of recognition. It knows its name. Mars knows its name. That does nothing to soothe Yeosang’s nerves. Still, he attempts, firmly telling Mars to stay put. Mars watches Yeosang walk away to school, an almost sad look in his eyes.
Yeo hastily turns the TV on, flicking it to some nature documentary channel. Something neutral. It seems to do the trick, occupying the thing’s mind. Good. Yeosang double checks all the locks on the doors and windows. He prays the thing can’t slip under cracks. At the very least it doesn’t seem smart enough to work the locks.
Yeosang locks it inside and rushes to college. He goes on a google frenzy but ultimately comes up fruitless until class time. He’s got class, work, and goes to the gym. He studies with his friends, and they clown him, asking him “You’re glowing- why is your skin glowing? Are you getting laid?” Does his skin look better? He definitely didn’t notice. Even after his long, exhausting day, he puts off going home as long as possible, dreading the sight of Mars. He’s terrified. What if Mars is angry?
After falling asleep over some alien conspiracy books, Yeo peels himself off of the library table and braves the trip home. He clutches a lighter he’d bought from the convenience store on the way home. He has a feeling blunt force won’t work, but slimy things don’t like fire. Probably. He slowly enters the house and for the first time all day feels a bit of relief.
His tension slackens slightly. Mars is sitting exactly where Yeosang left him, precisely how he left him. The blue light of the TV flickers, making Mars’s human visage look a sickly pale tone. It’s some doc on farm animals or something.
“-fter about twenty-one days in the incubator, the eggs break out of their eggs and hatch…” The woman’s voice drones on.
Yeosang wonders how to approach the thing. He doesn’t know of “get out” will work - or what will happen if it’s let out. It’s contained - but is that his responsibility? As he goes about his moral quandary, Mars finally notices him. It tilts its head and gives Yeosang that same wide-eyed look.
“Incubator?”
It speaks. It’s a soft, almost childlike voice.
Yeosang nearly jumps through the ceiling with shock. He’s confused, and mutters, “Wh- What?”
Mars turns back to the TV and says again, “Incubator.”
Yeo follows the other’s gaze and glances at the screen. He doesn’t know why he elaborates - he’s under no obligation after all. This thing is - well, he doesn’t know what it is - but it can’t be good. Even so, he responds, “Yeah, that’s an incubator,” He gestures to the screen. “It’s, um, it’s a thing they put fertile eggs in to hatch them.”
“Egg?” Mars asks again.
“Y’know, like, babies,” Yeo doesn’t know why he’s explaining it.
“Ba...By?”
“Ff- Offspring. Little- little chickens,” Yeosang gestures emphatically to the screen. Mars’ gaze turns back to the documentary, and after a bit more explanation showing fluffy chicks and their mother, the point seems to click into place.
“Baby,” The thing says - almost cutely, like a baby himself.
It turns to Yeosang again, a small smile on its lips. Yeo’s stomach turns. For some reason, seeing it express happiness feels wrong. He just assumed it had no emotions at all.
“Incubator,” Mars says again, smiling to Yeosang. “Incubator.”
Maybe it’s not learning so much.
“No, Yeosang,” Yeo points to himself. “I’m Yeosang.”
“Yeosang?” At least it picks things up fast.
“Yeosang,” Yeo repeats. “You” - he points to the creature - “Are Mars.”
“Are… Mars?”
“Mars.”
It takes a few tries, but the black-haired creature understands. Yeosang leaves it there to learn more about cows and ducks or whatever the fuck else and starts cooking himself some ramyun. He’s exhausted and never bothered eating while he was out.
He starts, but just minutes later there’s a body slotting itself against his, wrapping arms around his waist. Yeo freezes. It’s a bizarre, dual reaction. His logical side screams out against this. This is some dangerous, black, tentacley thing, not a play toy. It could probably consume him from the inside out or break every bone in his body. He should give the creature a stern rejection.
But another part of him remembers the previous night. The water comes to a rolling boil as gentle, human hands caress teasingly. His body melds into it, longing for the touch, knowing the pleasure the other is capable of giving. Yeosang grips the counter next to the stove in a vice. Mars doesn’t really assert anything. It presses kisses along his nape, and a hand wanders beneath Yeo’s waist, rubbing his hip.
“I need to cook,” Yeosang murmurs weakly, dropping the alkalized noodles into the water. He can already feel is cock straining against his pants, the memory of the previous night too vivid.
The entire event was overwhelming and terrifying and fucking exhilarating .
Mars is lackadaisical, noncommittal. Lazy, soft kisses on Yeosang’s neck and shoulders, gentle touches stoking fire in their wake. It’s frustrating, so much so that Yeosang finds himself canting his hips back in want of more. As if reading his mind, Mars gives more. It palms Yeosang gently through the front of his pants and cupping his ass.
This is fucked up. Yeosang knows this is fucked up. There are many, many layers of fucked up. But what’s worse is that - shit - that makes it better for him. By the time Mars finally slides Yeo’s pants and underwear down, he’s an oozing mess. The thing gets down on its knees. There’s no preamble or hesitation before its lips are pressed to Yeosang’s rim. Yeosang pants and whimpers, the pot left forgotten boiling angrily as he bends over his kitchen counter and rocks into it.
He comes before the noodles are done cooking.
The during the next few weeks, Yeosang falls into an exhausting routine. When he wakes up, the first thing he sees is Mars watching him. Silent, gaze unwavering. Those dark orbs remain trained on him throughout his entire morning routine. He goes to school, work, the gym, the library - anywhere to be away from Mars.
Yeo manages to wiggle his way onto a friend’s couch here and there. He stays studying late at Wooyoung’s and pretends to pass out on the couch or he’ll splay out on San’s bed and refuse to leave. They’re kind and lovely. He’s thankful his friends never make him go. They insist he stay because he’s tired, because it’s dangerous out late at night. Scary people walk the streets at night. If only they knew, he thinks wryly to himself. Yeo can’t sleep over all the time. So, inevitably, he comes home to Mars.
Mars remains surprisingly obedient. He’s curious, but not meddling. He watches, always watches. He likes to watch. He watches the TV - Nat Geo and Animal Planet are his favorites. He watches Yeosang. He watches the woodland creatures outside the window. But he doesn’t stir until Yeosang is home. Then he’s like a shadow, whisping about at Yeo’s tail, eagerly pressing himself against the man. After a few days, Yeo decides he needs to give Mars clothing. It’s too easy for the creature to be tempting when he’s wearing the facade of Park Seonghwa.
Yeosang no longer has any sort of feelings for that man. Any sort of sentiment is long gone, but he has to concede his look is good, and Mars wears it well. As well as a mysterious, slimy black creature can wear anything. In spite of knowing his true form, Yeosang finds himself drawn to the cryptic beast.
He wonders if it’s a symptom of his deep-seated self loathing that he all too happily seats himself deeply on the other’s cock. There’s some sickness there, Yeosang reckons. He always figured he had a little something. He just thought himself neurotic, but he acknowledges that there’s something severely fucked about his arrangement. He’s using this thing like a sex toy - but in a way, it almost seems like the thing is using him. Sometimes, Yeosang wonders if it’s beastiality, but he tries not to dwell on it too long. Usually he can’t - he’s too busy with life, too stressed out about Mars or too blissed out post-orgasm(s) to give a shit.
He has no idea what Mars is. If it thinks, has wants, needs, what its intentions are. It seems to act on instinct, though it does learn at a decent pace. Sometimes, Mars displays a childlike innocence. He’s all wide eyes and tilted head, curious squeaks and little smiles.
One time, Yeosang came home and caught Mars watching that cartoon pig show. Yeo figures he must’ve learned how to work the remote - a nuisance for Yeosang. The man’s fucking terrified of the impression a horror movie would make. What if Mars sees some slasher flick and decides ripping Yeosang to pieces would be fun?
Peppa Pig, though, that Yeosang could handle. For some reason, the moment impressed itself greatly upon the man. In all of their stilted interactions (the majority of which were sexual), for some reason this one stuck with him. Mars’s expression appeared uncharacteristically worried. He pointed to the TV, an almost fearful expression on his face.
“Wh- Is that scary?” Yeosang asked tiredly.
Mars jabbed their finger toward the screen insistently, stuttering out in a worried tone, “P… P-... Pig…?”
Yeo quirked an eyebrow, “Uh, yes. Those are pigs. That’s Peppa, I think.”
“P...ig?” Mars looked downright stressed, and it’s so incredibly baffling to Yeo what the fuck could stress out a- whatever it is. He knew what a pig was, didn’t he? That farm animal documentary must have covered it.
Cogs turn in Yeosang’s head and he tries, “Oh, she- she doesn’t look like a pig do you, does she?”
Mars pouted - he pursed his lips and frowned, “Look… Like?”
Yeosang has gotten the impression that Mars knows more than they can communicate. They understand but severely lack the tools to express their thoughts. In truth, Yeo counts it as a blessing. He sure as fuck doesn’t need to know what it’s actually thinking.
“Um- This is a cartoon,” Yeosang clarified, “It- It’s an animated, stylized representation of a pig, not a real one. Uh- Moving painted pictures of a pig.”
“Moving… Paint,” The human-like creature repeated. They chewed on the words for a minute before their distraught expression faded. “Not real pig.”
“That’s right,” Yeo’s shoulders slumped in relief. He ended up melting into the couch, exhausted. He knew it was dangerous being so close to Mars, but at that point he’d resigned himself: it’s almost an inevitability that they’re going to do something. It’s gotten to the point that he’s the initiator sometimes, like an adrenaline junkie edging themself by looking down the side of the cliff they’re about to jump off of.
Surprisingly, Mars didn’t move then. His focus shifted the screen, and some animated piggy melodrama played out. Yeosang zoned out and his attention isn’t roused until a while later when Mars piped up again.
“Pa… Pa?” Mars’s head tilted inquisitively.
“Hm?” Yeo muttered, half asleep. He glanced at the screen. The pig was talking to her dad about something no doubt incredibly pressing in the lopsided cartoon animal world.
“Pa...Pa? Papa?” Mars’s nose scrunched in confusion, and they lean forward. Peppa’s mother showed up on screen, further baffling the thing. “Mama?” He turned to Yeosang in hopes of elaboration. It was sort of cute. He mimicked the words on screen, “Papa? Mama?”
“Um- Yeah, that’s a- they’re a papa, and a mama - parents.”
“Pa-pa...rents?”
“That’s right. They, um, they’re like the, um, the mama and papa. The people who take care of the children. A family is- is usually a mama, a papa and a child. It, uh, doesn’t have to be, though.”
Clearly that was too much, because Mars looked even more puzzled.
Yeosang tried again, “Remember the chickens?”
Mars blinked blankly. Yeo will take that as a yes, given that “incubator” is perhaps his favorite word (and a newly adopted pet name for Yeosang).
Yeo continued, “The egg - the baby - that is a child. The hen that lays the eggs and sits on them is the mama. The rooster is the papa. Mama and papa have to, um, breed to make the baby.”
Mars made a soft “ah” sound and digested the information for a minute. After doing so, he responded, “Mama… Incubator?”
Yeo snorted, “Uh- Technically they- they can be. Many are, but, um, you- you can’t-” It was clear that his stuttering is baffling the other. “Yes you can say that. But. Mama is nicer.”
“Mama…” Mars appeared as if he was testing the word. “Papa… Child is… Egg. Baby?”
“Yes,” Yeosang nods, entirely too pleased with the other’s progress in that moment. “And a mama, papa, and baby together make a family.”
That had apparently been simple enough, because Mars understands it right away. The idea pleases him, and a wide, glowing grin blossoms on his face. Yeosang had never seen Park Seonghwa smile like that, but for some reason he feels like it can’t match the childlike innocence twinkling from the peculiar creature’s eyes.
“Family,” Mars said softly.
“Very good,” Yeosang yawned. At some point he dozed off. He woke up the next morning wearing a fresh set of pajamas in bed.
Unfortunately, not every moment could be like that.
There was another time, a few days later, where Yeosang was surprised to see Mars off of his perch on the couch. Mars was hunched over something in the corner of the room, completely concentrated on it. Yeo plodded over hesitantly to see a cornered rat. He opened his mouth, ready to tell Mars that he would take care of it. He figured Mars was afraid of the unfamiliar creature, upset.
What a stupid thing to think.
A black tentacle shoots out of Mars’s shoulder so swiftly it’s a blur. The rat doesn’t stand a chance. Mars’s appendage pierces the rat’s gut effortlessly, from the pointed tip, a dozen skinny little tendrils wrap around the rodent like veins, gradually expanding, consuming it until there’s nothing left. Yeosang remains frozen in horror, mouth agape as he watches the creature disappear in seconds.
Mars licks his lips when he withdraws his tentacle as if expressing satisfaction with a good meal. Is that what he’s been eating all this time? Yeosang has never seen him eat or drink anything before. What irks Yeosang is the slightest inkling that perhaps he doesn’t need to eat. Maybe he just killed the rat for fun.
Yeosang picked his research back up in earnest after that.
He expanded his search beyond the library, shelling out for zoos and rifling through the strange pseudo-science sections of book shops. He found a lot of stuff, but nothing spot on. There are plenty of dark tentacle monsters in folklore. Various aquatic creatures (mostly categorized as “giant”), lovecraftian horrors, demons from all types of mythology. In terms of animals, Mars’s blackened form resembles a variety of things, but he still finds it most like a black slug. There are aliens called “darkling tentacles” - but they didn’t quite fit the bill. There are countless shape-shifters, too, but the majority are described as animal spirits - wolves and foxes mostly.
While there are certain qualities Mars shares with many of the things - shape shifting, dark “skin”, slick, slithering - not a single one is a perfect fit. Mars is not especially violent. Or, at least, not so far. Yeosang still fears the rat episode is indicative of something that could be developing. One of his theories is that Mars is a young whatever-he-is, and that upon reaching maturity, his appetite will increase acutely. As of right now, Mars only has an appetite for one thing.
That flicks on a light for Yeo.
He’s been tunneling on all thinks inky, black, and slithering. But what of his habits?
Yeosang whips out his laptop and sets it down on the reading desk in the book shop. He frantically searches, opening up the entire first page worth of links for the search-term:
Incubus.
There are various definitions, but they boil down to mean the same thing. A male demon who visits their victims at night to satiate their seemingly unquenchable libido. Their effects are listed as various, things as simple as unwanted pregnancy (probably a scapegoat) to death from exhaustion. Incubi can be violent and are sex-obsessed. They’re often described to cover their victims mouths to asphyxiate them and cover up their screams. Some articles say they put their victims in a trance.
Yeosang draws back from his laptop.
Looks-wise, Mars has none of the qualities that the articles describe - neither the hideous, exaggerated features of the olden days or the newly glamorized pretty-boy ones.
Wait. The shape shifting.
Can it be?
Yeosang remembers their most intense coupling. It was the first time he’d been truly lucid, the first time he really understood he wasn’t dreaming. The way Mars absolutely consumed him, how he choked him, smothered him…
Yeosang starts typing frantically: how to ki
He stops.
Can he really kill Mars?
How to send away an incubus.
Yeosang’s leg shakes busily as his results load. He frantically clicks on the first one and curses.
“Exorcism”
Fuck, he’s not religious.
“Relocation”
Not really an option. He’s locked into his lease. Nobody’s gonna rent out a single this time of year, and even if they did he doesn’t have enough for a security deposit - not to mention the fees of breaking his lease. Of course, couch surfing has helped. He wonders if he can make something up about the house needing gas for bugs or having a mold problem. That’s temporary, though. Anything too obvious and he’ll probably get accused of insurance fraud or something. That’s all assuming Mars does leave him alone.
Pretty much every solution is rooted in a religion Yeosang doesn’t really participate in.
“Okay,” He mutters to himself. “Okay.”
He nibbles on his nails nervously, raking over the facts - or what he thinks the facts are. Mars is maybe, perhaps an incubus. Kind of. Incubus’ have insatiable lust. They may impregnate their victims (not gonna happen to Yeo). Their victims may also die of exhaustion if they give it up too much (something Yeo figures won’t happen with modern medicine - plus he eats and drinks well).
“This’ll be fine,” Yeo murmurs. He wonders if he’s gonna have to convert or join some church. Maybe holy water is enough. He’ll figure it out another time, but the night’s run late, and he’s ready to sleep. He stumbles home and mumbles a greeting to Mars who’s watching the pig show again. Yeosang goes straight to bed, throwing off his clothes and collapsing. He stirs slightly when there’s a disturbance a few minutes later. Through his lidded eyes, he can make out the hazy silhouette in the dark. Black, slick tentacles grab the edges of his blanket and pull it up to his shoulder. One of them slides up and caresses Yeo’s cheek. He winces at the cool sensation, but surprisingly it’s not wet or slimy which is weird. He falls asleep after that.
For the briefest period of time, Yeosang thinks he’ll be okay, but that idea shatters just two days after his discovery. He walks into his first class and takes his usual seat. A girl sits in front of him, and her sweet, powdery perfume wafts into his nose. He’d never really noticed it before, but things had been off since the morning. He’d been more sluggish than ever, his head swimming and his guts wrenching in protest when he reached for his morning coffee. He forced it down, knowing damn well he’s nothing without his morning beverage and toughed it out.
Feverish heat washes over him in waves, and that goddamn, artificial, oversweet stench fills Yeosang’s nostrils. He buries his face in his sleeve to get the smell out, but it doesn’t help. It’s like it’s fucking stuck there. Yeo’s stomach starts to churn, and he starts salivating. He swallows down mouthful after mouthful, willing the violent roiling of his guts to stop. He’s glad he sits in the back, because it makes his panicked retreat all the more swift. He can’t even make it to the bathroom, hacking up bile and coffee into the trashcan right outside the lecture hall. He feels so fucking shitty, the public humiliation doesn’t even hit him.
Someone catches him in the hallway. He hears an “are you okay?” but just grunts in response. Obviously, he’s not. The funny thing is, he actually feels infinitely better after the fact. Usually the brief honeymoon of relief only lasts a few minutes, but even after the fifteen minute walk home, he’s fine. Still, he stays home just to be sure. He sits on the couch and dozes off to documentaries with Mars.
The creature - an incubus, Yeosang thinks; he’s been calling Mars that in his head, anyway - rubs soothing circles on Yeosang’s tummy. Somehow, he knows.
That was only the first of many episodes.
In the weeks following, Yeosang’s health degenerates at an alarming pace.
It starts with something he can only describe as morning sickness. His stomach is too sensitive and his senses too keen. Almost any smell sets him off, necessitating a mask for morning classes. It’s a stark contrast to later in the day, when the hunger sets in. Having not eaten all day, his metabolism seems to go into overdrive to compensate. He eats everything in sight - yet, he doesn’t gain a pound. The yin and yang of morning sickness versus afternoon hunger.
After about two weeks, the cramping starts.
Yeosang wakes up in a clammy sweat, his insides churning in a different way, a way he’d never felt in his life. It’s like someone is stabbing his lower abdomen over and over and over and over again. It’s like someone’s taken his intestines and is playing jump rope with them or abusing them like play putty. He can’t move. He can barely breathe. He’s powerless to do much else than roll around in bed and make pained noises.
If the morning nausea doesn’t get him, sometimes the pain from the cramping will. It brings him to tears on more than a few mornings, and it gets to the point that his friends are worried. Yeosang goes to urgent care per advice, but nothing is found. Not even so much as a temperature. They look at the symptoms and make some dietary recommendations. “You might just be a little stopped up” they say before asking about his bowel movements.
Yeosang insists that he’s fine, and he nearly dies of a heart attack when Wooyoung (who has the spare key) says he’ll stop by. Yeo has no idea what the incubus will do if he sees another human. Sure, he’s seen them on camera, but in real life? Yeosang has no idea about the beast, and he doesn’t want Wooyoung to be the test case.
Mars is a peculiar creature, Yeosang thinks, because he seems to care. Yeosang still isn’t sure about the probably-maybe-incubus. Initially, Yeo saw him as nothing but a black amorphous mass acting on instinct. But Mars has, on more occasion than one, carried Yeosang into bed. He’s pressed chaste kisses on Yeo’s feverish forehead and rubbed his stomach soothingly when his pains are bad.
Does he care? Or did he pick it up from one of the documentaries he’d watched?
Whatever it may be, Mars tries to help. He does so in soft gestures, but he also does so in his own distinct way. Nothing fights cramps quite like an orgasm - something the incubus is always eager and ready to provide. Yeo will be laying on his side and feel the other lay behind him. It starts gently enough - teasing caresses, a hand rubbing circles on his stomach, but Yeosang quickly melts beneath the incubus’s touch. He writhes and wriggles until he can feel the other’s cock against his back, and those hands dip beneath the waistband of his pants.
Yeosang has gotten so damn desensitized, the tentacles aren’t even shocking to him anymore. They just are. A part of Mars, an appendage - a deliciously versatile one at that. Sometimes, they’re bone-dry and smooth, like a snake or a lizard, but they can get slick with secretion to the point of dripping. Mars can mold himself into many shapes - girthy or skinny, bulbed or even a needle-thing to reach places Yeosang hadn’t even dreamed of stimulating.
The pleasant swell in his gut never fails to snuff out his pain. But that’s temporary. Eventually he has to peel himself out of bed, shower, and face the day. Ibuprofen becomes an honorary food group for him with his frequency of pill popping.
By four weeks fatigue starts to set in. In spite of his persistent appetite, his skin appears taut against his bones, things he’d never noticed pronouncing themselves.
That’s when it hits him.
He’s sick.
Like, sick, sick. This isn’t going away, this is a chronic thing.
Many victims die at the hand of incubi due to sickness and exhaustion.
It runs him over like a truck, and his heart sinks. His first thought is: he can’t go back there. Yeosang practically throws himself at Wooyoung who eagerly welcomes him in, saying he should’ve come earlier. Yeo apologizes profusely and buys the other food. Wooyoung reassures him, telling him that he’ll take care of him, that he’s been enduring it so well but he doesn’t have to, that even though he’s been MIA due to sickness they still love him.
Yeosang sleeps over for a few days and doubles his dose of painkillers. It’s not the perfect solution, but he functions alright. He can still do the things he has to do. He wonders about Mars, but knowing the creature, it’s probably just sitting on the couch, watching documentaries, none the wiser.
Friday night after a month of being sick hits, and Yeo’s feeling decent. Not perfect, but good enough to get bullied into a night out. He figures what his trusty ibuprofen won’t do, the booze will. It’s been the longest he’s been apart from Mars since the bastard broke out. Sometimes, he gets hit with a twinge of guilt, but that gets dissolved after the first shot.
The night smears.
It’s a blur of colored lights and pounding bass. Yeosang grinds on Wooyoung who grinds on San who grinds on some tall stranger. Yeosang’s bank account takes a massive hit after drink after drink after drink after order of fries after drink. He’s cramping like a motherfucker, but he doesn’t even care.
Fuck, it’s nice.
All of his reservations, his issues, his neuroses - they’re all drowned by the drink. He knows damn well he’ll have regrets and he’ll wake up feeling thirty times shittier. But for the few hours of solace he gets from his own thoughts? From his pain? It’s worth it. He gets sandwiched between two strangers, he dances on a table, he dances on a pole, someone slaps his ass, he drinks a shot off of someone’s stomach, he dances more.
It’s a complete and utter blur, and nothing comes into focus until well after the night. Yeosang vaguely remembers half-assed goodbyes to his equally as trashed friends. Wooyoung seemed pretty set on taking home tall guy, and San had been talking about going to sleep for over an hour.
In the cool night air, everything sort of clarifies again, and Yeosang realizes where he’s at. He’s walking toward his place. It’s a bit of a haul, but still walkable. There’s an arm around him. A guy. Big. His arm is around Yeo’s waist, and his fingertips dip low. The guy’s rambling on about some businesses he has overseas. He has a lot of those, apparently. Always traveling for work, he says. Always on the go. Always liked younger people because they could “keep up with the lifestyle”.
He’s older, probably over thirty. That’s the first real hit of reality Yeosang gets, and it sends him reeling. Shit. A hazy memory pops up in his head. He’d stupidly told his friends something along the lines of “gonna get me a sugar daddy”. Apparently, he’d made good on his word. Shit.
The man isn’t ugly. What’s off-putting about him is his manner. He’s walking too fast, practically dragging Yeosang toward his place - if he’s such a damn good business man, why’s he going to the college kid’s dump? Is he married? Everything about him is brash, aggressive. The way he speaks, how he moves his hands as he talks, his tone of voice. A shiver runs over Yeosang’s spine, bringing with it a wave of illness. The pain is back.
“Um,” Yeosang, usually never one to hesitate being blunt, squeaks. “I’m not feeling too good.”
“Oh- Need a seat, baby?” The man asks. Baby. Infantilizing. “There’s a bench up there.”
“I think I just need to go home,” Yeosang mumbles.
“Don’t worry, daddy’ll take good care of you, baby,” The man coos.
Yup. Definitely a mistake. A throb of pain echoes through Yeosang’s lower abdomen as if in response to the man’s manner.
“A-Alone,” Yeosang says.
“Hm?”
“I- I’m gonna go home alone,” Yeosang tries to wiggle away. He manages to get out but stumbles forward, nearly wiping out on the rubble.
“Whoa- hey, hey, hey now,” The man grabs Yeosang by the waist and yanks him back. He chuckles, but it’s not a mirthful sound. “I’m gonna take you home, okay? Then we can have a lay down, get you a cup of water.”
“I’m- I’ll be fine by myself.”
“Daddy’ll help you, baby,” The man’s hands feel huge and heavy as he swipes them up and down Yeosang’s back. Perhaps Yeo would’ve accepted the offer of help getting home of the man’s hand didn’t make its resting place his ass. The weight exerts immense pressure. It’s hefty and uncomfortable and wrong. “Let’s get you home.”
“C-Can you call me a cab then?” Yeosang tries.
“Fresh air’s good for you, baby.” God. There’s that name again. Of course he wouldn’t get a cab. He doesn’t really care. A cab driver is a witness, someone who’ll see if Yeosang says no and obligate him to stay put.
“No,” Yeosang tries to say more sternly. “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest alone.” He shoves off of the other again and starts striding quickly toward his place, eyes fixed forward.
“Baby, I really think you should reconsider,” The footsteps approach loudly behind him.
How much more clear can Yeosang be?
“No,” Yeo repeats. “No means no. I- I’m sick, okay? I wanna go home and-” A hand closes around his shoulder and swings him around roughly.
The man looms over him darkly, jaw locked and brows knit in anger, “I paid a fat fucking bar tab, paid for your drinks and your little friends’ drinks half the damn night. And now you’re gonna treat me like this?”
Did he? Yeosang doesn’t remember. It’s irrelevant. The man could’ve bought him the Taj Mahal. Doesn’t mean Yeo owes him shit. Apparently, the constipated, pained cramp look on Yeosang’s face displeases the guy, because he actually shoves Yeosang. The drunk student reels, almost teetering over his heels. His eyes go wide, and fear strikes him.
“Answer me,” The man demands, like he’s Yeosang’s actual father or something.
“I- Wh- N-No,” Yeosang turns around stubbornly, “I’m going home.” He picks up into a power walk, heart hammering in his chest. He keeps his gaze down and focuses putting one foot in front of another. It’s not the easiest, but he manages. His little walk was definitely sobering. It’s quiet at night. There’s a few night owls like him, stumbling back home after a night at the bars, but everyone’s quiet.
Pain and dizziness smear together into an unpleasant swill bubbling in Yeosang’s stomach. Finally, after a walk that feels way too fucking long, Yeo can see his doorstep. He clumsily paws for his keys to open the front gate to his minuscule little yard. He stumbles through and hoists himself up the steps. It takes him a shameful amount of time to get his key into the keyhole.
A shadow stretches up the steps behind Yeosang, and he freezes.
His heart stops, and slowly he checks over his shoulder. There he is. The belligerent man at the bottom of his steps. Fuck. Yeosang scolds himself for being such an idiot. He should’ve called someone. He should’ve at least checked. But, no, he just wanted to get home. Just wanted to fucking get home.
Eyes wide with terror, Yeosang swings his open door and makes a break for it. He tries to slam it shut, but he’s clumsy and slow. The guy catches it with his foot and barges in.
“C’mon, baby, show me the bedroom,” He snarls, bearing over Yeosang menacingly. Yeosang glances toward the kitchen. There’s probably a knife he can use there.
“Get out of my house. I’m- I’m gonna call the police,” He tries first. The man doesn’t move, which Yeo figured would happen. He grabs his phone, but the man lunges. He smacks it out of Yeo’s hand and pushes him down roughly. The student’s back hits the wood floor with a loud thud, and Yeosang winces, another pain to add to the swell.
“Yeosang?” A voice crops up from the living room to the left. Yeo winces, picking himself up, and he chokes on the gasp that’d risen from his throat.
Mars.
Fuck.
The guy scoffs, “Who the fuck is this? You got a little boyfriend?”
Mars tilts his head confusedly, giving the man that wide-eyed look he always has when he’s curious. Yeosang uses the distraction to reach for his phone, but the older gentleman is canny. He stomps on Yeosang’s wrist before he can reach the phone. Yeosang wails - the force was by no means gentle. If nothing else, his wrist will be bruised and swollen. Tears stream down his face, blurring his vision.
“Yeosang!” Mars exclaims.
Yeo wipes his eyes with his good wrist. His mind is laggy, and he reaches desperately for something to say or do.
The man turns to Mars and speaks in a patronizing tone, “He and I just had a misunderstanding is all, alright? Just let it go man. He owes me somethin-”
Mars isn’t paying attention to the man at all. His gaze is on Yeosang, and distress is written on his face.
“-our little boyfriend, or fuckboy or whatever is a gold digging slut, and he tried to-”
“Family,” Mars mutters.
“The fuck?”
Mars turns to acknowledge the gentleman face on. He paces over until he’s face to face with the man. The incubus’s expression darkens, the little glimmer in his eye dying.
“Protect. Family.”
The man shoves Mars roughly, “So, what, you’re fuckin’ related?” He scoffs. “I don’t give a shit-”
Mars’s arm shoots out, and he grabs the man’s entire face with a hand. Black tentacles branch out from the hand, spreading rapidly. Pulsating anger, Mars begins to smother the man, tentacles drilling into his ears, clogging his nostrils and filling his throat. Yeosang shivers on the floor, unable to tear his eyes away.
The man lets out a desperate, throaty noise. It’s muffled, of course, unable to reach the air due to the blockage in his throat. Face fixed into a grimace, Mars lifts the man by his head until his feet are dangling. The belligerent drunk paws weakly at the thick, black coil encasing his body, but it’s a weak attempt. His skin’s already changing color, having gone from red to a sickly blue.
“Mars,” Yeosang cries. “Mars, stop it.”
The incubus doesn’t listen. Black envelops the man, wrapping around his neck and shoulders, running down his arm in twirling ribbons of slithering, amorphous flesh. A sickly snapping noise sounds out from the man’s body, and Yeosang winces.
“Mars- Mars please,” He cries out again. “Mars please. Stop it.” He doesn’t want the man to die. To go away and get arrested, maybe, but to watch him get killed? To watch Mars do it?
God, he’s in pain. The pain makes Yeosang fold over himself, and he clamps a hand over his mouth to suppress his gag reflex. It’s a sickly sight, watching a person’s life drain right before your eyes. Knowing you could be next.
“Mars stop it,” Yeosang sobs. “Mars, you’re scaring me. Stop it, please- Mars- Mars stop!” He shouts, a pathetic, wet, hoarse noise.
It works, though.
The incubuse halts immediately, his wicked scowl immediately falling. Though his hold on the man remains steadfast, his head turns to Yeosang. He tilts his head as if to ask: “What?”
Yeosang sniffles, “Don’t kill him.” He doesn’t know if Mars understands death, truly, but he tries. “Please, don’t kill him just- just make him go away, okay?”
Mars glances at the man then back at Yeosang.
“Yes- yes, him,” Yeo hiccups. “Just- make him go away, okay? That’s all. No hurt. No kill. Just away.”
Per usual, it takes the incubus a moment to contemplate Yeosang’s words. The spell of silence ensuing is excruciating. What if this is the last straw? What if he snaps? What if this triggers some sort of bloodlust in the incubus, and Yeosang will be next?
Mars nods as if coming to a conclusion.
Without so much as a second thought, he flicks his arm and throws the man away. The body shoots out the still open door all the way onto the street, rolling around until skidding to a stop on the asphalt. Then, with almost comically contrasting delicacy, Mars withdraws his tentacle and delicately shuts the door.
Yeosang stays still, letting the shock just roll over him. He just threw a grown man through the door like it was nothing. Like he was flicking a speck of dust off his pants. The incubus rushes over to the human’s side, face wrought with concern. Yeo winces as a hand - in human form, now - reaches out toward him.
Mars frowns, recoiling slightly.
“You- You scared me, Mars,” Yeosang coughs out.
Mars’s lip quivers, and he drops to his knees besides the human, “Protect.”
“That was- that was scary, Mars.”
“P-P-Protect. Protect. Family. Protect family,” The incubus says almost pleadingly.
“You hurt that person very badly. You shouldn’t do that,” Yeosang says.
“Pro-protect,” It’s the only word he can think of. He looks heartbroken, completely shattered that the human won’t see things from his perspective.
“Mars, please don’t hurt anyone anymore, okay?” Yeo tries to reason with the demon, for some reason. His nerves are shot, and it’s taking every ounce of composure he has left to keep calm. Part of him wants to completely break down, but he doesn’t know what that’ll do to the incubus. It could possibly agitate him.
Or, maybe it’ll worry him?
He looks so damn crestfallen, tears welling up in his dark eyes, face twitching, seconds from crying.
Mars murmurs, “Protect. Protect-”
“I know, Mars, I know. You did it to protect me.”
Protect family - those were his words.
Protect.
Family.
Yeo’s heart lurches at that.
That would mean Mars considers him family.
He doesn’t know how to feel about that. Not in the least. It’s sick, that’s what it is - or so rational Yeosang would say. But rational, logical Yeo left the building hours ago, some time after shot three or four. Now he’s just an emotional, blubbering mess with stomach-turning cramps and a fucked up wrist.
Mars is calling Yeosang family while Yeosang has done everything in his power to avoid him. Mars has been there to help nurse Yeosang through his pains the best he can. Mars has opened his eyes to pleasures and sensations and physical states of being Yeosang didn’t know possible. Mars has been learning and making an effort to communicate. Mars protected him in a situation that would’ve probably ended horribly otherwise.
Mars almost killed for him, too.
This is fucked, he thinks to himself.
This is so fucked.
“I know, Mars,” Yeosang sniffs, wiping away more tears. “I know. You were just trying to protect me.”
Mars nods fervently, “Protect family.”
“You did good,” Yeo hiccups. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. Why is he reassuring some otherworldly predator? “Just no more hurting, okay?”
Mars nods again, though Yeo isn’t sure the incubus genuinely understands. That’s okay. He’s a fast learner, at least. Yeosang attempts to sit more upright and winces. Pain resonates from his abdomen around to his back and down into his hips.
Suddenly, he feels something wrap around him. The sensation is fairly familiar now. Mars scoops Yeosang up in his human arms, reinforcing the hold with tentacles coming out of his back and sides. It makes a sort of cradle, supporting Yeosang in all the right places, wrapping around him to make him feel secure.
“Thanks,” Yeo murmurs. He’s so damn tired, dizzy, and dazed, he dozes off just during the trip upstairs. He rouses a bit later, woken up by gentle patting on his face. It’s just a brief spell of consciousness. He registers a towel dabbing his skin and hair. It smells nice. Did he take a shower? He sorta-not-really wakes up again a bit later, tickled by slender feelers sliding on a fresh shirt. He giggles and makes some blubbering remark he doesn’t even remember to the hazy silhouette of Mars before falling back asleep.
Yeosang is roused some time in the late afternoon by the stirring of his guts. The sensation is painfully familiar - literally. He folds over himself and rides out the first wave of nausea. It isn’t until his vision clear that he notices Mars standing there, staring.
Yeo’s used to it by now. The creature watches him like a hawk. Why? Yeosang always assumed it was out of curiosity, but what if his intention is different?
Protect.
Is the incubus’s display of emotion caused by actual care - a soul? - or is it possessiveness? Perhaps it’s pure instinct. It protects what it’s deemed his. But do incubus’ have families? Or packs or gaggles or herds (whatever the hell they might be)? Everything Yeosang’s read describes the creature as solitary. They definitely don’t seem like the type keen on sharing.
Another stab of pain pierces Yeo’s abdomen, and he seizes up. Shit. Just as he’d predicted, drinking was a stupid fucking idea. Every little ache and pain is exacerbated by the strained throbbing in his head and dehydration of the hangover. The incubus clamors onto the bed. It wraps a human arm around Yeosang, using the other hand to stroke soothingly on his stomach.
At this point, the twitch in Yeosang’s cock is practically just muscle memory. He parts his legs, silently begging for that temporary relief. It’s like the world is a blur, and the only time it can come into full focus anymore is when Mars is touching him, caring for him, tugging on his leaking cock and pressing kisses on his neck. The swell of heat in his stomach dissolves the pain, replacing it with sweltering pleasure.
Yeo’s hips frantically rock into the creature’s touch. Mars has the power to absolutely annihilate him, to break him without a second thought, to spread Yeosang out and fill him to the brim, throwing him over the edge over and over and over again - but he doesn’t. He’s tender - almost delicate - in his ministrations. Yeosang covers his mouth and groans as the heat simmering in his abdomen boils over.
He shudders in the aftermath even though it hadn’t been all that strenuous. All too soon, his bleariness returns, and the cramps return. He knows he can’t stay in bed all day, but the idea is damn tempting.
Some incubus victims die from exhaustion after multiple visits.
No. He definitely can’t stay in bed. His mouth feels cottony, his lips chapped and plastered together. After taking a minute to motivate himself, Yeo finally manages to leave the comfort of his sheets. Even though he feels uncomfortably warm, he shudders after leaving their warmth.
He wipes himself off and stumbles downstairs to his kitchen. Mars follows at his tail like a shadow, always just a breath away, hovering. The student puts on water for tea - he’s not sure he can handle coffee - and downs a cup of water. He shakily throws a couple of ibuprofens down his throat and makes himself toast.
The day is unremarkable.
Yeosang almost trips over his phone, having forgotten that it’d gotten kicked across the floor the night before. The memory plays through his head, leaving an unsettling impression. He tries to shake the vision out of his mind and answers the storm of notifications on his phone. They start out humored. “How’d it go with your daddy?” “Did you actually leave with that guy?” but they transition into worry. “Are you okay?” “Yeosang we’re starting to worry about you.” “Please answer.”
“He was a creep,” Yeosang answers his group chat. “I dumped him on the walk back.” Like hell can he tell them the truth.
He gets a few jokes out of that, but the subject changes quickly, thank god. They switch the topic to Wooyoung’s exploit, a hotty with a “monster cock” named Yunho. As if Wooyoung knows anything about monster cocks. Yeosang nearly types that out, but he doesn’t know how he’d respond when they inevitably ask for elaboration.
All Yeosang does on Saturday is loaf around. Basically the day (and night) is a sequence of him changing locations and positions in his house. He sits in a chair to eat and dick around on his phone. He sits at his desk and plays league. He starts feeling wobbly and lays down in bed. He goes down to the couch to watch documentaries with Mars. He sits, lays awkwardly, curls up in a ball, sticks one leg out - an improvised dance in an attempt to mitigate his cramping pain.
He plays another game of league, and it gives him vertigo. His friends lament his hasty departure mid-game and defend him against the pubbies in chat while he retches in the sink. He balls himself up on the couch again, and this time Mars stares at the man instead of the television. Something wraps around Yeosang, and for a second he panics. Half a dozen thick, black tentacles squeeze his arm gently. They’re surprisingly warm. Yeosang falls alseep like that, curled up against the creature.
He wakes up at about six in the morning with burning pain in this lower abdomen, and he can’t go to sleep. When he goes to take a leak, there’s blood in the urine.
Fuck.
That’s new.
He limps over to bed and curls up. Mars stands there, as he always does, a silent stalker, staring - always staring, expression blank. Yeosang gives up on going back to sleep at about eight and starts reading comics on his phone. He gets an invitation to brunch around nine-thirty and politely declines. He’s pretty sure anything he eats will get swiftly ejected from his digestive system.
“You’re always sick lately,” Wooyoung texts, and Yeo can see his friend’s frown through the letters on the screen.
“Yeah idk” He texts back.
“Sorry” He adds, because he is. He’s been a fairly absent friend for the past weeks. He’s too fatigued to do much outside of resting in his spare time. Friday night was a rare occurrence - one he’s not eager to repeat any time soon.
“Wtf don’t say sorry,” Wooyoung tells him. He’s so nice. Why are his friends so damn nice? Sometimes, Yeosang thinks he really doesn’t deserve them.
“Did you go to the doctor?” Woo asks.
“Yeah. They said it was constipation,” Yeo adds a shrugging emoji to that.
“That’s bullshit, you need a second opinion,” Wooyoung texts.
“Youre probably right. I peed blood this morning,” Yeosang admits. Usually he doesn’t like talking about this kind of shit with his friends, but he’s too damn tired to give a shit.
“I’ll go Monday before class,” He says.
“Fuck that. I’m taking you to the ER,” Wooyoung replies.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“You’re sick all the time and you’re losing weight. Even when you’re not having vertigo, you’re in pain…”
“I can go Monday”
“No. I’m coming over”
Yeosang’s heart stops.
“Don’t come over. I’m a mess rn,” Yeo taps frantically.
“I have a key :)” Woo responds.
“Please don’t, I’m a mess,” Fear shoots into Yeosang’s veins like a venom. “It’s coming out both ends.” He lies(ish).
“Ill wear a hazmat suit” Wooyoung laughs.
“No seriously dont”
“Too late. Got my keys.”
“You do not have to. Ill be fine.”
“On my way :)”
Yeosang sends about a dozen more frantic messages telling him to stay the fuck away, but Woo doesn’t answer. He’s probably driving. Yeosang’s gaze flits over to Mars. He stands there doing what he always does - watching. What’s he gonna tell Wooyoung? What’s he gonna tell Mars?
Yeo swallows nervously, hopping out of bed and running down stairs. Mars follows, taking his perch on the couch obediently as Yeosang searches for a channel. Time runs like sand through Yeo’s fingers. It’s not like Wooyoung lives far. And of course the fucker is close enough to Woo relationship-wise that he doesn’t even bother knocking before sticking his key into the lock.
Wooyoung steps in, loud and boisterous, and he starts with a yell, “YEO- oh. You’re here. I thought you’d be in bed.”
Yeo wipes his sweaty palms on his hoodie and nods.
He’s watching.
Yeosang can feel it, the creature’s gaze heavy on him. On Wooyoung. Fuck.
“Y-Yeah,” Yeosang murmurs weakly. “We can, um, go.”
“You ready? Let’s g…” Wooyoung trails off. He notices.
Yeosang heart drops onto the ground.
Wooyoung narrows his eyes at the silent, black-haired “man” peeking over his shoulder from the couch. Not a single word is exchanged. Not a sound. Yeo peeks at the incubus and sees an expression blank, discerning. He’s thinking, judging.
“Who’s this?” Wooyoung’s voice lilts up into a tone of amusement. “Hold up- I- Is this the real reason why you’ve been so- are you-?”
“He’s fine to stay here,” Yeosang mutters rushedly. “Let’s go.”
“Wh- B- Hey, you’re not even gonna introduce me?”
“Later. I feel shitty. Doctor now,” Yeo starts actually physically pushing Wooyoung out the door, but his friend resists.
“Hold up, I know you,” Wooyoung’s brow furrows, and he takes a step closer. Yeosang’s eyes blow wide open, and his heart hammers against his chest. The anxiety further contributes to the overarching pain running throughout his body. Woo narrows his eyes, “Aren’t you… Seonghwa?”
Mars tilts his head curiously, blinking a few times. Wooyoung’s gaze darts between Mars and Yeosang, suspect. Of course he’s suspicious. After all, when the real Park Seonghwa decided he wasn’t worth texting anymore, Yeosang whined about it nonstop. His friends were his shoulders to cry on. They comforted him as he bemoaned his crush’s abandonment.
So, seeing him (or a person they think is him) on Yeosang’s couch in the morning is probably pretty fucking weird.
“I- I was gonna tell you, about that,” Yeosang grumbles. “Later. Can we go now?”
“So, what, you two are like…” Woo gestures between them, “You’re a thing now? Again? Or did you just-” He looks at Mars conspiratorially.
“He’s lost his voice,” Yeosang lies. “He can barely speak.” At least that’s the truth.
“Well, why didn’t he offer to take you to the doctor?” Wooyoung asks, annoyed. Of course he is, he’s protective of his friend - like any good friend would be - and from his perspective some jerk who blew his friend off is now chilling on the couch while said friend is suffering.
“He doesn’t have a car,” Yeosang mutters. Another pulse of pain resonates from his abdomen into his pelvis and up his spine. He winces.
“Have you even been taking care of him?” Wooyoung’s tone dips into actual anger. Fuck. Yeosang’s glad his friend cares so much about him, but now is not the time. Mars’s eyes go wider. He responds with an inquisitive quirk of the head.
“Wooyoung, stop,” Yeo says through gritted teeth. The cramping is getting worse, and his knees are starting to knock together. “Can this wait?”
“Yeo, I’m just worried about you,” Wooyoung frowns. “He doesn’t seem worried at all, though.”
Mars is still silent. Observing.
“Wooyoung,” Yeosang huffs, “If you’re not gonna take me to the doctor’s, then please leave so I can go to bed.”
“Wha- Yeo are you serious?”
“Please. This is none of your business.”
“It is my business. You’re sick and miserable for the past month. You- you’re practically a ghost. We barely get to see you unless your crashing at one of our places, and then I come to take you to the doctor and this- this jerk is here just- casually sitting on your couch like he lives here. What is going on?”
A tear drops down Yeosang’s cheek, squeezed out by pain and duress, “Please, Wooyoung, not now.”
“Yes, now, Yeosang. We’re really worried about you.”
“Okay, I’ll- in the car, I’ll just-”
“No, not in the car!” Woo exclaims, his voice echoing loudly. “I’ve known you for years. Whatever it is, you can tell me!”
Yeosang’s blood freezes. He sees it out of the corner of his eye. The shadow shifting. One second, he’s on the couch, the next, he’s there, standing between them. Wooyoung steps back, shocked. Mars’s expression is dark, threatening.
“Oh, so now you’ve got something to say?” Wooyoung huffs. Dammit.
“Protect,” Mars hums, a low growl.
Yeosang steps between them quickly, “It’s fine,” He searches for the creature’s dark gaze.
Woo scoffs, “I’ve known him for years. If anyone’s protecting Yeosang, it’s me.”
“Wooyoung, stop,” Yeosang tells his friend. Mars doesn’t back down, and neither does Wooyoung.
Yeo swallows nervously, grabbing at the collar of Mars’s shirt and leans forward, whispering, “Hey, hey- it’s fine, okay. Wooyoung is fine. We like Wooyoung. Wooyoung is a friend.”
“Woo… Friend…” Mars mutters. His tensity slackens ever so slightly.
“Yes, Wooyoung is my best friend- you know. I’ve told you about him,” Yeosang plays it up.
“Friend,” Mars repeats the word. He looks down in contemplation, taking his time to consider the information he’d been presented with.
Yeosang focuses on keeping his breathing steady. Whether it’s the stress or the exertion, something about the situation is making it difficult for him to breathe.
Mars’s fierce expression falls away, and he nods, “Friend.”
He understands?
“Yeah, the- the one I told you about,” Yeosang coughs. “Wooyoung.”
“Wooyoung,” Mars’s eyes shift from Yeo to Wooyoung. “Wooyoung,” He repeats. “Friend.” His lips upturn ever so slightly.
So he does know what “friend” means. It must’ve been from the pig show, Yeosang figures.
“Uh, yeah,” Woo replies gruffly. “I’m Wooyoung. His friend. I’ve known him for five years, by the way.”
“Friend,” Mars nods again, then he steps forward. Yeosang nearly keels over from shock, terrified when he sees Mars’s arms reach out. Yeo is petrified in place, and his mouth drops open in horror as Mars wraps his arms around Wooyoung.
“Friend,” Mars repeats, rubbing circles on Wooyoung’s back.
The creature hugged Wooyoung.
That’s all. He hugged him. The terrified tension in Yeosang’s chest uncoils, and he nearly drops to his knees with relief. Apparently, Peppa Pig taught him the word “friend” but didn’t teach personal boundaries. That, Yeosang could deal with. Wooyoung’s face squashes into a befuddled expression of shock. He awkwardly returns the hug, parting eagerly and ushering Yeosang out the door.
Wooyoung drills him on the drive to the ER. Yeosang can barely cobble together a story. Seonghwa is sick. Seonghwa isn’t much of a talker. Seonghwa wanted to try again and they’ve been working it out. It’s fairly new, so Yeo didn’t want to tell anyone until it was “stable”. Yeo begs Woo not to tell anyone - it’s a pretty empty request. Yeosang knows damn well Wooyoung will probably run to tell San the first second he gets a chance. Doesn’t stop him from hoping.
They roll into the emergency room and, luckily, the wait isn’t long. Yeosang signs in and curls up in an uncomfortable chair. Wooyoung rubs soothing circles in his back. It doesn’t help the pain, but the intention is nice. Yeosang is grateful for him.
Yeo’s called in. Woo asks if he wants company, but Yeosang declines. He follows the nurse into the back and has his vitals taken. He has, in fact, lost weight. Nine pounds, to be exact.
He describes his condition - severe abdominal pains, nausea and vomiting, fatigue, blood in urine. The doctor, a kind looking older woman, asks how long his condition has been the way it is. Yeosang tries to recall. It’s been a few months. She frowns at that. He mentions his previous visit - when his symptoms were less severe, and she nods, scribbling more frantically.
She fires back with an onslaught of questions. Yes, he’s sexually active. Yes he uses contraception. No, he doesn’t smoke. No, he doesn’t do drugs. He hasn’t been out of the country and has no pre-existing conditions. He’s not on any medications and has no known allergies. Hasn’t noticed any blood in his stool, either.
Blood in the urine points to a UTI, a common, solvable problem. An easy solution, something quick that can be wrapped up with recommendations of cranberry juice and a prescription. Yeosang frowns. He wishes it was that easy.
The doctor orders a urinalysis. He’s given a cup and directed to the bathroom. His face scrunches in pain as he fills the cup. Fuck, it hurts. Everything fucking hurts. He’s so damn tired of it. The sample is collected by a nurse, and Yeosang waits in the exam room. The fluorescent light casts everything in a dismal, bluish-grayish tone. He scrolls his twitter feed and skims the posters on the wall. It’s some generic anatomy thing.
There’s a chart detailing human musculature and another labeling layers of the epidermis. There are various leaflets on the counter opposite the table. Some advertise medicines while others discuss more general issues. “Post natal depression help” “Flu Prevention” “Get your purple back - Humera”.
The paper on the exam table scrunches loudly as Yeosang lays down. His pain is perpetual, but the intensity ebbs and flows like the tides. Oftentimes, during the day, it’s bearable. A dose of over the counter pain killers will help dull it down to manageable levels. A three or a four on the pain scale shown to him by the doctor. But then the wave washes up onto shore, and in one fell swoop he’s a shivering mess, body twisting and contorting in hopes of finding solace in just the right position. Agony twists his intestines and swirls his brain, making him hazy and off-kilter.
It seems to be ramping up now.
Yeosang isn’t sure how long the doctor is out. He semi-sleeps for what feels like fifteen minutes. Wooyoung sent a text during that time: “How are things going?”. Yeosang taps something out about the test, the possibility of a UTI. “That doesn’t explain everything else tho” Wooyoung says. He’s right.
The doctor is a cool customer, obviously experienced and unphased. Even with her face trained into professional neutrality, Yeosang can tell something is up.
“Yeosang, I have a few more questions,” She says.
Yeosang’s brows furrow. He’s getting tired of this. He huffs and obliges. Yes, he has noticed weight loss and, yes, muscle loss as a consequence of it. No, he really hasn’t been taking any strange drugs, medications, steroids or hormones. He asks why? What did they find?
She frowns.
“Our urinalysis is a pretty diverse panel, so it searches for a lot of things. Judging by the appearance it’s definitely apparent that there is dehydration, obviously the blood in the urine as well can be indicative of things like a UTI, but we found something else from the sample.”
“What?” Yeosang hugs his knees. It’s hard to concentrate when it feels like his insides are being rearranged. He’d been freezing just a minute ago, but now he’s sweating.
“We found elevated levels of a hormone called hCG. It’s called human chorionic gonadtropin. In males, hCG is a known tumor marker.”
The word “tumor” makes Yeosang’s eyes blow wide open.
The doctor picks up on it immediately and tries to smooth his ruffled feathers, “It can mean a lot of things, though. You’re dehydrated, so your levels may be inflated. We’ve put in an order for a sonogram. The radiology ward is on the fourth floor, so I’m just gonna fill out some more notes and send you up, alright?”
Yeosang nods numbly. The doctor hands him a copy of something. He doesn’t bother reading it. He’s too frazzled to really understand the directions he gives her, so he just asks her to write them down on a post-it. She does, giving a few more satiating remarks talking about how they’ll “take care of him” and “help him get to the bottom of it”.
Yeo clutches his stomach as he walks back out to the waiting room. Tears well up in his eyes, but he blinks them away adamantly. He hates crying in public. Wooyoung rushes to his side and it’s questions, questions, questions.
Yeosang feels faint.
He leans heavily on his friend as he’s escorted up to radiology and seated in another uncomfortable chair. He passes out on Wooyoung’s shoulder.
He’s woken up by a gentle shake some indiscernible amount of time later. For some reason, it’s in that moment that the thick, artificial citrus scent of whatever cleaner they use drifts into Yeosang’s nose. His stomach turns as he follows the medical assistant back. His vitals are taken again. “Looks like you’ve got a bit of a temperature” The affable girl tuts. “So what brings you in?” Yeosang mutters something about the order.
He’s escorted to another exam room. It’s dark, and Yeo can see the sonogram apparatus. His heart wrenches again, and his throat constricts with anxiety. He lays on the table, waiting for the sonographer. Even though he’s no longer in the waiting room, lemon lingers in his nose. His stomach roils and the room spins.
The sonographer comes in a moment later. She’s an older, handsome woman. Her voice is calm and soothing. It probably helps to be so serene in her profession. God knows what this woman has seen, what she’s had to tell other patients.
What she’s about to tell Yeosang.
Yeosang goes through the motions. He tells her about his symptoms and how he ended up in radiology. She nods receptively, taking a few notes of her own. She informs him of the procedure, and he’s given a gown. She steps out so he can change. It’s a sluggish process. Never had changing clothing been so taxing to Yeosang.
Everything spins, and his body aches. The mere act of moving activates pains he wasn’t even aware he had. His entire body is tender to the touch, and his stomach swims from the small motions it takes.
He’s bracing himself by the time the sonographer returns. Gripping onto the sides of the examination chair for his life. He tells her he feels woozy, and she kindly grabs a receptacle off the counter and sets it onto a rolling table near him. She asks if he’s ever had a sonogram before, and he tells her no, he hasn’t.
It starts.
She puts tape on his thighs, and he can feel skin stretching. The gel is cool and unpleasant on his skin. Even more so is the probing sensation of the transducer. He used to wonder if guys got hard-ons from their exams. Part of him was always paranoid about getting an embarrassing boner or something during a doctor’s visit. Now, he realizes that, god, no, they probably don’t. What a stupid thought.
Few things are less comfortable than what he feels now.
Of course, the overwhelming, general sickness is sure as fuck not helping. He hesitantly glances at the screen as the image comes to life, black and white stirring on the screen.
“Now, if we’re normal and healthy, we won’t see anything. It’ll all look kinda gray…”
Their eyes are trained on the screen. The grainy, monochromatic image shifts, and with it so does Yeosang’s stomach. He swallows down mouthful after mouthful of spit, eyes trained on the screen, heart lodged in this throat.
The sonographer lets out a breath, “So, it looks like there’s something here.” She moves the tranducer abruptly, and Yeosang winces at the unpleasant sensation.
He hesitantly checks the screen and chokes.
“There’s quite a few, actually.”
Yeo brances the exam chair even more tightly, the grip blistering as scarcely cushioned metal digs into his palms.
“Wait a minute,” The sonographer breathes out. She shifts the transducer again.
“Is- Is that a tumor?” Yeosang asks weakly, eyes wide with terror, fixed on the screen.
“These growths, they’re different,” The sonographer says. “I’ve never seen any like this. Usually they’re sort of balled up little knots or even big lumps. These are like… Hm.” The transducer travels across to the other side, and it’s more of the same. “There’s a couple here, too…”
“So, um, what does that mean?” Sickness balloons up dangerously, in Yeosang’s gut. His throat convulses, but he stubbornly suppresses it, more concerned with his sonogram.
The sonographer speaks calmly, “I have an idea, but I think I might grab the radiologist on the floor for a second- oh!” She gasps, practically jabbing the probe into Yeo’s sac. Her voice softens, and she speaks in a tone that sounds almost awed, “Did you see that, Yeosang?”
“S-See what?” All Yeosang can see right now is the edges of his vision tunneling. The screen is obscured behind the haze of his nausea.
“Oh- It did it again, look at it,” The sonographer sounds… Excited. Eerily so. Perhaps it’s good news. She points to the screen, at one of the atypical masses.
Yeosang leans forward and squints, fighting his sickness to see what the woman is talking about. The masses are completely unlike her description of a typical growth. They’re in no way round, bulbous, or “knot” like. They’re long and thin, a few of them overlapping almost like hairs or noodles.
Yeosang watches closely, knuckles white on the armrests and eyes narrowed. He focuses so intensely that the rest of the dark room goes near black. All he can see is the image, the streaky black and gray ultrasound of his insides. Then, it happens.
One of them - the masses, the noodles, the hairs the what the fuck evers - it twitches. Yeosang practically jumps back.
“There it is!” She exclaims softly. “Did you see that? Wh- Oh, it’s doing it again. That little guy’s on the move…”
The way it moves is familiar. The slight tendril coiling and uncoiling, wriggling across his insides like a damn snake.
“Yeosang, have you been out of the country recently?” The sonographer asks. Her voice sounds muffled by the buzz of sheer anxiety dimming the world around Yeosang. He shakes his head numbly. She asks, “Have you perhaps eaten any raw or undercooked meat? Do you like your meat rare…?”
She keeps talking, but Yeosang can’t understand her anymore. She’s drowned out by the loud pounding of his heart and the thunderous moiling of his guts.
“-ood news is that this doesn’t look like cancer. It appears to be a case of worms.”
Worms.
Wriggling, writhing, disgusting worms.
Worms that move just like him.
Suddenly, the spark of understanding ignites. A memory flashes into Yeosang’s head. The vision of Mars, head tilted and lips tipped up in a seemingly innocent, mirthful grin.
“Incubator.”
He looked Yeosang in the eye and said that.
Yeosang always thought it was because Mars liked the word. It was one of the first words he said, and the longest one Yeosang had ever heard him speak.
Incubator.
An enclosed apparatus used to grow, care for, and protect microorganisms until cultivation time.
Mars wasn’t just saying the word for fun. He was calling Yeosang an incubator. His incubator. Those are his, and, as if knowing that Yeosang was watching, the jet black tendrils start to animate on screen. They twitch and flinch and wiggle and wave. Are they taunting him?
Incubator.
Yeosang is an incubator.
Yeosang snatches the nearby recepticle and empties the contents of his stomach into it. His throat and nose burn as he heaves, the sickness making his entire body quake with agony.
All the sonographer has to say to that is, “There, there. That’s okay…”
Yeosang feels significantly better after the entire ordeal. His nausea’s evaporated and his aching dulls to tolerable levels. There’s a flurry of activity. Order for a blood sample, quiet reassurances, gentle guidance out of the room.
“So… Worms, huh?” Wooyoung asks in the car on the drive back. Their hospital adventure ended up taking all day, and the sun’s already dipped beneath the horizon by the time they’re heading back.
Yeah, sure. Worms.
Worms my ass, Yeosang thinks. He knows damn well what they are. Trichinosis - that’s what the doctors said. The symptoms are textbook, they told him, all it takes is pills to kill those suckers. Yeosang happily accepted it along with the prescription for pills, ready to get the fuck out.
Yeosang doesn’t know how he’ll repay Woo. He told Woo that about twenty-thousand times, but being the angel that he is, Wooyoung wasn’t having it. He rejected payment at every turn and said he’s just relieved it’s not something dire. Yeo considers asking to stay the night, but after making Wooyoung sit in hospital waiting rooms for his entire Sunday, it feels like too great an imposition. He dejectedly gets out of Wooyoung’s car after almost getting pushed out and told to “go the fuck to bed”.
When he steps through the door, Mars is there like always, watching the television. Yeosang rushes straight to his shower without a word. He crumbles into the tub, hugging his knees and sitting under the warm stream. He thinks about every interaction he’s had with the creature.
Mars.
All those times he sidled up to Yeosang to comfort him from his pain. The mornings Yeosang woke up with a fresh set of clothes under his blanket after passing out elsewhere. When he expressed his desire to protect.
Yeosang feels like a moron. Like a wretched, disgusting, exploitative, fucked up, sick in the head, moron. How could he ever delude himself into thinking whatever was going on was okay? That the consequences would somehow not catch up with him? That the incubus cared?
Mars never gave a shit about him. Of course he didn’t. Because he’s a beast, a monster, a demon or maybe an alien. Whatever he is, he probably doesn’t have a soul. He’s acting on pure, animalistic, primal instinct. Many creatures have an instinct to protect their kin and whoever is bearing them. Mars’s priorities were to protect his kin. Yeosang just happened to be pitiful body who happened to be deemed host.
He sobs.
He sobs because he’s never felt like such a fucking fool in his life. He sobs because he’s thoroughly disgusted with himself. He sobs because he’s trapped with this creature. He sobs because he doesn’t know what the future holds - what happens when his usefulness expires? And how will those tiny creatures eventually leave his body? Is he a host, destined to be consumed from the inside out, or will they simple burrow their way out, gnashing at skin from within when they’re ready to emerge?
He sobs because he’s so, so pathetic because he’s sobbing because he feels like he’s lost something. Pain scratches inside his chest and up his throat as he sobs, because a tiny, deplorable morsel of him was actually convinced that this creature in some way, shape, or form cared. That it loved him. That if nothing else he had this creature, this thing that would love him no matter how despicable he was or how sick he got or how lazy he felt or how shitty he looked.
He sobs because he knows that very creature is looming just beyond his shower curtain, staring, probably with its head tilted curiously.
He cries until there’s nothing left but hiccups and achy eyes.
The pills don’t help with the symptoms, really. Yeosang is disappointed but not surprised as he comes to learn this over the next week. He figured it wouldn’t be that easy. Even so, he stubbornly takes his meds in hopes that maybe they will kill those little fuckers.
All amicability is dropped, and Yeosang is back to avoiding home.
The symptoms worsen. It’s like his body has been taken over, converted into a machine with no purpose other than to serve those wretched worms, and now it’s spiting him. Yeosang pulls a strong face. He wears a mask and sits as close to the door as possible in his lecture halls. He uses the quick escape almost routinely, all too attuned with his sickness’s foreboding tells.
Wooyoung and San needle Yeosang about Seonghwa. “Is he feeling better?” “I still don’t trust him.” “What’s his deal?” “When are we gonna meet him for real?”. Yeo keeps it vague and prays they don’t look up the real Park Seonghwa on social media or something. The last thing Yeosang needs is for them to ask him something like “Why is Seonghwa posting selfies with a girlfriend?”. Luckily, the guy’s feed is pretty dry.
Wooyoung’s started dating tall guy - Yunho, his name turns out to be. Hearing his friend act so soft about a boy is endearing to Yeosang. For awhile, it’s a pleasant distraction. Yeo even meets Yunho one time. He’s super nice, a golden retriever of a person, and Wooyoung looks at the guy like he’s the damn sun. Yunho gives him the same twinkly look back.
Yeosang envies them so, so much.
A life without pain. A real relationship built on mutual trust, understanding, and companionship. Nothing made up or phony. Nothing depraved, disgusting, wretched, or fucked. The sweet taste they left in Yeosang’s mouth turns bitter and acrid.
Or maybe it’s just the stirring of his stomach.
God, it’s excrutiating. He can feel his intestines contracting angrily. He wonders what he did to deserve such punishment. It’s like a punch to the gut when he realizes that it’s all his own doing. He chose to mess with elements out of his breadth, he dismissively waved away the potential of consequences. He wishes he’d never stepped foot in that basement or that he wasn’t observant enough to spot the aquarium. Or maybe he wished he wasn’t so damn curious as to check it. He regrets bringing it upstairs, talking to it, nurturing that thing.
It felt like his best qualities had all come to bite him in the ass, like a kind deed had been punished. Ultimately, he’s gotten nothing but chronic pain. All because he chose to care for some peculiar, creepy creature.
Yeosang can’t even look at it’s face anymore. His eyes are perpetually on the floor when he gets home anymore. Mars’s domain is the couch, and Yeosang is fine with that. It watches, always watches. It stays away, though. Does it know Yeosang wishes it to be so? Even when he wakes up, the thing keeps relative distance. It no longer orbits at less than an arm’s length, it merely observes from a few meters away.
Something about that irritates Yeosang more.
The display of consideration is so phony. It curdles Yeosang’s insides. The student reaches a breaking point of sorts one day when he gets home to a horrific scene.
When Yeosang walks in, Mars is standing by the wall opposite the TV. That’s strange. He usually doesn’t get up. It’s Yeosang’s understanding that he doesn’t really need to. So why did he get up?
Then the smell hits him. It’s faint. Fresh. Flesh and blood, just ever so slightly underlined by the pungent musk of death, not quite set in yet. Yeo takes a step into the living room hesitantly, and his heart and stomach swap places. He clamps a hand over his mouth, and his eyes squeeze shut, suppressing tears.
At Mars’s feet is a heap of carnage. They vary. There are squirrels and rabbits, a variety of birds and a couple of toads. The creature merely glances at Yeosang, wearing that demure, doe-like expression he always has.
Yeosang suppresses his gag reflex and coughs out, “Wh- What the ffuh- what is this?” He cries.
Mars smiles and points to the wall, “Paint.”
“Wh- Wha-?” Yeo murmurs dazedly. He steps over to get a better look at what the fuck the other is talking about.
Yeosang’s jaw drops when he gets a look at the wall.
It’s covered in gore. Blood and guts are smeared everywhere in splatters and jagged lines.
“Paint,” Mars repeats almost cheerily. Rust red blood covers his arms and chest. The incubus’s pupils flitting to the TV briefly. Yeosang follows the other’s pupils in hopes of understanding.
“-ow you’re just gonna wanna do some little strokes like this,” The painter on TV speaks in a calm tone. “And now we’ve got some happy clouds…”
Yeosang sniffles and turns to the wall again.
Paint.
He wanted to paint. So he decided to brutally mutilate the closest living things he could somehow get his tentacles on and smear their life’s essence on the walls. Yeo’s gaze drifts to the pile of desicated corpses, and he can’t help but wonder when it will be his turn.
“I need to clean this,” He blubbers weakly.
Mars tilts his head, questioning.
“I- I need to clean this,” Yeosang has no idea why he’s telling the monster. It’s not listening. His head swims and his chest heaves with rapid breath as he hyperventillates. He takes a step forward, and blood rushes to his head.
When he comes to, it’s dark out. He wakes up in a panic, faint memories of a nightmare lingering in his body. For a second, he has no idea where he is. He desperately paws around until feeling the familiar edge of his bedside table. When he flicks the lamp on, he screams because the first thing he sees is the monster standing by his bedroom door.
He lets out a weak cry and scrambles out of his bed.
He’s had it. He’s fucking had it. He throws his stuff into his bookbag and storms off toward the front door. Mars follows him down the stairs, muttering “clean” when Yeo reaches the bottom. The human does a double take and, yeah, it’s clean. He hesitantly steps into the living room, and scrutinizes the floor and the gory wall.
Nothing.
The smell is gone, the animals are gone, the wall, spotless.
No, Yeosang thinks, this does nothing to redeem this monster’s atrocities. It doesn’t change what he is. Yeosang gruffly leaves the house without another word.
He rushes to the one library on campus he knows is open twenty-four hours and sets up shop. He grits his teeth through the pain as he searches manically:
How to kill an incubus.
How to kill a demon.
Killing a demon.
Banishing a demon.
The results are all very similar, and they’re not super helpful. Exorcism is the first and foremost answer, but Yeosang isn’t really religious. Even if he was, they say exorcisms aren’t something widely done. There are prayers, but Yeo’s got a feeling those won’t work either. One solution he sees from a Jewish website does pique his interest, though.
It instructs the afflicted to sprinkle ocean water.
Salt comes up a lot. It’s got cleansing properties that are acknowledged by various spiritual ideologies. Yeosang remembers those first couple of weeks with Mars. How, in that miniscule form, he looked like little more than a blob of slime. Like a slug.
Salt kills slugs.
Salt banishes bad spirits.
When he’s satisfied, Amazon order confirmed and all, Yeosang shuts his laptop triumphantly and returns home. Mars has returned to his post on the couch and greets Yeosang with a little smile. For the first time in weeks, Yeosang has something to smile about, so he smiles back.
Two-day shipping is a fantastic invention. Yeosang never thought he’d be so damned happy to see fifty pounds of salt in his life. Their bulk is almost comical in comparison to the teensy padded envelop the holy anointing oil he added came in.
Yeosang doesn’t hesitate. He collects his items off the doorstep and lugs the salt bags upstairs into his bathroom. He’s so damn eager that he doesn’t even mind the aches and pains raking his guts. Mars’s head turns, but with a stern instruction to stay, the monster remains seated, simply watching in interest. Yeosang starts filling and mixing, filling and mixing, until the bath’s as full as it can reasonably be. Yeo samples the water and grimaces. Shit. That’s salty. As the sea, he hopes, because he imagines that’s what it’ll take.
Yeo takes a deep breath to calm himself.
This is it.
This is the end.
“Mars!” Yeosang beckons the creature by name. It’s strange calling him into the bathroom. There’s something weirdly domestic about it, and Yeosang realizes he’d never once called the creature like that. The thing almost always tails him, so there’s no need to.
In seconds, he’s there, head tilted curiously. Yeo swallows nervously.
“C-Come over here, Mars,” Yeosang waves the other over. Mars has some sort of empathetic abilites, Yeosang thinks. After all, how else has he managed to so perfectly meld himself to Yeosang’s desires? How is it he can so easily anticipate the human’s wants and needs with no prompting whatsoever?
Yeosang prays that, in that moment, the other can’t intuit his intentions. The little grin on the monster’s face implies that he doesn’t. Or maybe he does feel like something is up, but his odd need to please overrides that. Maybe he’s just happy to feel wanted again.
Yeo shakes the thoughts out of his head, reminding himself he needs to stop humanizing the creature.
Yeosang opens his arms, beckoning Mars closer and closer until he can wrap his arms around the monster’s neck. The incubus smiles, and Yeosang does, too. He pulls the other close and coos.
“That’s a good boy,” Yeosang says softly, stroking its nape. It seems to like that, melting into the touch and into the hug. “That’s a good boy…” Yeosang maintains the hold for awhile. He can feel the other’s hands on his waist, feverish and antsy. Its instincts are starting to kick in, to override the seemingly uncharacteristic desire for chaste affection.
“Mars,” Yeosang speaks in such a hushed tone it’s nearly a whisper. “I need you to do something for me.” The human takes a shaky breath and mentally counts down. He whispers, “I need you to be a good boy now and die.”
He roughly shoves the creature into the tub. As canny and coordinated as Mars can be, the force takes him by surprise, and surprise blows his eyes wide open as he drops into the water.
There’s a loud splash.
Then a loud wail.
Yeosang’s nerves spike at the sight, and he wills his cooked up method to work. The water goes inky, pitch black, and agonized screams bubble up from the agitated surface. Occasionally a limb shoots out desperately - an arm, a leg. Yeosang steps back and watches in terror. He leans heavily on the bathroom counter for support and just watches. The black water undulates and twists violently. Yeosang thought he’d enjoy this, but the sight is horrific. It’s dying a painful death by his hand.
It’s suffering.
Yeo braces himself. He knows his resolve can be weak - especially in regards to Mars. He urges himself not to move. It goes against his instincts to sit by and watch while something wriggles and writhes in pain, but it has to be this way. It has to.
Suddenly, a face penetrates the water. Mars’s human mask emerges, black slime oozing down the side of his face along with water. He parts his lips and screams. It’s a human sound, strained and tortured.
“Yeosang!” It yells.
Yeo nearly pisses himself. Shit.
The creature - or what he can see of its human visage - shudders violently and screams, “Yeosang. Hurt! Hurt!” Black tentacles shoot out of the water desperately as if attempting to find an escape, but they’re short and undefined, too weak to save him.
“You hurt me too,” Yeosang says back. Why? He asks himself. Maybe this is his personal way of giving himself closure. He doesn’t know.
“Mars. H-hurt!” It yells, lost and confused. It’s as if it’s begging the question: “Why are you hurting me?”
Yeo shuts his eyes, unable to bear the sight but needing to see it through. Even after he plugs his ears he can hear the monster’s desperate sobs. Every cry drives the pike of guilt further and further into his heart. He fights it with all his might, but in spite of everything, he ventures one last look.
Though he’s weak, Mars clings to his human form. It’s skin appears pallid and sickly, though, its eyes wearing rings of red and its lips pale. Its lip quivers as it cries softly, clinging to the edge of the bath with the one hand it can muster.
“Y… Yeosang,” Mars wheezes out, despondent.
Yeosang moves without thinking. He rushes toward the bath and pulls out the humanesque parts he can. The human slips on the slick floor, falling onto his ass and dropping what one might call Mars’s torso on the ground. It’s not much to speak of, though. The creature appears human from its shoulders to a single arm to about the waist. Everything else is akin to black sludge. A thick tail of it precedes the human waist almost like that of a gorgon, and what would be an arm is nothing but a slack tentacle.
The human sobs.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He cries, terrified at what he was about to do. He was about to maliciously kill a living thing out of spite and malice. Out of disgust. Mars posed no immediate threat, but the fear that he would along with the mind-melting sickness pushed Yeosang over the edge. He damn near killed the creature. In truth, his fate is probably sealed no matter what. Either the pills kill the offspring or they don’t. The presence of the other won’t change that. Yeosang knows that, but he tried to kill it anyways.
If he’d gone through with it, he’d have been no better than a demon.
“Mars... Hurt,” Mars wheezes out weakly. His human body begins materializing again, little feelers slowly converging into a limb, gorgonesque tail transitioning into a flesh tone.
“I’m sorry, Mars,” Speaking scratches Yeosang’s throat painfully. “I was hurt, so I tried to hurt you b-”
A tentacle shoots toward him, landing so close to his head that he feels his hair ruffle.
Fuck.
“Yeosang,” Mars’s voice is low, angry.
Fuck.
Yeosang picks himself up off the ground and runs. He knows he’s no match for Mars, but he wonders if he can maybe get a head start and leave the house. Maybe then he’ll have a chance.
He lunges toward the door, but a tentacle shoots out and slams it shut. Yeosang attempts to hoist it open futilely. When that doesn’t work, he eyes the narrow window above the toilet, but a web of tentacles quickly forms over that, too, obscuring the light coming from outside.
He’s trapped, he realizes. Black, pulsating tentacles branch off of one another like veins, covering the walls. Ceiling, and floor. The monster’s human bady gets onto its feet brandishing the inky appendages sticking from its back like weapons. Yeosang steps away reflexively only for his back to hit the door.
This is it, he thinks. This is the end.
He wants to go out fighting, but he has nothing to fight with. He paws around his bathroom counter in search of something to use. He closes his hand around his razor - a pitiful little thing, really. He grips it in a vice more so he can tell himself he tried than for the sake of security. He knows he doesn’t stand a match.
Though he wishes he had something badass to say before meeting his maker, his mind is blank.
“Yeosang,” Mars repeats, human body stepping closer, an enraged glower on his face.
Yeosang braces himself against the door, body shivering violently. Tears stream down his cheeks, and hot liquid streams between his legs. Any chance he had of dying with dignity goes up in flames as he rapidly loses himself to terror. He doesn’t even have it in him to scream. Every sound that tries to come out of his throat gets stuck in there.
He’s petrified, planted on the door with wide, wet eyes as the beast bares down on him menacingly. His body quakes, and he fumbles dropping his razor and cutting himself on the face. As if playing with his food, Mars closes the gap between them, standing so close that Yeosang can feel his breath bounce off the surface of the other’s “skin”.
The creature stays like that for a moment, snarling, guttural sounds sputtering from its throbbing tendrils. Then a hand - its human hand - grips Yeosang’s face tightly. Yeosang can see between the spread fingers and watches in complete ruin as the other postures for the kill. Yeo can barely breathe with the hand tightly covering his nose, and he starts to feel lightheaded.
He suppsoses that the silver lining to it all is that he won’t feel sick and miserable anymore.
Mars releases his grip to run a finger callously down Yeosang’s cheek.
Its index stops at the cut. The creature draws its hand back abruptly, as if stung. Was it the salt in his blood? That doesn’t make sense, though, considering that he’d been fine painting with animal blood.
Mars considers the splotch of red on his pale finger. His predatory expression falls without preamable. His eyes go wide, and his jaw drops. The sheer menace he’d harbored not seconds earlier shatters, yielding to distressed shock. Yeosang, confused and trapped, can only watch.
Mars’s jaw flaps open and closed, and his eyes dart over to Yeosang - now wet.
“Yeosang,” He mutters shakily. “Yeosang… Hurt.”
Yeosang doesn’t have anything to answer to that. He barely has control over his own body which is tremoring ceaselessly.
“Yeosang hurt,” Mars cries again. His face scrunches as if pained, and his plush lip quivers. “Mars… Mars hurt Yeosang.”
Yeosang just wants this to end. He’s had it, nerves long shot, body constantly in pain. He sinks to the ground, legs no longer able to carry him, and watches the other confusedly.
Mars’s human hands shoot to his face, and in an instant, every single black tendril withdraws. Yeo’s mouth drops open.
“Mars hurt Yeosang,” The creature blubbers repeatedly, shaking his head. “Mars hurt- Mars hurt- I- I hurt you.” He breaks down, dropping onto his human knees and sobbing.
“Sorry,” The monster cries. “Sorry.”
He’s apologizing?
Yeosang remains statue still. It could very well be a cruel trap, one last time to prey upon the human’s good nature before offing him. But then the monster gets back onto his feet. He sniffles, looking entirely too much like a vulnerible, upset human and not at all like the horrifying monster he was just minutes ago.
Mars steps over to Yeosang, and the man winces, pressing himself into the door as much as possible. The monster takes his wrist - gently, with his human hand, and guides him onto his feet. Yeosang allows it. At this point, he’s endured so much physical and emotional pain that he’s starting to become numb.
Mars walks backwards until his calves hit the edge of the tub. He guides Yeosang’s hand to the middle of his chest and plants it there.
Tearily, the creature says, “You hurt me.”
Yeo shakes his head, at a total loss, “Wha…?” Why is he by the edge of the tub again? It’s still full of the stuff that damn near killed him.
“Hurt me, Yeosang,” Mars sounds so sure of himself, and while his sentence is still clipped, it’s the most well spoken Yeosang has ever heard him.
“I- I know I hurt you,” Yeosang’s voice comes out as a croak.
“Please hurt me,” Mars says pleadingly.
“Please- Wha-?”
“You hurt me. So I… I do not hurt you.”
The words hit Yeosang’s heart like a hammer. Yeosang shakes his head in disbelief. This can’t be happening. Is it- is he seriously asking for Yeosang to kill him? Because he doesn’t want to be a danger to him? That does nothing to assure the security of his kin. What does it matter if an incubator is happy so long as they’re alive and adequately nourished, right? So why would he give a shit about Yeosang getting hurt? Like he hasn’t been hurting all this time?
“I don’t understand,” Yeosang mutters.
Mars sighs and sits himself on the edge of the bath. Using Yeosang’s wrist again, he presses the human’s hand into his chest more forcefully.
“I… Do not want to hurt. You,” His sentence is still disjointed and awkward, but the meaning comes through loud and clear.
Yeo lets out a wry laugh. He’s so beyond done, his wits having expired eons prior. His life has devolved into some comsic lovecraftian joke, apparently. What else is there to do but laugh at it?
“You already have,” Yeosang whispers.
“Sorry,” Mars sniffs loudly, water beading up in his eyes again. “ Sorry.”
Heaving a sigh, the human makes a decision. Maybe it’s the wrong one.
Hell, it probably is the wrong one, but he commits to it. In this fucked up world, Yeosang figures he can only be true to himself. He isn’t positive there is a right answer to the twisted ordeal he’d wound up in. He only knows that going against his gut will make him regret it. He’s got a feeling that, at this point, the conclusion is inevitable. He may as well act on his principles.
Yeosang takes his hand back from Mars - the other doesn’t resist the action. The human leans forward and reaches into the tub, pulling up the drain cover. Loud gurgling sounds out as water rushes down the newly opened passage into the pipes.
“I’m so fucking tired of pain,” Yeosang says with finality. He collapses onto the floor next to where the other is sitting. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t want you to hurt me. I’m tired.”
He slouches against the bathtub and in spite of the utter state of filth he’s in, he just sits there for awhile. Without being spoken, the question hangs in the air between them:
Now what?
The change in the days following comes as a shock to Yeosang.
Mars is different. He keeps his distance and hangs his head low. Is it because he’s guilty? Yeosang notices things around the house change. It’s little stuff. One day he dashes home from school, clamoring for bed and a familiar bathroom, and he notices that his kitchen is spotless. Mars doesn’t do laundry, but somehow he’d learned to fold. It must’ve been on a show or something, Yeo muses.
Half of his laundry ends up folded into tight rolls, like how a hotel would do it for decoration. It’s not ideal, and Yeosang ends up having to undo most of his clothing rolls - but there’s something undeniably endearing about it. Yeo has to remind himself what he’s dealing with upon occasion. Mars is not some domesticated house pet. He is an incubus - or something of the sort - an otherwordly, supernatural monster capable of extraordinary and terrible things.
No matter how handsome his face or how adorable his mannerisms can be, Yeosang can’t forget. Not after what he’s seen.
He wonders if maybe he can forgive, though. He’s weak, always has been. He wears hard armor on the outside but beneath it he’s soft, sentimental and emotional. It’s a difficult quandary. After all, what’s one to do? Not everyone can say that they almost killed the organism they cohabitate with only for said organism to turn around and damn near kill them. Yeosang’s pretty sure it cancels out. That could be his general numbness due to the severe mental wounds afflicted on him for the past few months talking. Or maybe it’s the perpetual knotting and unknotting of his guts talking.
There were a few little things that Yeosang admits he missed since distancing himself - the cute teaching moments, the adorable way the incubus acts, the easy, pressure-free company. However, as time progresses and his pain worsens, more than ever he misses the comfort that somehow only Mars could provide.
It strikes him especially hard on a Saturday morning when ire pulls Yeosang out of his slumber. His lower abdomen throbs with pain so sharp that it wraps around to his back. He feels as if his spine is melting at the base. Yeosang writhes, biting his pillow to stop himself from screaming. Without prompting, he arrives by the human’s bedside, a concerned look on his face.
The human’s breaths are labored and stunted, shaky from his pain. Heat roasts him from the inside out and drenches him in an unpleasant sweat. Mars’s lips press together into a worried frown, but he doesn’t move from his spot. Another quake of pain ripples through Yeo’s body. The human seizes, clutching his stomach and wheezing. Mars’s expression of dismay deepens. Still, he doesn’t stir. He reaches a hand hesitantly but rapidly draws it back.
Yeosang doubts even the incubus’s touch can mitigate his pain anymore, but he’s half-asleep and miserable, so he opens himself up.
“It’s okay,” Yeosang murmurs weakly.
Mars tilts his head, questioning.
“It’s- ‘sokay,” Yeo shudders. Fuck. It hurts so bad. He’s not sure how much longer he can take it, in truth. “Please,” He whimpers pathetically.
Mars understands the plea and not a second passes before he’s laying beside Yeosang, cooing, carressing. Little noises drift out from between the creature’s lips. It’s like a low, whispery, hum. Reassurance. Sweet little nothings in the form of indiscernible babbling of some far away creature. Somehow, it helps.
The incubus carefully straddles the human, assuring that Yeosang takes none of his weight. He runs his humanesque hands along the man’s sides in long, languid strokes. The hands dip beneath Yeosang’s shirt, lifting the fabric delicately.
Delicate.
Everything is so delicate.
Yeosang’s thoughts smear, a slurry of contradicting sensations. With each gentle stroke along his body, the hurt wanes slightly. Just that ever so slight uncoiling of his knotted guts makes Yeosang want to cry with relief. The incubus dips his head down and kisses. He kisses the dried tears streaked down Yeosang’s cheeks. He lays soft, wet kisses along his neck and down his torso.
Yeosang shudders for another reason, pain diminishing rapidly, overwhelmed by simmering warmth pooling in his groin. He happily obliges Mars when the creature tugs at the waistband of his underwear. His cock springs up, already dripping with anticipation. It’s shocking, Yeosang thinks, how readily his body excites in spite of weeks of exhaustion.
Mars takes Yeosang between his lips and takes him to the base on his first trip down. Yeosang supposes that’s what happens when someone doesn’t have a gag reflex. The hot, wet suction makes Yeo shiver, and the pain is nothing but a faint whisper, a memory echoing across his bones but completely dissolved by the heat of lust. Fingers gently massage and prod Yeosang’s entrance. They’re slick with the creature’s secretion - some warm, slimy substance that makes Yeosang’s skin tingle. Mars scissors his finger in and out rhythmically as he licks and suckles at Yeo’s throbbing cock.
Yeosang happily yields, wanton moans leaving his throat as he arches his back and cants his hips. Shit. It’s so good. It’s so fucking good. Was it always this good? He wonders. Or is it the insane contrast to the pain that makes Mars’s ministrations so mind melting? Mars’s free hand wanders, drawing idle shapes inside the human’s thigh, stroking soothing circles on his stomach.
Bit by bit, Yeosang unwinds. His legs fall open, slack, and his eyes roll back. He didn’t think it possible for his body to perform so well given his sickness. But it does, delivering the blissful sensations to every nerve ending, opening up readily for one, two, then three fingers. He clutches his sheets in a vice as he nears the edge, white hot pressure pressing against his insides. His hips jerk, and he comes with a loud, breathy moan. Mars swallows up every drop as if savoring the human before finally pulling off. The post-orgasm daze doesn’t last forever, but it lends Yeosang enough comfort to allow him to sleep again.
Mars helps him out a few more times during the day. He treats Yeosang as if he’s something precious and fragile. At first, the human finds it endearing, but toward the end of the evening when he’s brought to orgasm again with just fingers and lips, he finds himself a bit frustrated. Maybe it’s courtesy, he thinks.
As nice as the relief is, it’s fleeting - increasingly so. The sickness returns faster and faster as the day progresses, and by Monday morning, Yeosang is already booking it to a bathroom before he can even get to class. He turns up twenty minutes late, breakfast, last night’s dinner, and everything else completely gone.
The dehydration takes a toll on him, and he stops wanting to eat. He has to go home early on Wednesday. Wooyoung, Yunho, and San fret over him, offering to stay with him to take care of him. He declines, making up some bullshit excuse about “side effects” and how “it’s normal” and that “Seonghwa’s taking care of me”.
Seonghwa is taking care of him.
Well, Mars is - in his own way. He’s back to being Yeosang’s shadow. The creature tails the man day and night, hugging him, cuddling him, kissing him, nuzzling him and giving him little smiles. He’s even learned that Yeosang needs water and brings the human a cup every so often. Even so, toward the end of the week, Yeo struggles to keep that down.
He actually blacks out in the library on Friday. He wakes up feeling feverish and achey with a dry mouth. People nap often in the library and, even though it’s technically not allowed, nobody goes around waking people up. Consequently, nobody even noticed that his blackout wasn’t just a result of poor decisions late at night.
Yeosang calls a cab home.
When he steps in, thick, odorous air freshener fills the car like a fog. Yeo’s stomach does an unpleasant flip, and straining agony pulses in his temples. He can’t get out fast enough.
He actually runs to his front door - something that probably looks really strange to the taxi driver. Not like he gives a fuck. He stopped feeling shame after about week three of frequent vomiting in public places. Yeo stumbles in, and the world spins. His knees turn to jelly, and he drops, just barely catching himself with his arms.
He registers the vague thud against his elbows, but his entire body is in such anguish he doesn’t even care. He clumsily shucks his bookbag and lays still on the ground. The cool wood of the floor feels nice on his skin for a minute. It warms up far too quickly to lend him any substantial comfort, though.
A dagger of pain drives into his gut, twisting violently, and he yelps. His body tremors violently, and goosebumps prick his skin. He can’t move. He can’t think. It’s just pain. Pain, pain, pain.
This is it, he thinks.
This is the end. D-day. No doubt the parasites leeching off of his body have accelerated the degradation of his organ function. He doesn’t know how, but his body is simultaneously sweltering and freezing.
“Mars,” Yeosang whispers, voice breathy and strained. Tears well up in his eyes as he quivers uncontrollably. The pain in his abdomen spreads, branching off and running up into his chest and down into his groin. “Mars.”
Where is he? It’s not like the creature to be distant.
“Mm...Mars,” Yeo whimpers desperately. He doesn’t want to die like this - in pain and alone. Suddenly a myriad of regrets pass through his head. He should’ve told his friends. He shouldn’t have bore this alone. Maybe then he wouldn’t be in this position. At the very least, he would be surrounded by the people closest to him in his last moments. But, no. He had to be stubborn. He had to shoulder the entire weight by himself.
“Mars, please-” Yeosang’s teeth clench together as an acute jolt of pain strikes him.
If he is going to die - which he believes he is, he has to be dying - then he wants it to be as easy as possible. Mars cares about him. Of that he’s convinced. And Mars does his best to help with the pain. He’s the only one that can help it, really. It seems a fitting end - pleasant while being horrificly ironic. What undid Yeosang in the first place will usher him into the afterlife.
Finally, the familiar shadow looms over Yeosang.
Yeo blinks the tears out of his eyes to glance up at the incubus. Strangely enough he appears… Calm. Completely pacified. Mars bends over and scoops Yeosang up into his human arms and carries him upstairs. A tentacle slithers out from the creature’s shoulder to open the bedroom door, shutting it quickly behind them.
Yeosang gasps, reflexively clinging to the creature carrying him out of shock. His bedroom is dark - nearly pitch save for the dim glow of the automatic nightlight. His curtains aren’t nearly thick enough to accomplish such obscurification. As Yeosang’s red, puffy eyes adjust he just barely discerns black, pulsing tentacles covering his entire room. They branch out like a web of veins, covering wall, floor, ceiling - just like they had in the bathroom. It makes the white sheets on his bed stick out starkly.
Unlike last time, the sight of the pulsing tentacle web relieves Yeosang. The darkness ever so slightly helps his headache. It’s not as if he wanted to look outside, anyway.
Mars lowers the ailing human gently into the bed, and Yeosang shivers from the loss of contact. Another sharp pain gouges his groin, and he curls up into himself.
The incubus carefully peels Yeosang’s sticky clothes off before discarding his own - one of many tee and sweats sets Yeo’s loaned to him. It’s strange. Mars never thought it necessary to do so before. Yeosang can’t rightly contemplate it in his condition, though. He can barely muster opening his mouth, fearful that if he does he’ll cough up a lung or get sick. Instead, he gives the incubus a desperate, wanting look.
Please - he asks nonverbally. Please take me.
Take all of me.
Take all of me until there’s nothing left .
Mars closes the distance, beginning with a chaste kiss on Yeosang’s lips. Yeo scarcely returns it, too coiled up inside. He appreciates the extraneous gesture of affection even if it’s entirely fruitless.
Mars deepens the kiss, and his hands massage Yeosang’s chest in deep strokes. Yeosang hisses when the other’s thumbs rub the sensitive nibs on his pecs. They feel tender and sore. Even so, there’s something gratiating about the slight twinge of pain mixed with pleasure. Yeosang wants for more. His mouth is too occupied to vocalize it, though, full of the other’s gently probing tongue.
The pain dulls, stepping aside to allow the familiar hot sting of pleasure to take the spotlight. Yes, the hurt is still there, but it’s less - something tolerable that can coexist with the pressure tingling in his crotch. Fuck , that’s good. Just the slight subsidization is blissful to him after days, weeks, no months - it’s been months - of misery. The tears on his cheeks dry as lucidity returns to his pain hazed mind.
Yeosang’s legs spread eager and wanting. He’s been frustrated, bored of fingers and lovely little kisses. Mars is an incubus for shit’s sake, he ought to fucking act like one. While Yeo would normally be mortified that such a thought crossed his mind, he’s at his wit’s end. Hell, he’s beyond it.
As if reading his thoughts, Mars’s lips part from Yeosang’s to move down. The incubus sucks and nips at his jaw and along the sensitive skin on his neck. Yeosang shudders, and his cock starts to fill, ready.
At first, they tickle. They’re slim, slimy things, the tentacles that begin carressing his body. Yeosang actually jolts as dozens of them simultaneously shoot out of the incubus’s back and start feeling him. They’re almost cursory at first - in spite of the fact that Mars has no doubt touched every inch of Yeosang’s body in one way or another.
Their hesitance quickly diminishes, though. It’s peculiar, how little tentacles can somehow feel like lips on his skin. They kiss and suckle and nip everywhere - thighs, nipples, taint, rim, armpits, toes, wrists, palms - everywhere. A quake runs down Yeosang’s spine, and his cock twitches, nearly there.
Mars’s human parts move down, too, repeating the same process Yeosang has become so familiar with in the past few days. The black-haired beauty licks a fat line from the base of Yeosang’s flushed cock all the way up the shaft, dipping into the dripping slit.
Fuck, he’s so pretty.
Mind completely bleary, Yeosang muses that he’s glad Mars chose to adopt his old crush’s appearance. Fuck. What was his name again? Yeosang doesn’t know. He doesn’t care at the moment. That face belongs to Mars as far as he’s concerned.
Mars’s fingers work Yeosang open quickly. With the frequency of their trysts, Yeo’s body is practically molded to Mars’s fingers by now. Three fingers glide in with ease, and the incubus scissors them in with quick rhythm. Slick secretion squelches as Mars pushes it into his hole, and the incubus’s smaller tentacles start releasing more, too. It’s warm on Yeosang’s skin, oozing out of every pore or gland or whatever the mechanism is.
Yeosang’s entire body feels like it’s on fire, and he’s powerless to stop the flames licking up the sides of his gut. Shit, he laments, it’s too soon. One would think after all he’s gone through, he wouldn’t come so quick. Yet there he is, fighting it, putting it off with all of his will after just minutes.
“Fff-” Yeosang gasps, throwing his head back onto his pillow. “Ff- Mars!” He groans, and his back arches. His cock twitches, and his eyes roll back as pleasure rolls his body. Mars stops his ministrations and watches with his wide-eyed stare.
Yeosang labors to catch his breath as he comes down. His entire body is still burning - though the heat has lowered to a residual smoldering. The man gazes at the incubus, wondering what the creature’s watching for, then he notices something. Nothing came out. He’s still hard, too.
If that wasn’t a real orgasm, what was that, then? Yeosang wonders. He quickly tosses the thought out. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care.
The familiar itching prickle in his groin returns quickly, and he rocks his hips impatiently. He wants release - real release.
Mars lets out a hum and kisses Yeosang on the stomach. The incubus withdraws his fingers from Yeosang and sits back on his heels. Yeo’s brows knit in confusion.
Suddenly, the human’s body lifts off the bed. Yeosang yelps in surprise, eyes wide in search of an answer in the other’s gaze. Mars simply appears calm as ever. The skinny appendages that had been suckling at Yeosang’s skin gather, collecting into fewer, thick tentacles. Mars lifts the human into the air above the bed slowly and carefully. A couple of tentacles bind the man’s wrists. An especially thick one supports the human’s back, and half a dozen support his legs, spreading them wide. Yeosang’s exposed in such a way that his ass is at face level with the incubus.
Mars plants his human hands on Yeosang’s inner thighs and dips forward, running his tongue around the swollen pink pucker of his entrance. That sinful tongue dips in, and Yeosang groans, throwing his head back. His cock throbs as the incubus tongue fucks him ruthlessly, all the while more small, black appendages trace lines along his skin.
“Hh-hah- hhah-” Yeosang whimpers. He trembles and twitches, but the firm binds of the tentacles keep him rooted just so. Sweat mats his bangs to his forehead, and clear ooze drips off of his body onto the sheets below, but he can’t be assed to care. That tongue delves deep, deeper than any human tongue ever could. The sounds coming from the pair are obscene - the wet squinch of the incubus’s tongue abusing the human’s hole, the stunted, wanton murmurs dribbling out from between the man’s lips.
“Mff- ffuh- Mm- Mars ‘m-” Yeosang’s body clenches around the tormenting appendage inside of him, and his eyes squeeze shut. Another orgasm rocks his body, the explosive sensation igniting in his gut and radiating out to every corner of his body. Yeosang’s toes curl, and his breath hitches. But still, nothing comes out.
“Fuck,” Yeosang cries. “Mars, please…”
The incubus withdraws, wiping a wrist over its slick mouth for some reason - as if it matters. Again, Mars kisses Yeosang - this time on the inner thigh. He nuzzles the sensitive skin, running his lips up the human’s leg, mouthing at his balls and kissing his shaft again.
“Please,” Yeosang replies dazely. “Need to come.”
Mars opens his arms, and his tentacles lower the human into his lap. Yeosang attempts to oblige the other, to wrap his arms around the creature’s neck or even guide himself onto the other’s swollen cock. But he can’t. His body is weak - much weaker than he’d expected. All of his joints feel like jelly. His arms fall limp by his side. He rests his head on the creature’s shoulder heavily.
The two remain like that for a couple of minutes. Yeosang simply tries to catch his breath while Mars rubs circles in his back. When Yeosang seems ready, the incubus moves the other.
Mars kisses the top of his sweaty head and has his dark limbs do the work for Yeosang. Tentacles take hold of Yeo’s wrists and hold them up high. Another few work on his legs, lifting his knees and ankles so he’s spread open.
Finally, the human thinks. His gaze drops to Mars’s girthy, seeping cock, and he licks his lips desirously. The incubus angles his hips and directs his cockhead to Yeosang’s stretched hole. For a moment, Mars just leaves it there, pressing implicitly against the human’s entrance. Yeosang flinches and twitches, wanting and ready.
Is Mars teasing him?
Before he can further reflect on the question, Mars’s slick cock pushes in. Yeosang gasps loudly, body quaking and eyes squeezing shut at the new intrusion. It’s so much bigger than fingers or a tongue. The pain of the stretch is faint, though. Likely due to the days of intense activity leading up to it.
“Oh-” Yeosang moans crudely, mouth dropping open when Mars slides in completely. He’s huge. Of course he’s huge. He’s an incubus, surely he wouldn’t be anything less. Still, it’s been a long time since Yeosang last took the other’s cock, and the heft of it just stretching him sends electrifying tingles down his spine. Mars starts to move, and slender tentacles start tugging and nipping at the human’s nipples.
Yeosang screams. He howls shamelessly, like a bitch in heat, overcome with ecstasy as the incubus’s massive member thrusts in and out rhythmically, pressing against his prostate with deliberate precision. It’s almost cruel, at this point, the way Mars is merciless, making him dry come another two times in that position alone. All the while, the beautiful demon seems so pleased. He always soothes the frazzled human with smiley kisses and vague, reassuring sounds.
“Mars, please,” Yeosang croaks out as his cock twitches, releasing nothing. He’d gotten turned over and put on all fours at some point. He isn’t sure what time it is, now that he thinks about it. How long has it been?
A tentacle around his waist and chest keep him upright. He’s certain he’d have collapsed onto the bed long ago otherwise. “Need to come,” The human says. The simmering in his guts has transitioned into a perpetual burn demanding resolution. The dry orgasms feel amazing, but they pass quickly, leaving the same fire pit in his stomach from before.
Yeosang is a mess.
He knows this much. He doesn’t care, but he knows. He can’t see himself, thankfully, but he imagines if he did, he’d look like some sort of junkie - shivering, red-eyed, covered in sweat and begging for more.
“Please,” Yeosang begs again. He rocks his hips back onto the incubus, taking just a little bit more of him in doing so. “Fuck, please…” He murmurs weakly, repeating the motion, fucking himself on the other’s cock. “Please, Mars. Please…” He’s completely delirious at this point, enslaved. A brief reminder that this is it, this is the end, pops into his head, but it’s quickly pushed to the wayside. Pleasure. Want. Need. Pain. Those are the only things Yeosang can dedicate himself to anymore.
The incubus’s tentacles shift the human again. He wonders what position he’ll be twisted into this time.
This one’s slightly different.
Yeosang is set down so he’s standing on his knees, his back to Mars’s front. The incubus wraps a human arm around the other’s waist, holding him close. He presses kisses along the human’s neck and whispers to him.
“Yeosang good.”
Praise? Yeo wonders. He gets distracted from the question, eyes widening with apprehension as the web-like vein formation of tentacles spreads up onto him. It binds the human to the incubus behind him, wrapping around their torsos and thighs. Yeo quivers as more wet, hot secretion seeps into his skin on contact.
Mars kisses his neck and starts to thrust again. The angle is different, penetrating surprisingly deep. Yeo realizes it feels deeper because it is. The member in him gradually swells and expands, breaching him further, stretching him more and more. A choked gasp leaves the human’s throat at the new, whelming sensation.
A tentacle runs up his leg and wraps around his cock. It starts stroking, and the tiniest feeler juts out from the appendage, dipping just ever so slightly into his slit. Yeosang cries as the searing pressure builds up in his gut yet again. He pants, laboring to catch his breath, then a tentacle slides over his mouth, smothering him. It grows, filling his mouth until his teeth are sinking into it and the tip is just barely tickling the back of his throat. The screams rising in his throat remain there, stillborn, muffled by Mars’s presence.
Yeosang’s entire body shudders and seizes uncontrollably. Without the other’s support, he’s certain he’d be a writhing mess on the sheets. As it is, Yeosang’s eyes are rolling back, and his back is arching, straining against the amorphous web wrapped around him. Mars drives his cock in harder, faster, and the tentacle around his cock tugs faster. Even the miniscule feeler dips further into Yeosang’s slit - another layer of stimulation contributing to the long building static charge of ecstasy in his stomach.
The stimulation drags him to the edge, dangling him over the steep incline. Yeosang wails, every part of his body straining and so very alive in the throes. It’s so much. It’s too much. Just as he’d felt too much pain, now he feels too much pleasure. He doesn’t merely crave release - he needs it. If he doesn’t have it, he feels as if he’ll surely expire.
As if sensing this - intuiting that the human is at his limit - Mars abruptly withdraws his supernatural hold on the human. With only human arms around his torso, Yeosang’s body writhes as it pleases. Yeosang takes a deep breath through his mouth, and the sheer relief, the release of the pressure and the binding, pushes him over the edge.
He lets out a high pitched moan as release greater than he’s ever known crashes over his body. Mars’s human hand jerks the other’s cock, coaxing out the other’s true completion. Yeosang’s vision blurs with tears as the pressure shoots out of his cock in spurt after spurt. His body goes completely limp halfway through, and all he can do is watch as he empties himself onto the bed.
Tears dropping down his cheeks, Yeo still reels as wave after wave pulses through him and he expends more and more.
But something is wrong.
Something is terribly wrong.
His cock spits out spurt after spurt of black liquid, dark as night. It’s almost as if the black fluid is forcefully pushing itself out of him of its own volition. The substance jumps out of his cock in long, thick ropes, covering his once white sheets.
Mars sees Yeosang through the entirety of it. It’s a purge, and the human expells everything he has - sickly black ooze, come, piss. Mars is there until nothing is left, and his concerned face is the last thing Yeosang sees before taking his final rest.
His final rest is surprisingly short, only lasting until the next day.
Yeosang stretches languidly as a yawn works its way through his body. He wipes his eyes and sits up, sleep-dazed. One quick look around the room tells him that he’s not in heaven. He’s in his bedroom. Soft morning light filters in through his sheers along with the faint tittering of birds.
Yeo wrings a hand through his hair as clarity dawns upon him all too slowly. The first thing he does is check his phone. He taps his screen, bringing it to life, and gasps when he sees the mass of notifications filling the screen. Between Yunho, San, and Wooyoung, he’s got over a hundred texts ranging from obxious to worried. “Where are you?” “Are u ok??” “Are u sick again?”
The human shakes his head, confused. When he checks the date, he understands. He wasn’t asleep for a night. He slept for an entire day. After what he and Mars did, he supposes it makes sense.
Mars.
Yeo jolts, throwing his phone down and searching his room frantically. Usually, the incubus is hovering over him by now, head tilted and eyes fixed on the human. The first thing Yeosang notices is his bed. It’s spotless. He’s laying on a fresh set of sheets. Yeo’s heart aches slightly. Only one inhabitant of the house could be responsible, and he appreciates the kind gesture. He’s wearing a clean set of sleeping clothes, too.
“Mars?” Yeosang murmurs.
His last memory with the incubus is still sort of bleary, blurred by pleasure and heat. He remembers sensation and intensity, but not precisely what happened. For a second, Yeosang entertains the theory that the incubus fucked the living shit out of him and dipped. The shadow in his doorway bins the idea immediately.
“There you are,” Yeosang says.
The incubus steps in wordlessly, a smile on his face. He’s holding a glass of water which reminds Yeosang that he’s parched. Yeo extends his hands, happily taking the offering and gulping it down. The incubus perches on the edge of the human’s bed and kisses his head in the meanwhile.
Suddenly, something hits Yeosang.
He’s thirsty, and his body is sore - superficial muscle aches from physical activity. But, save for that he feels… Fine.
It’s gone.
The sickness is gone.
Excited, Yeosang bursts out of bed and rushes to the kitchen. Mars follows at his tail like a puppy with a wagging tail, happy because its human is happy. Yeo throws open his fridge and reaches for the most smelly, odorous thing he can find. He opens the long neglected container of kimchi that his mom had sent him and takes a big whiff. The punchy aroma of spice hits his nose.
And he loves it.
It rouses no nausea nor does it provoke a migraine. It just smells nice. Yeo does it again, finding some hard-boiled eggs, and he’s still fine. He bounces around the kitchen enthusiastically, thinking of all the stuff he wants to eat and all the fun things he wants to do. They say you never know what you have until you lose it, and fuck, did that turn out to be true for Yeosang and his health.
Mars sops up the happiness like a sponge, showing it back tenfold with a mirthful grin. Yeosang, overexcited and grateful, pulls the incubus into a tight hug.
“Thank you, Mars,” Yeosang says, kissing the incubus’s cheeks a dozen times each. The incubus keens at the affection, giggling.
He giggles.
Yeosang has seen smiles, but he’s never heard a giggle. It’s so endearing, Yeo could smother the other in kisses, but he decides not to. He’s hungry. Like, starving. He skips over to the fridge to grab ingredients for kimchi fried rice when a hand tugs on his wrist.
“Yeosang,” Mars says softly. Yeo closes the refrigerator door and quirks an inquisitive eyebrow at the incubus. “Yeosang family.”
Yeosang flashes the strange, otherwordly creature a sheepish half-smile, “I- I know. I’m your family.” He turns back to the fridge, but Mars squeezes his hand again.
“Family,” Mars says insistently, the edges of his lips twitching as if suppressing a smile.
“Y-Yes?” Yeosang replies confusedly. “What is it, Mars?”
The incubus’s face blossoms into a full blown smile, and he walks, gently pulling Yeosang toward the sliding glass door to the back yard, “Family.”
Mars guides Yeosang in front of the sliding glass door and hugs the human closely from behind. The incubus nuzzles the human’s ear dotingly and mutters again, “Family.”
Yeosang’s shakes his head at first, puzzled, “Mars what are you…” He trails off.
Terror drives into his heart like a stake, digging in deep. Yeosang’s jaw drops, and his eyes go wide. He can’t tear his gaze away from the glass door and what’s just beyond it. His throat constricts, and terror surges through his veins. It petrifies him like a gorgon, cementing him in place as the incubus coos and kisses him.
A teardrop falls onto the ground, and all Yeosang can thinks is: what have I done?
Through the glass door is the backyard - a barren fenced-in lawn with a few weeds jutting out from the grass. Decorating the patch of green dead center is the bloated carcass of a deer. The corpse is positioned in such a way that Yeosang can look right into the seeping hollows of its gouged out eyes. Guts spill out onto the lawn everywhere, and limbs bend and snap in a sickly, unnatural way. Occasionally, the thing jostles or jerks. It’s dead, of course. Long dead by the looks of it. What causes the movement isn’t some strange chemical reaction or law of physics.
Dancing around the corpse as if it were a playground are about a dozen jet black, amorphous masses not unlike worms or snakes. Not unlike Mars. Though their forms are completely devoid of expression, Yeosang can somehow feel the happiness radiating off of them as they rip apart the mauled animal bit by bit, rending flesh and coiling around organs.
A hand takes Yeosang’s chin and turns his face delicately.
Mars cups Yeosang’s face, eyes warm, full of adoration.
“Family,” He says again.
Yeosang can’t muster a response to that. He starts shivering.
Mars strokes a thumb across the human’s cheek, “Mars Papa. Yeosang...” His gaze turns out toward the backyard, and he grins fondly, nuzzling Yeosang as he watches the deer corpse get mangled. Pecking Yeosang on the cheek, Mars finishes the thought, tone loving and soft:
“ Mama .”
|
They took great care to wash their handler without jostling him too much. They probably could have done a better job, but they preferred the option of holding him very close while he dozed on their shoulder. He was still so tired from the past few days.
After toweling him off carefully, they made their way back out of the bathroom with him still nude in their arms only to find both John and Ava in the room already in casual clothes. Ava politely covered her eyes upon realizing that they weren’t dressed yet but John grinned mischievously instead.
“I knew you were gonna break my fucking handcuffs,” John taunted as he leaned back on the bed. “What a way to assert dominance, bud. I recorded the best bits for you both. I’ll send them to Zemo.”
“You’re a jackass,” they said lightly as they walked around them to place their handler down on the bed. Now that the intensity of the moment was over, they were already beginning to sort back into their individual pieces.
“Poor Echo couldn’t hear a damn thing of it,” John continued with a smirk as he dropped down onto his back on the bed and looked at them upside down. “Barton turned off his hearing aids halfway through. Kate loved it though. Talk about strange dreams now. She’s heard you three fuck twice in two days.”
Ava reached out and slapped John’s bicep as she gave up on covering her eyes and settled down next to John. “She’ll be fine. Don’t upset them.” She looked at the sheets with a raised eyebrow before adding, “The sheets do reek of sex though.”
John waved away her concern. “We’ll just get rid of the sheets and use the comforter. It won’t be great but it’s better than this.”
They looked around the room and realized their clothes were also in their duffel bag. Their handler was already curled up around himself sleeping peacefully and John’s eyes settled on him with a much fonder smile on his face.
“So that’s how you get him to sleep,” John teased with a huff of laughter. “Please tell me you hammered home the point-- literally if you had to-- that he can’t keep doing this to himself.”
They nodded and murmured, “We did. He was-- reluctant to agree at first, but he got the message by the end. If this is what it takes, then this is what we’ll do.”
“How are you feeling?” Ava wondered softly as she looked up at them.
They tilted their head for a moment to assess and then said, “We’re currently calm and we feel good. There is a lot to process, but Зимний Солдат is starting to understand that some things are out of his control… No matter how much he wishes it were otherwise. It’s not our fault.”
“Fuck yes,” John hissed with a clap of his hands. “Fucking progress.”
They gave up on finding clothes and instead laid down beside their handler and tugged him into their arms. He fit snugly against their body and didn’t even stir.
Ava smirked and reached out a hand to pet their handler’s hair. “He’s still drunk, isn’t he?”
“Drunk, exhausted, overwhelmed, angry,” they listed off softly with a kiss to his hair. “He will benefit from rest. We will stay awake for safety.”
“Would you like some clothes or…?” John wondered with false innocence as he gave a quick glance over them to illustrate his point. “Look, I’m not complaining, but you’re gonna give me strange dreams.”
They shot him a deadpan look that was all James and replied, “If you would be so kind, John.”
Their friend grinned again. “Ah, see, Buck is rising to the surface. Put buddy back in control.”
“This was already far outside of James’s comfort zone,” they lamented with a sigh as the realization of the situation sank in. They were pulling apart a lot now and the pieces of James were awake enough to feel the rising embarrassment.
They reached a hand up to their face and groaned slightly as their face colored red, much to John’s apparent amusement.
“So, uh,” John started with another glance at Zemo. “The cuts…? Are those your initials? ”
“They like kinky sex, John. It’s of very little surprise. Stop prying,” Ava chided with a poke to his side as she stood up. “I’ll go fetch your bags. Clint is taking the first watch. Tony has agreed to take second. We will be moving again by early afternoon for safety.”
John dropped his head back on the bed and just stared at them though he was focused on their faces now and his expression contemplative. After a moment he said quietly, “We’re all under a fuck ton of pressure. This is not the time or the place to let ourselves hit the boiling point.”
They blinked at John in surprise at the change in tone as their friend shuffled more fully onto the bed and laid down on his side to face them. His eyes were tired now.
“I’m-- uh,” John murmured with a grimace as Ava came back into the room with their bags. He waved toward them to let them know to continue on with getting dressed. They stood reluctantly and got a pair of sweatpants for both them and their handler.
After pulling on their own pair, they carefully dressed their handler who only stirred enough to nuzzle the pillow with a sleepy hum.
“Lift him up so I can get the sheets off,” John directed once they were clothed. They complied and their friend stripped off the sheets from the bed and pulled just the comforter back on for them to crawl under.
Their handler cracked open one eye at the jostling and surveyed who was moving him before humming again and closing his eye to return to sleep. They ducked down and kissed his temple to help soothe him.
John was in the middle this time with their handler and he laid flat on his back to pull both Ava and their handler over to rest their heads on his chest. They followed and pressed tightly to their handler’s back again as the mood in the room settled back to calm.
“I’m headed towards one of these little, um, breakdowns myself,” John admitted suddenly as he fixed his eyes on the ceiling. They looked at him in alarm and felt more of their blurred consciousness start to fray and split. John quickly assured them and Ava, “Not tonight. But next chance we get probably. It feels like-- Like it did back at the house before I blew like a fucking volcano.”
“It takes a lot for me to admit this,” their friend said quietly. “I want to be… Y’know, strong. But if I snap like a fucking twig at random, we’re not going to be in a great spot. I also want to, um, practice what I preach, if you get me.”
Bucky was awake enough to feel the violent urge to protect rising in him, just like it did back home, as he murmured, “John--”
Ava hugged John tighter and pressed her cheek into his chest. “If you’re looking for permission, then you know you don’t need it.”
His friend took a deep breath and nodded. “I know. I just wanted to make sure it didn’t like-- Happen at random or something. I also can keep on carrying it if I have to. The last thing I want is to put extra pressure on everyone else if they can’t handle it right now.”
“Why not tonight?” Zemo mumbled without opening his eyes as he announced that he was awake now. “We do not know what the future holds, John. We’re safe now. Use this opportunity.”
John looked down at Zemo with a tired smirk. “Because someone let himself hit the breaking point first and needed the attention tonight.”
“Someone is feeling much better,” his lover murmured. “Aside from nearly seeing my lovers killed tonight, I was able to get quite a lot of aggression and stress out between the emotional breakdown, the warehouse, and then the sex.”
A look of confusion passed over John’s face at hearing that.
Ava reached over to Zemo and ran her fingers through his wet hair with a gentle taunt, “Says the man who better resembles an iceberg four-fifths underwater than a person. You still have much to share, Zemo, but we can forgive you for it tonight.”
Zemo hummed in amusement before answering, “You prompt me to share more and more, but I don’t think I’ve ever been better known by anyone. I will... work on it. I have quite a lot of habits to undo first.”
“Warehouse?” John asked finally with a furrowed brow. “What the hell happened at the warehouse beyond getting felt up like we were going through a nightmare version of TSA?”
“I delivered two pellets of ricin under the skin to the men touching my lovers and myself and a dose of a particularly deadly poison delivered to Ростислав via a handshake,” Zemo explained with a sleepy smile. “It was immensely satisfying.”
“Ricin? ” his friend wondered loudly with more confusion. “Fucking when, Zemo?”
Zemo purred quietly, “My boots, John.”
“Always one to be underestimated, Zemo,” Ava praised with a smirk of her own. “Your primary power. Impressive. Good. They deserved it for touching you both.”
“I would have happily killed every man in the room,” his lover lamented. “But we really weren’t in a position to make a scene. But once the head of a snake is cut off, the body will rot after some brief flailing.”
His lover poked John's chest and turned the conversation back to where it came from, “You didn’t answer me, John. Why not now?”
John looked around for a moment before landing his eyes on Bucky and asking sheepishly, “Are you both okay for this?”
Bucky nodded and his other half nodded along with him. Their thoughts were split but their emotions were still tangled up and the prevailing feeling, beyond worry for John, was calm.
“Маленький is feeling better,” he assured earnestly.
His friend got a strange expression for a moment before clarifying, “Yeah, but what about you, Buck?”
He blinked in confusion. “Me? I’m fine. I’m okay. It was маленький who had the harder day. I’m already over the Tarasova business. We lived; that’s what matters.”
John didn’t look at all convinced as he stared back with a blank expression for a second before sighing. His friend looked him directly in the eye and said bluntly, “Bucky, you’re dissociating.”
“What?” Bucky asked as he frowned deeply. Ava looked at him too and Zemo stiffened in his arms. “No, I’m fine, John. I’m just handling it better than I used to. Trust me, you’d know if I was--”
“Bucky I know you well enough now to know you’re not handling it at all,” his friend interrupted gently as he continued to look him in the eye. “All you’re doing is burying it for later, or, worse, pretending it doesn’t matter and moving on.”
“I’ve seen you process something. Do you remember after you had that nightmare at home? About everyone leaving? When we locked your ass down on the couch and cuddled you half to death, you processed that. You were trying to avoid it, but we got your walls low enough to work through it.”
John finished carefully, “Can you tell the difference?”
Bucky wanted to say, ‘No, I’m doing the same things’, but he knew that was a lie as soon as he thought about it. Suddenly, with his eyes open a little wider, the events of the past few days didn’t seem as far away as they had before. He tightened his hold on Zemo reflexively.
“Shh,” Zemo whispered calmingly as he tried to twist his neck around to look at him. “Shh, James. It’s okay. Nothing has changed. You’re still very safe.”
He felt the slowly rising panic in James and quickly shifted them so that he had a larger portion of control and said, “You’re okay, James. It’s not your fault either. It hurts but it was not your fault.”
John looked at them with an expression of profound melancholy and murmured, “How about we kill two birds with one stone? We did Zemo and Ava a little earlier. Why don’t we double up for now? We’ve got a few hours. I’ll start and you jump in when you have something to share.”
Bucky didn’t know what to say. Up until this point, he’d been sure he was doing okay, but John wasn’t wrong either. The nightmare had been bad, but the children-- That was far worse. He dropped his head down onto Zemo’s shoulder and stared off into space.
“When I heard you two screaming in that lab--,” John said as his voice broke. “I thought-- It was like I was about to lose you. And seeing that video… On top of what they did to the kids… Jesus Christ. Everywhere we turn there’s another fucking enemy here and even though I know we’re doing something good, I’m fucking terrified.”
“It’s funny how I could dive in against the Flag-Smashers with no serum and here I am, a super-soldier now, and more scared than I have ever been on any mission in my life,” his friend continued weakly.
Bucky’s eyes flickered up to fix on John’s face and felt his stomach sink at the sight of the tears welling in his eyes and the pained grimace on his face.
He could feel the apprehension in James and frowned slightly even as he hurt from hearing John’s words. He bit his lip for a moment before quoting his handler, “James, sometimes you’ll be okay, and sometimes it will hurt. You can hurt and still be doing good. Please let us help.”
Tears started to slide down their face quietly though James didn’t say anything.
“That’s good,” he coaxed softly. “It’s okay. I hurt too. So does our handler, John, and Ava. Even the little Hawkeye and Лена. The angry man misses Наталья. There’s nothing strange. You must let yourself heal, James. Please repeat: it was not my fault.”
John whispered to himself, “It was not my fault. It was no one’s fault. We did our best. We’ll keep doing our best. We’re just human. No matter how it feels-- We’re just human.”
Bucky finally just buried his face into Zemo’s hair and felt silent sobs wracked his body. He didn’t even know what he was crying about yet. It was just some nameless, shapeless hurt. Was it the lab? His missing memories? Tarasova? His other half’s flashback? Zemo’s pain? There were too many options to name.
Zemo just rolled over to hold him properly and murmured soothing things into his ear.
He smiled gently and rubbed their cheek into their handler’s hair and murmured, “It’s okay, James. If you can’t say it, just think it for now. You’re doing good. I know it feels like you aren’t, but you are. Hurt and doing good aren’t mutually exclusive. John said so.”
John laughed slightly and praised through his own tears, “Thank you for listening, buddy. Glad to know it hit the mark. He’s right, Buck. Let’s just be miserable together. We’ve fucking earned it.”
“Why the fuck are you c-cheerful even when you’re f-fucking crying?” Bucky wondered as he continued to cry somewhat aimlessly. “I don’t even-- I don’t even know w-why I’m crying.”
“Because it feels g-good to start letting this shit out and I’m h-happy you are too,” John explained with a wavering smile as Bucky shot him a weak glare. “Do you have any idea how much b-better we’re gonna feel? How much fucking better I felt a-after you took c-care of me at home?”
Bucky could remember. He could remember crying his eyes out to Zemo about Steve and how much lighter he felt afterward.
He sighed and let the tears continue to fall as he admitted, “Y-yeah.”
Zemo peppered his face in slightly slow, uncoordinated kisses, and Bucky couldn’t help but smile a little at his very open lover. His eyes were sleepy and adoring and proud as they looked into his own.
Safe.
Bucky pushed Zemo onto his back a little and laid his head down onto his lover’s chest to cry silently in peace. Ava’s hand pet his hair slowly and John grabbed his hand to hold it.
“Левиафан better w-watch out,” he mumbled with a self-deprecating smirk. “We’re s-serious fucking business.”
He rubbed their cheek on their handler’s chest and purred, “Yes, James. It is not a joke. We are very dangerous when we’re strong. You and John are doing good. So strong. We love you.”
Bucky felt the radiating warmth inside and out from his other half and their family. Between that comfort, the release of actually feeling something, and the security of knowing John was leaning on them too, the exhaustion caught back up to him and slowly he cried himself off to sleep.
|
Emma’s POV: Monday Night, 8:15 pm
“Milah,” Emma gasped. The woman she had pinned beneath her to the grassy ground was someone she had barely met before, but had the common threads of several circumstances, several people connecting them. But then the brown eyed woman looked up at her and Emma realized Milah probably had no idea who she was. “Or are you going by Grace again?”
The two women stayed quiet for a moment, the only sound coming from either of them being their ragged breathing from the chase. Even in the fading light of the evening, Emma could make out most of Milah’s features. After a few minutes Emma couldn’t swallow her words any longer.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she asked, trying to sound objective, like a cop (well not really trying that hard actually). It came out harsh.
“How do you know who I am?” the woman asked, her jaw tightening and her opposing glare at Emma solidifying.
“I’m a cop. It’s my job,” Emma spat back.
What had gotten into her? She was never the type to be deliberately nasty to someone. Before she continued to speak, she reigned herself in, realizing that her reasons for being tough on Milah were personal. They could be directly linked to Neal’s long-felt abandonment from his mother. And more recently the tumult she had caused in Killian’s life. Killian. She had only just hung up the phone with him minutes ago to tell him she was on her way here. He had once loved this woman that Emma was now directing all of her hostility toward. Gulping down a stream of inappropriate sentences she opted for something more civil. “I’m going to need to escort you back to the house.”
Milah seemed to take the cue and her body softened a bit as well underneath Emma’s grasp. There was a brief flash of understanding in Milah’s eyes before she put her guard back up again.
“Is there a problem?” the brunette asked.
“There are many problems right now and the most pressing of which involves a proven murderer on the loose who you used to be married to.”
Emma began to rise from the ground and lock Milah’s wrists in the handcuffs, careful not to let the woman slip from her grasp. Though she didn’t look like she was about to sprint off into the night it was hard to tell just what this woman was capable of. Emma caught herself peeking down at Milah’s wrists to see if she had a tattoo that matched Killian’s. She didn’t. And Emma released a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
Putting Milah in front of her Emma began to urge them toward the house, lit dimly far off in the distance. She hadn’t realized just how far she had chased Milah, everything happening so quickly that she could have sworn it was only for about 30 seconds. But Milah was limping, which explained why Emma mistook her for Gold.
“Is your leg alright?” Emma asked. Not sure why she was even concerned. The task at hand was simple, get Milah back to the house, find out what her role in all this was. There was no need for small talk. No need for pleasantries.
“It caught on a tree root when I ran from the house…” Milah said warily. Even in the ill-lit path back Emma could tell she made the woman anxious. There was no way she could possibly know Emma’s affiliation with Killian, she may not even know her past with Neal either. Having been gone for so long, Neal not accepting her attempts to reach out in recent years.
“You can put ice on it when we get inside.”
Killian’s POV: Monday Night, 8:20 pm
Despite the circumstances, Killian Jones found the balcony of his rented hotel room just outside of Storybrooke, Maine to be one of his new favorite places. Often taking advantage of the private outdoor space to think. To ponder the world’s problems. To work on his laptop in near silence. To sit alongside his dog and take in the quiet evenings.
Which was why he was out here now, in the remaining light from the day, absentmindedly leafing through papers with his dog on the chaise lounge curled against his outstretched leg. His attempt to have a productive work day was in vain. Knowing that somewhere, not far, Emma was hunting down the man responsible for the death of his parents. To say he was worried about her would be a complete understatement.
He had gotten off the phone with her not even twenty minutes ago but now as night began to fall, he wished she was here with him as she had been the night before. He looked up from his paperwork, shivering at the thought of their night together. And when he closed his eyes he could almost picture Emma sitting between his legs instead of a growing stack of proposals and invoices.
The steam rose from the surface of the water that filled the tub, a soft scent of lavender from the bath oils. Emma laid her back against Killian’s bare chest. His hands resting over top of hers on her stomach. He pressed gentle kisses to the bare skin of her shoulder, the exposed space behind her ear, the top of her head. Anywhere he could get his lips on without disturbing her. Their bodies sated from another round of love making in the warm bath water. Her breathing slowed and for a second Killian wondered if she had fallen asleep.
“What’s the best memory you have of being a child?” she asked. He felt himself stiffen a bit but then relaxed. A loaded question that normally would have terrified him. But there was something about Emma that allowed him the comfort of opening up. He paused for a while, searching through all of the bad memories for one that was good.
“My mother was happiest when she was creating things.” He recalled all of the projects she used to take on. A creative soul that always turned toward art. “Most of the paintings in our home were done by her. Sometimes she would write little poems to go along with them.”
Emma spun in his arms to face him. Her eyes filled with curiosity. And he once again felt more at ease talking.
“When I was very little she would make up stories to tell me that went with her drawings. Wild tales of adventure and intrigue. She could come up with anything on the spot. Liam and I used to stay awake listening to her for hours,” he felt himself choke up a little. Knowing she had been going through so much at the time but choosing instead to treat Killian and Liam as though they were the kings of the castle.
Emma smiled at him and rested her hand on his cheek. The skin of her fingers beginning to wrinkle from their long stay in the tub. She didn’t say anything but her expression did everything to reassure him. With her it never felt like she was luring information. She simply wanted to get to know him, and he with her. Killian often caught himself wondering how he had gotten so lucky as to have met someone as incredible as Emma Nolan. And this was one of those (many, many) times.
When he snapped out of last night’s memory he was disappointed to find that he was still on the chaise lounge with his snoring dog. He stood from his seat, slowly moving his leg so as not to wake Princess and walked to the balcony railing. In his hand was lukewarm cup of tea, his third cup, that he now sipped just to give him something to do. That was all he had spent the day in search of. Something to do that was distracting enough to take his mind off of Emma chasing down the man who had murdered his parents.
There was no doubt in Killian’s mind that Gold was still a monster who wouldn’t hesitate to attack again if he felt it meant remaining in prison. How does one even escape a holding cell anymore? It wasn’t the 1600s. There were security cameras and armed guards. How does one man evade all of the hurdles? And if he’s capable of that then he certainly was a desperate man.
He hoped she would catch Gold and then this spiderweb of stress that formed in the pit of his stomach would resolve itself. Though as the time ticked by, Killian realized the hunt for Gold was most likely not an easy one and would obviously be rather extensive.
A breeze swept by, tickling Killian’s skin as he stared down from his balcony at the surrounding land. Imagining Emma safely by his side, her golden hair blowing the light summer breeze. Her easy smile calming his nerves. Her warm soul keeping him grounded on what was now important in his life. As it somehow had regained a purpose other than 80 hour work weeks and conference calls and paperwork. He had done a good amount while in Storybrooke. But he wasn’t nearly as invested in it anymore. And it wasn’t entirely because of the entrance of a certain deputy sheriff to his life, but she certainly helped. Emma Nolan was someone who made him see a life beyond his work, the prospect of taking a trip that wasn’t job related, the thought of spending a quiet evening at home, a Saturday morning in bed, Sunday evening dinners with Liam and his wife, getting to know his new niece or nephew as they grew, perhaps a life and family of his own.
But now he stood here worried sick about her safety, and all he could do was pace. Was it easier to have no one and be isolated from personal relationships than it was to deal with them?
Somewhere along the building of his tense mood, Princess had even gone back in the hotel room, presumably annoyed by how on edge Killian was. He rarely actually worried about people, for their safety, most of his life he hadn’t had someone to care that much for. Save for a few. And one of which, it turned out, had been lying to him the whole time.
Grace. Milah Gold. Whomever.
When he had found out that the woman he spent years loving, years building a life with, had betrayed him in such a way his brain could hardly process it. It’s one thing to lie about who you are, it was another to have that person once be married to the man who had murdered his parents. It was simply too coincidental for Killian to not think the worst. That it was all a sick ploy. But then his heart spoke, and told him that perhaps there was another side to things that he wasn’t seeing. The whole situation was highly complicated, and it broke him further every time he felt himself thinking about his ex-girlfriend. He could run in circles for days trying to figure it out but he knew that the only person who had all of the answers was Grace.
As time had gone on he realized, the answers didn’t so much matter anymore. Because his past was his past, it was a part of him. However, his future was clear. There was one woman he could truly see himself with for the rest of his life. And that woman was without a doubt Emma.
Emma’s POV: Monday Night, 8:25 pm
Once they finally reached the house, Emma opted to take Milah through the front door. But it was locked, so she rang the doorbell with her goddamn elbow while still holding onto Milah’s arm as tightly as she could. Under the light of the porch Emma got a decent look at Milah, a pretty woman, clearly older than she. With curly almost black hair and an angular face that was both striking and attractive. Assuming she was probably nearing 60 years old at this point, she looked incredible. For her age and for… well for any age. It was easy to see why Killian had been drawn to her. Though Emma had never been a jealous person, there was a small part of her that was intimidated by Milah. But then she remembered the night before, the time she had spent with Killian and let her mind wander.
After they had spent more than enough time soaking in the large bathtub in Killian’s suite, the two fell into bed together. Not even bothering to dry off or put clothes on before engaging in a long, slow round of making love to one another. This time bathed only in moonlight from the open windows of his bedroom.
In the wake of their passions they laid together, just staring into each other’s eyes. Emma had never felt like this with anyone before. She couldn’t remember a time she had ever been swept off of her feet by any man. He must have picked up on it because soon his hand reached out to brush her face.
“What are you thinking about, love?” he asked in that gorgeous voice of his. His blue eyes catching the briefest twinkle from the moonlight.
“You,” she said before she could think of something more vague. She didn’t feel the need to put up that veil with him.
“Ah, and what is it about me that’s running through your head?” Great. Just what he needed. More of an ego boost.
“I’ve just never been so happy with someone.” It was the truth, and at first it was scary, but now that she was embracing it she felt lighter. She reached up and grabbed his hand that still rested on her face.
“Aye, love. Me too,” he whispered, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to her lips and tugging her body into his chest. “You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever known, darling.”
He was warm, and familiar but not in a bad way. In a way that made her realize, she would miss this if he went back to London. It made her realize that she wanted a future with him. And it made her realize that if she believed in soul mates (which she didn’t) that he would be hers.
Emma was distracted from her train of mushy thoughts when the front door began to open and she caught Milah looking down at her hand that was wrapped around the brunette’s arm. Her body sighed when she remembered she wasn’t in bed with Killian. She was face to face with his ex-girlfriend.
“Is there a problem?” Emma asked Milah, back to being angry with her. For no reason. Well for a lot of reasons but none that the woman was aware of.
“No.”
“Emma?” Ruby asked as she cautiously opened the door.
“Found someone outside…” Emma didn’t so much have to haul Milah into the house because the woman willingly went. Wait a minute, was she comfortable walking in here? Emma looked to Belle, who stood several steps into the foyer. Eyes blown wide. From shock or recognition Emma wasn’t sure, but something was definitely up.
“Is this….?” Ruby started.
“Yeah,” Emma mumbled before her best friend could finish.
“What do we do with her?”
“Find out all we can. Grab some ice for her ankle. We’ll go to the library.”
With her arm on Milah’s, following this illusive woman from behind, Emma and the others headed into a room she knew there weren’t a lot of alternative exits to. The library. A few windows lined the walls but they were all visible from Emma’s standpoint. She wasn’t leaving until she had a solution about why in the world Milah was lurking around outside and why Belle looked like a deer in the headlights right now.
Inside the library Emma had Ruby draw the blinds as she escorted Belle to a couch opposite Milah. And Milah was taken to the chair with a wooden arm Emma could lock her wrist around with one side of the handcuffs.
And again Emma caught Milah who, for whatever reason fixed her eyes on different parts of Emma’s arm as it locked the handcuffs on her wrist into place.
“Is he happy?” Milah whispered so low only Emma was able to hear.
“What?” Did she mean her son, Neal? Did Neal ever tell her about she and Henry? “Neal’s alright, as much as he can be. A lot has been happening in his life as of late but he and Henry…”
Milah’s brow crinkled, almost confused. “Neal, how do you know my son?”
“I-uh…”
“Killian…I was um, referring to him. That’s how you knew to call me Grace,” Milah said a bit louder, eye level with Emma who was knelt in front of her attempting to pretend she should still be in that position. “That is his shirt, correct?”
Emma’s eyes widened and she looked down at her arm where the sleeves of Killian’s shirt had been rolled. And where his initials were embroidered. That was why Milah had been staring at Emma’s arm. She had slipped it on this morning, since he had ripped her shirt the night before. She tried not to blush thinking of the memory of them so desperate to have each other they forgot all manners and decencies. She never thought that anyone would notice she was wearing his shirt. But of course, as luck would have it, like 5 people today had.
“But then what do you know about my son?” Milah’s voice was a bit more authoritative now, less soft and easy going than it had been when she first talked to Emma. Ruby and Belle had now clearly heard the nature of the conversation. For whatever reason Emma became nervous, standing from her spot. Even though she wasn’t the one in handcuffs, for a second she felt she had lost the upper hand.
“Neal and Emma were together for a long time…” Belle chimed in. Her soft voice coming from the couch opposite where Milah sat. “They have a son, Henry.”
“I have a grandson…?”
Emma nodded and begrudgingly looked back at Milah, whose eyes had only gotten wider. Though Emma knew the woman had no right to be angry, she could still think it was weird. Because it was weird. It was a completely odd situation.
“So you’ve been with my ex-boyfriend and my son?”
Emma grabbed at the sleeve of Killian’s shirt. Trying to cling to any of his scent that was leftover in the fabric. Wishing she was with him, wrapped in his arms with this whole case behind them, instead of where she was. Though normally, Emma was relatively confident in herself she felt like curling into a blanket right now. Preferably with Killian, the man she had fallen in love with.
“I... uh.… yeah… um…” Emma didn’t really have a clever, quick-witted response.
“I think we’re here to figure out more important things, so just put a pin in this for a while, you two, okay?” Ruby offered. Emma’s chest untightened a bit at her best friend’s suggestion to focus on why they were actually here and she gave the brunette the most gracious smile she could muster.
Killian’s POV: Monday Night, 8:45 pm
Since Emma left his hotel earlier that morning, Killian hadn’t stopped worrying about her. As silly as he knew it was, still his gut persisted. She had left him to chase down an escaped murderer, the very desperate man who had killed his own parents.
Killian himself was feeling desperation as he looked on at the space in the bed where the sheets were still tangled from his morning (and night) with Emma. If he laid down, it would no longer have the warmth of her body as she had left hours ago but her imprint was still there. He felt like a fool sitting across his bedroom staring at the sheets instead of doing something. He wasn’t helping. Emma was the one out in the world apprehending his parents’ killer. She was such an extraordinary woman.
“Little brother!” Killian heard the familiar, and at this moment, irritating sound of Liam’s voice from the downstairs.
Killian rolled his eyes. Now that he was in America he had been spending more time with Liam than he had in years. And while it was nice to reconnect with his brother it was also annoying at times because after all… he was his older brother.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Liam asked when Killian reached the bottom of the steps to the foyer.
“It wouldn’t hurt to just look.” Killian wasn’t sure if he was more convincing Liam or himself.
“Then let’s get on with it,” Liam said as he smiled, clearly sensing his brother’s apprehension and patting him on the back.
By the time they got into Liam’s car it was dark out. The day had gotten away from him. Liam started the car and as it growled to life Killian heard the ringing of his cell phone. His heart skipped when he thought maybe it would be Emma again. But it sank quickly realizing it was Regina, his lawyer.
After a quick conversation with the woman detailing the address they were supposed to meet her at and the way to get into the building, he hung up the phone, avoiding eye contact with his brother who was probably preparing to lay into him for being so obviously disappointed that it wasn’t Emma calling. But Liam didn’t. In fact, the ass was smiling and staring straight at the road ahead as they drove into the city.
“All of a sudden you don’t have an opinion?” Killian asked.
“Oh I do…” Liam smirked. “You just may not want to hear it.”
“When has that ever stopped you before?”
“Fair point. Maybe one day I will. Let’s just focus on the task at hand. Is Regina there yet?”
“Yeah, she’s already there.” They were only a few moments away themselves. Killian looked out the car window, the trees surrounding them on their drive slowly turning to buildings. High rise after high rise until finally they were in the city, and about to pull into the building’s garage.
A few moments later they were buzzed into the building by Regina, their lawyer and sometimes real estate agent who was just in general a phenomenal negotiator. As Killian rode the elevator up to the top floor he got nervous again. Swallowing a lump in his throat he stepped into the foyer of the apartment.
It was massive… and modern. The floors a bright white and the walls an identical color. Still he tried to keep an open mind. After all, he had Regina organize this apartment showing very last minute. He had been toying with the idea of getting a place in the city for a long time. Boston and New York being places he often went on business anyways, it made sense. But he hadn’t had the nerve to actually consider it seriously. Now he was though, and it was scary. What if Emma didn’t want the same future he did? What if the prospect of him getting a place so close instead of living on another continent was more terrifying for her than it was him?
“Killian, perhaps you should put one foot in front of the other to actually see the place. I’m fairly sure there’s more than one room here…” Liam urged from behind Killian, who had apparently stepped out of the elevator and completely frozen in his tracks.
“Finally, you two are here. They’re only letting us have the keys until 9:30, let’s look.” Regina came trotting into the expansive space, the click of her heels on the hospital white floors bringing Killian out of his daze. “Wait until you see the view.”
“Come on now,” Liam shoved playfully and Killian began to move through the apartment. Walking through the doors to what was the combination kitchen and great room he could see what Regina had been talking about.
The view was spectacular. The entire back wall made of floor to ceiling windows. Made to look like there wasn’t even a wall, like you were one with the sky. It was stunning. Killian loved a view, both his London flat and office had phenomenal picturesque views. A compromise to living in the city, and a way to feel like you weren’t living stacked one on top of the other.
Despite the stunning night time view, all Killian could come up with to say was, “There’s no outdoor space…”
“No but with a view like that, it’s almost like being outside…” Regina suggested. She had worked with Killian long enough to know when he wasn’t thrilled with something.
“But it isn’t the same.” Killian stepped as close to the windows as was allowed, looking down on the cars whipping past below. They looked like toys with plastic people. He was so far from it all. He tried to keep an open mind. “Is there any outdoor space within the building? Somewhere I can let the dog out and play?”
“No, but there’s a park a few blocks away where you can take Princess when she needs exercise.” Regina was being awfully suspicious Killian noticed as he looked at her and she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Regina, is this a dog friendly building?”
“Yes,” she answered. “But there are breed restrictions…”
“Breed restrictions, as in, no pitbulls?” Killian slowly felt himself begin to get angrier.
“Killian, if you buy the most expensive place in the building they’re not going to make you give up your dog,” Liam chimed in. Which only irritated Killian more.
“I don’t want to live in a building that has breed restrictions. Period.” Killian stormed off. Not even wanting to see the rest of it now. It felt like a hospital, not a home. And he so badly wanted a home.
In all honesty it wasn’t Regina’s fault that the place wasn’t ideal for him. She had done her best on the short notice and high list of demands he had given her. There was a bigger issue at hand here. He hadn’t ever talked to Emma, concretely about a future. And while he knew she cared deeply for him, did she want to have him so close by? Did she want the same future with him as he did her?
Emma’s POV: Monday Night, 8:45 pm
Now the library was quiet, the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner serving as the soundtrack to the silence between the four women. Eventually Ruby made her way over to the couch area and stood in front of the empty fireplace to keep her own eye on things, while Emma stood opposite her. She crossed her arms as her mind raced trying to come up with the best way to tackle this.
At first Emma had suspected that Milah was working with Gold, that she had helped to set him free last night. That she was sneaking around Belle’s house as an enemy of the woman who was now married to her ex-husband. But as Emma looked at the two women sitting across from each other she realized something.
“This isn’t the first time you two have met.” Emma was matter of fact in her approach. It wasn’t for certain that she was right, but her gut told her that the way they had responded to seeing each other indicated that they knew one another. And not just in an ‘oh that’s my husband’s estranged ex-wife’ way.
Neither one of them spoke up. Emma made eye contact with Ruby then who looked skeptical of this whole arrangement as well.
“I need to know under what circumstances the two of you could have possibly met…” Emma continued.
“The sooner the two of you start talking, the better shot we have at actually catching your husband…. and your ex-husband,” Ruby said.
“Belle…” Emma started, trying to come across as non-threatening. The two had worked together for a long time, if there was any way Belle could help them out, Emma would be sure to return the favor. “You know I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfires of this investigation anymore than you already have. So if there’s any way to prove that you weren’t holding this secret on behalf of your husband. It’s in your best interest to talk to me.”
Belle held statue still, as Emma hoped that she in some way got through to her. The brunette quickly glanced at Milah, whose eyes went from calm to nervous. From the look on Belle’s face it appeared as though she was measuring her options. She could talk to Emma, work with her, help out or she could keep whatever unspoken alliance was happening between she and her husband’s ex-wife.
And then it clicked. But Ruby beat Emma to the question.
“Belle… did you know your husband killed Brennan and Moira Jones?” her best friend asked, warily. It sounded crazy, the idea they were potentially getting at. At least Emma assumed that was what Ruby was eluding to. Emma had guessed for a while Belle knew what Gold had been up to. Ever since the day of his arrest when she all but gave them the location of the dagger he used to stab Killian’s parents. But then Milah was here, and she was somehow involved. Did she know too?
“Yes… but not the whole time….” Now really wasn’t the time to tread lightly.
“How long have you known?” Emma chimed in. Floored that Belle, a person on the police force working toward solving the case would have known this for any length of time. “Then I’m assuming you knew too?” She turned to Milah.
Both of the women were silent.
“Belle, how long did you know?” Still the women remained silent. If they both knew then they had definitely discussed a bond of silence. “If you don’t give me an answer I will have no choice but to say that both of you were aware for a long enough time to make you an accessory to the crime.”
She wouldn’t do that. But she had to keep them talking.
“I’ve known something was… different, about Robert for a while now. As far as the crime goes, that knowledge came about a year ago.”
Emma kept her eyes on Belle as she spoke, in an attempt to give an unofficial lie detector test, but every so often her gaze would shift to Milah. Who looked just as surprised as Emma and Ruby, however not for the same reasons. Milah’s surprise came from the fact that Belle was talking about any of it.
It was clear as day to Emma that the two women knew each other. The way they first reacted to each other when Emma brought Milah in the house, the way their eyes found each other every few seconds to double and triple check their allegiance, and most importantly, earlier when Emma had only said they were going to ‘the library’ and Milah had known exactly how to get to that room from the front hall.
“At first I thought he was having an affair, with the jewelry. But then I started searching…” Belle was giving the basic breakdown of how she had ultimately made the discovery. Piece by piece finding things that all pointed to a heart wrenching truth. The man she had married was a dangerous monster who had gotten away with committing an unspeakable crime and she feared if she wasn’t careful she would be next.
“And then when he started to catch on to my suspicions… I’ve never felt more in danger.” She talked of being systematically poisoned. A slow burning illness to distract from her terrible feeling about Robert Gold.
“Why wouldn’t you come to the police sooner?” Ruby asked.
Belle appeared to be summoning all of her strength as the wounds from her husband went far deeper than her forced illness. And speaking up was easier said than done. Especially when you’re scared and uncertain. “I knew enough of the case to know that it was botched and screwed up and no one wanted to touch it after your grandfather died, Emma. It was just such a conundrum for everyone. They had spent years searching and found nothing. And the town had suffered because of it. No one would reopen it if there wasn’t a decent trail to follow. It was too risky.”
Another deep breath. Milah still remained silent, but her hand was almost floating in the air, an unconscious motion for her wanting to comfort Belle.
“If he was going to get caught, and convicted and sent to prison for this, especially 20 years after it had happened I needed all of the evidence I could find. And none of it could come from my own home. He would know.”
Emma went through the trail in her head. Most of the pieces they had been sent as evidence hadn’t come from the Gold house. Only at the end, when they arrested Robert did they find the dagger in his shop. There was but one letter in the entire home during the search.
“So where does she come into all of this?” Ruby uncrossed her arms, looking at Milah who was still quiet.
“She helped me.” Belle confessed. “I sought her out. At a time where I felt I had no one, I had her.”
Belle had found Milah, going so far as to visit her in London. They shared their experiences and as it happened, Milah’s experience was not unlike Belle’s. It was then that they agreed to work together, to find a way to see that Robert Gold couldn’t hurt another person again. And the woman with the wild brown hair and pretty face, who Emma had resented for most of her relationship with Neal, suddenly didn’t appear as such an enemy. Now knowing that assuming the woman had simply abandoned him without a care in the world was incorrect.
The reality of it was, Milah had experienced the same slow-coming illness that inevitably left her too ill to get out of bed. With erratic behavior. Eventually, for Neal, she chose to leave. To get well and then return. But that never happened.
“After so many years, Robert told me it would be worse for Neal if I returned,” Milah spoke, she did have a lovely accent. One that matched Killian’s in a way Emma wasn’t expecting. “I took his word, after all he had raised Neal in my absence. I knew that my last interactions with my son were so terrible. Especially for him. It’s something I’ve never forgiven myself for.”
Emma thought of how Neal had told her his mother had tried periodically contacting him. Milah was too scared to attempt to be in his life. So here were two more women who had been intertwined in Robert Gold’s web.
“To live with him, to sleep in the same bed every night knowing what he had done… what he could do... it’s terrifying.” Tears were behind her soft eyes, as Belle spoke. And Emma knew then that Belle revealing the truth about her husband wasn’t an act of revenge it was an act of justice. “When you came to my house to arrest him that morning, I felt so tired and drained. So when you asked me about the murder weapon, I just gave you what I thought was the best answer. It was too hard to continue hiding it. The night you arrested Robert was the first night I slept in nearly a year.”
Emma walked over to her, sitting down on the couch next to her. This woman she had worked quietly near for years, and never known the struggles of.
“I’m not going to let him hurt you anymore.” Emma rested her hand on the young woman’s, feeling the faint tremble of Belle’s palm, whose dainty fingers no longer donned a wedding ring. “To either of you anymore.”
“I know.” For the first time in a while, Belle smiled. It wasn’t jubilant or happy, but relief. Like no matter what happened to her from this point on didn’t matter because the truth had been fully revealed.
Killian’s POV: Monday Night, 8:50 pm
“Hey… where are you going?” Liam’s voice sounded in the large, echoey room as Killian feverishly pressed the elevator button to leave the apartment. “I drove.”
“This was a stupid idea.”
“Something tells me this is about more than just the apartment.” Liam approached warily, like Killian was a spooked horse. “I’ve never seen you this way, Killian. Not even with.. Well with you know who…”
“You can say her name, Liam. She’s not Voldemort.”
“I know that Grace… Milah? What are we calling her?”
“Whatever you want. Get on with it.” It was frustrating to him. That after all of the years he spent with her, he still didn’t know what to actually call her. He had always known her as Grace, the proof was etched in black ink on his forearm. But everyone here had known her as Milah.
“I just want you to be happy, little brother. As much as you think that the life choices you’ve made leave you incapable of finding that happiness, that isn’t true. Just because Grace betrayed you, doesn’t mean she didn’t have her reasons and it also doesn’t mean that you can’t look forward to a future with Emma.”
“But how do I know Emma wants a future with me?” It was unlike him to be so uncertain. But given the circumstances of apartment hunting in the city not far from where Emma called home, it made the prospect of a future with her all the more real.
“Talk to her about it, you idiot. You spend all sorts of time together and you’re both too stubborn to come out and say that you want each other around when the dust settles.”
“Can you blame me for being unsure?” Killian eased a bit, Liam was right. Emma was the one he wanted around in the calm before the storm, during the storm, after the storm. She was the ray of light in his present compared to his dark and gloomy past. “I’ve only ever had one serious relationship and it didn’t end so well… I’m 0 for 1 right now.”
“Emma is different.” Liam reached his hand out and rested it on his shoulder. “It’s not her you’re uncertain of. It’s you. And because of that you’ve been running your whole life, Killian. It’s all right to stand still for a while.”
Killian released a breath, his body losing all of the tension he was feeling. He wouldn’t do anything, buy any property without knowing how Emma felt about it. But he had to be the one to start that conversation.
“We have a date on Thursday. Perhaps then…”
“A real live date?” Liam’s amusement was unmasked.
“Hey. She said yes.”
“That’s shocking considering you’re clearly the less-handsome brother.”
Killian raised his eyebrow, pretending to be pissed off. This was what they did. And it was another part of why Killian thought being around here would be good. He could be close to his family.
“Besides… a certain niece of yours has expressed to me several times that she wants her Uncle Killian to babysit her, all of the time,” Liam said, a face of mock annoyance even though he knew what his brother was overall trying to say. That it wasn’t just Harper who wanted Killian around.
“Aye, well, that’s because I’m a lot more fun than you.”
They both laughed at that, easing beyond the heavier parts of their earlier conversation and into something more comfortable. Killian had lived so far from Liam for so long, he was all that remained of his family. And there was a large part of Killian that wanted to be in his brother’s life. Liam was his best friend, and living apart from him had made Killian feel ultimately alone in this world. It didn’t have to be that way though, which was something he was realizing with each day he was in Storybrooke.
After his and Liam’s conversation, Regina met them in the elevator and Killian apologized for how rude he had been. It was in no way her fault nor her responsibility to find him a place to live. Though he would need her to negotiate pricing for him, that would come later. They separated from her once the elevator reached the ground floor, Killian telling Regina he needed to talk to someone before making any irrational decisions about real estate. She gave him a knowing smile, probably aware of the person Killian was referring to, but otherwise said nothing to indicate she knew that person was Emma (she definitely knew).
When he and Liam got back into the car, Killian checked his phone for the first time in a while. There were no missed calls or texts from Emma and a gut feeling told him he shouldn’t be the one to call her first. Who knows what she was up to in pursuit of Gold, the last thing she needed was an anxious phone call in the middle of a stake out. However, that was the exact thing Killian needed at the moment. To call her and to hear her voice just to know she was safe.
“I could use a drink,” Liam mumbled after driving a few minutes. Killian knew he would just pace and torture himself if he was alone in his hotel room. So he agreed to get a drink with Liam, after all it was only 9 pm.
Emma’s POV: Monday Night, 9:30 pm
After hearing the remainder of their story, Emma knew they were telling the truth. Both Milah and Belle had admitted they had been the ones sending the clues. Milah coming back to America to work with Belle to pull all of the information they could. Spending late nights in a hotel room towns over mapping out the plan. Belle needed Milah because otherwise her husband would have suspected her. And Milah needed Belle because she was the one who had used her police experience to put the pieces together.
Emma looked over at Ruby, who was just as affected by the outpouring of the stories these women had. She nodded for her best friend to follow her to a corner of the room. Emma looked at Ruby, gauging how she felt about all of this.
“I mean, we’ll need to get some sort of confirmation that the two of them both suffered these illnesses. And correspondence between them will be helpful in pleading their case,” Ruby started.
“We can try to get them off as easy as possible. But they admitted to sending the clues.” Emma looked over at the two, who seemed the slightest bit relieved. “They won’t get out of this easy. And we’re going to have to tell David.”
“Yeah. They’ll have to give official statements. Should we bring them down now?”
“We’ll give them a little while longer to calm down. Then we can take them to the station. I think they’ve been through enough.”
“I’ve got to say, Em, you’re handling this a lot better than most people would…”
“What? My ex-boyfriend’s mother and current boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend turning out to be the same person?” Emma said sarcastically. But it was her job, her career, to put the pieces together with the help of this woman. “Doesn’t this happen to everyone?”
“You know it doesn’t.” Ruby smiled deviously. “And I didn’t miss that you just called Killian your current boyfriend.”
Emma bit the inside of her mouth. Cursing herself for the slip of the tongue. But not really that angry about it.
“I mean… he asked me on a date. Thursday.” Emma got a little nervous thinking about it. She hadn’t been on a date that she enjoyed in a long time. But then remembered that it was Killian, and the nerves went away. She always enjoyed her time with him. Even if it was often limited to being between crises.
“It’s about damn time.” Ruby smiled at her, less devious this time and more… happy. “You deserve it. I think you both do honestly.”
“Thanks. But I think I need to talk to her. Privately.” Emma looked over at Milah, who stared off into the distance. Looking exhausted.
“You don’t owe her any kind of explanation, Em.”
“I know.” Emma was still going to give her one though. Ruby didn’t have to know that. Neither did Belle. She just wanted to sit down, woman to woman, and say what she wanted to. So she strode over to where the woman sat and bent down to unlatch her handcuffs.
“Can we talk for a second?” Emma said softly, not wanting Milah to think this was a set up.
“Sure,” the woman said back. She looked skeptical of Emma, but followed her to a quieter corner of the room anyway where there were two chairs surrounded by a small alcove of books.
“Neal and I got together when we were young. Too young, probably, to have been together,” Emma started. “And then we had a baby our senior year of high school. Your grandson, Henry.”
She didn’t want to get too far into things, hoping that maybe someday Neal would tell her about him growing up.
“Even though we haven’t been together for a very long time, he’s still my family. I spend every holiday with him. We share a son. He still buys me Mother’s Day flowers…” that last one probably stung. And Emma retracted just a bit.
“His father has turned out to be an awful man. And I think that Neal could benefit from you coming back into his life,” Emma said confidently. Knowing that smoothing things over with his mother could only help him at this point. If Neal could hear her side of the story, maybe he could forgive her someday.
Milah simply nodded. A soft smile crossing her face. The only sign of wrinkles on the woman’s face came at the corners of her eyes when she smiled.
“And to answer your earlier question, yes Killian is happy.” Emma looked down at her sleeve. Remembering being in bed with him the night before, professing to each other just how happy they were together. But even if they hadn’t had that conversation, she knew in her heart he was. “Better than he’s been in a long time.”
“I suppose then he knows I wasn’t truthful about my identity.”
Emma thought back to the night she discovered it. And had immediately told Killian she knew his ex had been lying to him. That night she wondered if Milah knew the dark connection between herself and Killian Jones when she began dating him.
As if reading Emma’s mind Milah said, “I didn’t know when I met him. Who he was. And I didn’t know that my ex-husband had killed his parents.”
“Was that why you broke it off?” Emma asked, when she and Belle were explaining the timeline of their meeting Emma had done the math. ‘Grace’ had broken up with Killian right around the time Belle went to London.
Milah nodded. The faintest hint of tears in her strong eyes. “I knew if I told him, he wouldn’t ever look at me the same. And hoped…”
“That he would never find out who you had been?”
“It’s foolish right?”
“No.” As much as Emma came into this situation thinking that she didn’t particularly like Milah’s choices, on some level she got it. The woman wanted Killian to move forward. “I think you wanted him to have a shot.”
Milah reached out for Emma’s hand, grabbing it gently across the small wooden table that divided them. It surprised Emma but she didn’t pull away. Instead looking into Milah’s eyes and realizing that any jealousy, any competition Emma had felt toward the woman earlier was in vain. She wasn’t going to try to snatch Killian from her, she wasn’t here to come between them.
“Thank you, Emma,” Milah whispered, squeezing Emma’s hand once more before releasing. The words weren’t there totally, but it felt like they understood each other.
A few moments later, the two women left the corner to rejoin Ruby and Belle who were sitting quietly chatting in the center of the room. Belle looked a bit more at ease, though there was still the looming wonder of what would happen when she and Milah confessed to the rest of the investigation team to leaving the clues. Emma and Ruby had promised they would work hard to ensure their punishments were as light as possible, but in front of a judge there was only so much they could do.
But going in the women had known what they were doing would have repercussions, and had discussed at length what they would do if caught. To both Milah and Belle it was worth it though. Because Robert Gold would be behind bars, something that was long overdue.
Emma’s phone began to ring, everyone in the room looking over to her because it was the only sound that could be heard. A part of her hoped it was Killian, she had called him around 8 but couldn’t talk long and she wanted to hear his smooth voice wrapped around her name. Wanted the butterflies that erupted in her stomach when he called her ‘my love’. But when she checked the front screen it was David, her father, calling and the butterflies she had dreamed up a few seconds ago were gone.
“Hi dad, everything okay?” she asked. Knowing everything was probably not okay and that she needed to tell him all about Milah and Belle. Eventually.
“Em how soon can you be down to the docks?” David asked, his normally calm voice laced with urgency.
“Um… soon? Why what’s going on?”
“It’s Gold. Someone called in and spotted someone suspicious around the cargo ships. We haven’t been able to get ahold of Neal but his car’s missing…”
“What?!” Emma screamed into the receiver. Not quite knowing how to process all of this.
“We need you down here. Have Ruby take Belle down to the station, they’ll be safe there.”
“Alright. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Emma hung up the phone, too shocked to even move for a few seconds. Neal’s car was gone, Gold was gone. They couldn’t find either. Emma hated the path her thoughts were taking. Gold at the docks was one of the worst places he could be. Hundreds of tons of cargo came through there everyday. He could be stowed away anywhere. Off to the great unknown in seconds as soon as the travel restrictions were lifted. Emma gulped and stopped letting her mind race. She knew what she had to do.
Killian’s POV: Monday Night, 11 pm
A few hours later, and only about 2 beers in, Killian and Liam left the Boston bar to return to their respective rented homes. Getting in the car Killian once again checked his phone to find he had heard nothing from Emma though it was getting progressively later.
“She’s alright, Killian,” Liam offered as he drove through the dark city streets, heading toward Killian’s hotel.
“We don’t know that.”
“No, but thinking otherwise won’t make this go any faster.” Liam stole a glance at Killian looking awfully sympathetic for an older brother who spent most of his time teasing him. “She’s great at her job, Killian.”
“I don’t doubt her abilities as a cop so much as I doubt Robert Gold’s abilities to be a decent human being.”
“I know.” Liam couldn’t offer Killian anything else. Because there wasn’t any argument against what a terrible person Robert Gold was. He had murdered their parents in cold blood. Obviously he was capable of horrid things, and who knew what he would do as a desperate man on the run.
A few moments later Killian jumped as his phone began to ring. He looked down at the caller ID and saw Emma’s name on the screen.
“Oh thank God,” he breathed before swiping the phone to answer. “I was beginning to think you’d never call, love.”
“Killian, it’s not Emma. This is Ruby.”
Killian audibly gulped. Instinct telling him something had to be wrong for Emma not to call him directly herself. Dread filled his body.
“Something happened… Emma’s, well, she’s…”
“What is it, is she alright?” Killian felt a mixed wave of anger, fear, and devastation take over. It felt like his throat might close as he waited mere seconds for Ruby to answer.
“Killian…. Things went really, really wrong… Emma’s hurt. She’s in the hospital.”
It was at that moment that his fears were truly realized and all of the anxiety and dread Killian had been feeling all day was nothing compared to the feeling that he had right now. The worry that took over every system in his body. The gut wrenching sadness that came with picturing his Emma lying in a hospital bed. One where he swore his heart that Emma had done everything to mend was now breaking in half.
|
*** Cloning prt 5Premise: Captured Lance. Cloning. Langst.Scene: When the team finally find Lance, they don’t expect to find him with a child that’s the splitting image of Keith. Non con body modifications. No Mpreg. They all live. I guess season 6ish because I love our grizzled Keith…
*Coran was cleaning up the lab when their group arrived. Lance now in a pod, the horrible device gone from his face. Krolia’s expression said it all. She too could see Lance. He wasn’t desperate and he wasn’t imagining it. This was Lance.
“Ah, there you are…”“How’s Lance?”“Not in a good way I’m afraid. Thanks to that device he’s malnourished as well as battling several infections”Keith had to ask“So it’s him…? Like it’s definitely him?”“The genetic profile matches Lance’s records. Shiro has gone to clean up then gather the team. We need to have a serious conversation about how this could have happened”“Do you have any ideas?”Coran nodded. The Altean looked thoroughly emotionally exhausted“A few, my boy. I’m hoping examining both children will yield answers. How is the girl?”
Krolia carried XC over to the bed. The little girl clinging to Krolia as she laid her down. Smoothing back her black hair, she smiled fondly at the toddler as if the little girl hadn’t been a raging monster a varga earlier“She’s exhausted herself. We noticed she seems to have some kind of branding on her foot”“It’s the same as what she said her name was… It looks like a serial number to me”“And the baby?”Keith shook his head. He didn’t know how to deal with a crying baby, so he’d been careful not to disturb the infant“He’s sleeping so I haven’t checked”“Okay, my boy. I’ll begin by examining her”
Scanning the little, she’d finally fallen asleep on the bed. Keith knew how hard and uncomfortable the examination table was, generally why he called it a table and not a bed, but to her it must have been luxurious. Krolia stayed by her side the whole time, holding her tiny little hand as Coran did the tests he needed to. Keith wished he could say he was paying attention, but with Lance right there, Lance held all his attention.
“Are you sure?”“There’s no doubt. Keith?”Pulled out of staring, Keith blinked at the pair. Staring at Lance was basically the only thing keeping him awake now “Hmm?”Krolia’s expression towards him was soft, yet filled with parental concern. He supposed that was what he got for focusing on his crush and not the girl who looked so much like him“We think we know what’s happened here. We’ll need to examine the baby to be completely sure”Yep. He’d definitely missed something important. Coran was staring at him with so much sympathy that it made him uncomfortable “What do you mean?”“I’ve run her genetic code. It matches Lance”“So she is his daughter?”“In a sense. Her cells show strain from having gone under rapid development. From them alone she shouldn’t be more than a few phoebs old”“But she’s like two? And if Lance is the father, then… then who is the mother?”
He knew things were bad when Krolia came over to him, crouching down in front of him his mother sighed softly“What we think is that she and the baby have been formed through cloning. Human’s given life in a test tube. We’ll need to examine his cells for more answers”“I’m sorry. I don’t get what you’re telling me? Is she going to be okay?”“Coran’s going to put her in a pod with the hopes of stabilising her cells. If the cellular growth continues at this rate she’ll be a teenager within two movements”
What the actual quiznak? His brain couldn’t process this“But… she’s Lance’s?”His mother nodded with a tight smile“She’s also half yours. Your genetic profile has been spliced with his”“What the fuck?!”“I know… I know this… this is hard. We have no idea who possesses technology this advanced, nor why Lance is involved”No. Nope. No. There was no way“How? When… I… I think I’d notice if someone was harvesting my DNA”“We need to take him to confirm. Let me take him…”“Mum… this is a joke right? I mean… I don’t have kids and Lance isn’t built that way either”“That’s why cloning is the best explanation we have at the moment”
Keith was shaking. Him and Lance… He liked Lance, but… suddenly he had kids?! He suddenly had a daughter who was aging rapidly and a son?! And… Lance who was in a pod… Now he felt like he knew why Hunk had been so dismissive “No”“Keith”“This can’t be possible. Are you sure it’s not from me touching her?!”Coran cleared his throat“I took a blood sample from her, my boy. The composition is clearly a cross between both your genetic code and Lance’s”“So that makes her a clone? What about Lance? Is he a clone?”“No, my boy. Lance’s cells show none of the same markers as hers do. I can say with reasonable certainty that Lance is indeed Lance”“Then who the fuck walked out the airlock!? By that logic there’s a chance we could all be clones. I can’t…”
His loudness woke the sleeping infant in his hold. Krolia taking the baby off of him… was he also his?“Keith, we both know neither of us are. I think for now you some rest”“What I need is Lance out of the fu-, the pod and some answers”“He’s going to be in there for a few quintants. That device left a lot of damage to his mouth. Krolia is right, my boy. You’ve had an awful series of shocks to the system. I’ll personally handle things here”“I don’t want to rest. You’re telling me that Lance and I have children, that our daughter is dying and their both some kind of clones… and you want me to rest?”“Keith, let us confirm things…”“We can’t confirm anything until Lance is out of that pod”“Exactly. Nor can we change things. Remember, we need to focus on the things we can do and you need rest”
His mum didn’t get it. He was being told he and his crush somehow had two children and now he was being sent away. He’d been prepared to protect Lance’s children… but now that he knew what they were… he didn’t know what to do or feel. No matter what happened between him and Lance, it was now all thrown off with the fact they had two lives they’d forever be responsible for“How can I leave them… if they’re mine…?”“You’re not leaving them. XC needs a pod… and I’ll be with this little man… You need to rest or you’re only going to work yourself to the point of collapsing”Geez. Way to kick a guy when he was already having an early midlife crisis“Thanks, mum. I think I’m past that point already. What am I going to tell the team? What do I tell Lance? Do you think he knows?”“We won’t know until he wakes. Until then, we’ll tell the team what they do need to know. Lance has been recovered”“But what if they’re clones? What if whoever did this didn’t just replace Lance? What if they’re watching on through someone’s eyes… What if this was all Lotor?”“Keith…”“No. It makes sense. Why wait for generation after generation to be born when you can manufacture all the quintessence you need?”“You’re spiralling. This is why you need rest. We’ll discretely check the rest of the team”“And how are you going to do that?! They’re all going to be suspicious”“Keith, you evacuated an alien moon. A simple medical to rule out any forms of bacteria or posed chemical risk isn’t going to raise suspicion”“So we lie to them?”“It’s not a lie. We don’t know if something could have been brought on board with the refugees. Don’t make me knock you out”
She’d do it too. Keith was defeated…“Okay. Okay. But only a few vargas… I want to be here when Lance wakes and I want to be here for the team. It’s a huge shock for them to process”“And for you. Whatever you decide, I’ll support you the best I can”“You’re just loving having two grandchildren suddenly, aren’t you?”
But what if Lance didn’t know? Or he knew and didn’t want Keith’s help? What happened then? He hadn’t been there for Lance. None of them had been and that was provided that Lance was actually Lance and not a clone of Lance… Hold on… what did that make the other Lance? Was the other Lance the clone? Or were they both clones? “I’m pretty shocked, but you do make some adorable children. Coran and I will also make a start on investigating how this happened”“I feel like I’m leaving all of this to you”“Trust me, I want to help you. Now go to bed, young man. I don’t want to see you for at least 6 solid vargas”Keith looked to Coran who shot him a sympathetic smile “I promise to take good care of the four of them”Coran had barely known Krolia two quintants and there he went including her“Thank you… and thank you for… for helping him… and her… and possibly him”His mother chuckled at him as Keith tried to work out how his sentence hadn’t gone the way he’d planned“Coran gets the message”“I’m glad someone does. If he’s okay, will you bring him down to me?”“Yeah, kiddo. Even if he isn’t your son, I know you’ll love him like he is once you get your head around it. Anyone can make a baby, but not everyone can be a dad”
Climbing to his feet, he got what Krolia meant. If he ended up confessing to Lance, that meant all of Lance, including his children. For a baby the little boy was kind of cute… and his mother knew how hard he was finding it to leave things as they were… but what good would he be to his newly found children if he didn’t get himself together first.
*XC only needed an overnight stay in the pod. Keith having first gone to Lance’s room to retrieve his video logs before heading to his so he wouldn’t be invading Lance’s space. His plan had been to try to work out when their Lance stopped being their Lance, instead he’d fallen asleep and woken to find his mother.
Heading up to the infirmary, he was the last to arrive. None of the rest of the team seemed to have slept. XC sitting in Allura’s lap as Allura kept her preoccupied by letting her play with her comms. Keith holding who he now knew to be his son. The little boy minus the branding on the bottom of his foot “What did I miss?”Shiro smiled at him. His brother needed a taste of Krolia’s fists. The bags beneath his eyes nearly as black as Black“XC is awake. We were going to her breakfast, but we all sort of ended up staying here”“And she’s okay?”Coran beamed at him“The pod has stabilised the cellular activity. She needs food, but she’s a remarkably strong little thing”
Pidge sighed her standard sigh of interruption“So we’re not going to talk about how much she looks like Keith?”If Pidge was asking then she hadn’t been filled in…“For now I think it’s best we wait until our boy here wakes up”Pidge wasn’t having it“I’m sorry, but you guys clearly know what’s going on here. Someone needs to tell us”Coran opened his mouth, Keith opting for a partial truth rather than whatever the Altean was going to say“We did some tests last night. She and the baby are Lance’s… more accurately, they share DNA with Lance. Coran can’t tell you anymore than that because we don’t know anything more than that. We’re thinking of rewatching the castle footage at some point today to try and work out how Lance is still alive and who we saw die. We need to make sure that this isn’t a trap, or some scheme to make us lower our guards”
“So you’re saying Lance might even be Lance? After everything? Then who did we rescue?”Keith forced himself to shrug“We don’t know. This could be our Lance and the other Lance… I don’t know. I tried to work it out last night but I’m still as clueless as I was”“Then the Galra have cloning capabilities? Why are we only hearing about this now?”Shiro swayed on the spot, pinching the bridge of his nose. All of them looking to him as his brother let out a long breath“I’m getting confused thinking about it. We need breakfast. Coran, how long until Lance comes out of the pod?”“According to this morning’s readings, tomorrow at the absolute earliest. We won’t be able to tell if the device had caused permanent damage until he does”
Pidge crossed her arms as she huffed“I’d like to find whoever fitted it and give them one just like it”Reaching out, Shiro ruffled her hair“You’re not the only one. Have you made any headway with it?”“Noooo. We had refugees all night. Half of them don’t know where they came from. I’ve got send photos through to Matt so he can ask around”“Good job, Pidge. I didn’t think of that”“That’s why I’m the brains of this operation. Romelle’s going to help me”
Romelle who wasn’t there?“Where is she?”“We set her up on a call to the Blades so she could fill them in on what she knows. She should be about done by now”Keith could have smacked his team… Heck, he could have smacked his mother. She knew Romelle had a one track mind “You left her alone? She’s lost her brother and now has to wait to see Lotor…”Pidge and Allura both paled as they looked to each other“We’ll go make sure she’s not up to trouble. We’ll take XC with us”“No”Keith blinked as everyone’s eyes went to him. He couldn’t play it cool to save his life when Lance was involved… or his daughter…“I mean, if she’s angry and starts yelling she might upset her. We’ll take her to get some goo. Hunk managed to get her eating yesterday. You should probably take mum with you in case she needs to talk to Kolivan”
Pidge snorted at his plan“We’re leaving a baby and a toddler in the care of the three of you? Hunk told me you were covered in goo trying to feed XC”That wasn’t his fault… Pidge hadn’t seen the other side of his daughter “I’m pretty sure that between the three of us and Coran, we can feed one baby and one toddler”Coran shook his head“Sorry, Keith. You boys will have to manage without me. I need to pop by and check our refugees”
Allura took XC’s hands in hers, smiling happily at the little girl“I really don’t mind looking after her. She is very sweet”And she was a distraction from Lotor… but… okay, maybe he was a little jealous at the way Allura fawned over his daughter after being cold about his Galra heritage“I promised Lance”Hunk and Pidge turned to each other at the same time“Look at our little Keith, he’s all grown up”Hunk faked a sniffle“They grow up so fast”“Who would have thought he’d be volunteering for babysitting. It makes me so proud”Keith rolled his eyes at the pair“You both suck. XC do you want something to eat?”
His daughter nodded hesitantly. She’d probably been on rations on that moon“Let’s go get you something to eat. If we’re lucky Uncle Hunk here’s been making cookies again”“What’s a cookie?”Hunk lifted XC off of Allura’s lap. Allura biting her lip as he did. That was his daughter and not hers. Whatever ideas she was getting he hoped she’d soon forget them“They are like the best food ever. I don’t have any made, but I think I know a little girl who can help me”“Who?”“You. And we can make extra cookies for Lance… for your daddy”“Does daddy like cookies?”“He loves them. Uncle Shiro’s going to help”
Suddenly Keith realised that XC actually had a pretty good vocabulary for someone so small“Did your daddy teach you to talk?”XC nodded. Keith not sure what was he going to do now he knew that Lance hadn’t been silent all that time “Did he used to tell you stories?”“Daddy had the best stories”XC’s bottom lip wobbled“I’m sure Hunk has some stories too. Did your daddy have a special name for you?”“Daddy calls me baby”That wasn’t what Keith meant… but then again he was asking a toddler for her name. Shiro clapped his hands“Right. Let’s go see the kitchen. I’m sure you’ll be a huge help, kiddo”
*Babysitting was exhausting. No. Parenting was exhausting. Keith was determined to be there for the kids and that might have helped dig the hole he was in. XC was stubborn. His son had started crying sometime during the night and he hadn’t stopped. XC didn’t like sleeping with the light off and wouldn’t settle unless he took her to see Lance and re-explained that her daddy needed his special sleep. She wet the bed, meaning midnight showers for both of them, and rehoming the refugees was taking longer than expected meaning they’d lost a day where the could have made ground researching Lance’s movements…
With XC in his lap learning how to draw and colour, and his son finally asleep against his shoulder, Keith kept finding himself drifting off. Lance would be awake tomorrow morning. That was the most positive news he’d had in… technically years. On his screen he was playing through all the castle footage of Lance, while on the screen was the same scene. Yes. He knew he didn’t need to have it playing on his screen and the main screen but he didn’t feel like he was doing enough to work this out. They’d started with Lance’s video logs going back to when Keith first left. Everyone else on the castle was doing the smart thing and sleeping. Krolia had told him to leave the kids with her for the night, but his mother had been off with Hunk earlier helping deliver the refugees to the coalition hospital. Seeing she could go into the facility, with the whole being Galra thing, she’d been a little off when she’d returned. Keith knew it had to sting. Not all Galra were evil and it sucked to think how she’d been automatically labelled despite her efforts to help. He didn’t want to take the free time she had away from her, despite how clucky she’d become. She’d even managed to negotiate clothes for both his son and XC from the coalition hospital.
“Keith, come to bed”
Shuffling into the bridge, his mother had two mugs with her. Allura lending her a spare pair of pyjamas and a set of slippers. At first his mother had politely taken them with a look on her fact that said she wasn’t afraid to eject them into space. Now she seemed perfectly at home in them“I think I worked out to how get him to settle. He seems to sleep when he’s listening to Lance’s voice”“I’m pretty sure part of parenting isn’t letting your two year old colour in your lap in the middle of the night”“No, I’m fairly sure it isn’t either… but this is the last chance I’ve got to put things together before talking to Lance”
Krolia sighed at him as she passed the first mug to XC and set the second on his terminal“I just sent Hunk and Shiro back to bed. Hunk’d worked himself up trying to cook all of Lance’s favourite food and Shiro had gotten up for a snack only to be roped into helping”That sounded like he should have been there for him… and for Shiro. He doubted his brother was awake and after a snack“He should be sleeping”“You should be too”
He’d done nothing but babysit all day… no. He’d done nothing but parent a crying baby and an unhappy XC. From the moment they’d gotten up, there’d been someone around. Then when everyone was busy, he’d been up on the bridge, followed by trying to feed the kids dinner… and XC having a meltdown about Lance“I know… I just… needed some space”“Have you worked out what you’re going to tell Lance?”Keith groaned“No. I wanted to have answers so I’d be able to talk to him and all I’ve got is nothing”“I’m sure Lance will appreciate that you tried”“But I should have something. I’m no closer to understanding anything”
Lance would be exhausted and confused when he came out of the pod. He also might not trust that any of this was real depending on what he’d gone through. Trying to probe XC for information had gotten nowhere and it’s not like his son could tell them“You can’t keep beating yourself up”“Really? I barely helped with the refugees. Lotor’s supposed to be showing up when all I want to do is run so he can’t get his hands on the kids. Lance was forced to work for god knows how long on that moon, and everyone is blaming themselves over both him and Lotor”“I know… I’m proud you’ve stepped up, but I’m worried that Lance…”Yep. At this point Keith had over thought everything to the stage he could almost read his mother’s mind“Mum, I know. I know I’m setting myself up to be hurt by looking after them, but… I don’t know if I want kids. I don’t know if Lance will even believe me if I told him I liked him… let alone what that means for the four of us. I mean… I invaded his privacy. And what if he doesn’t know it’s my DNA? What then? I… don’t know what I’m supposed to do with these feelings”
Krolia nodded. Yep. The situation quiznakkingly sucked. Picking the cup back up, Krolia passed it to him“Drink your milk. Tomorrow is going to be a huge day for Lance. Everyone is going to mean well, but coming through an extreme act of violence is hard. He most probably won’t want to talk… and you can’t force him to. What you can do is make sure these two are rested, clean, and fed. We know that the Lance on the video was definitely a clone. So there’s also the chance he’s going to doubt he’s himself. You’ve done all you can. Sometimes you can only go so far”“I feel like I’m letting him down”“You haven’t. Red responded to you. Because of Red the real Lance is back where he belongs. Don’t forget, you have me now. I know you’re struggling with the kids, but you’re trying. That’s the main thing. Given their age it’s highly doubtful they’ll ever remember what they went through”“I feel sick thinking about it”“It’s not ideal. And the timing could be better…”
Downing his milk, XC copied when she saw that it was okay to. She loved her food and now she was accepting no one was going tell her off for eating she’d tried saving part of it for her daddy“I’ll try to remember that next time Lance gets kidnapped and cloned”“I’d prefer it if my future son in law was never taken captive again”“That’s if he gives me a chance”“I’ve seen Lance in your memories. I assure you feelings run both ways”“That was before this happened. You… he never hated me for being part Galra. I know we didn’t find any evidence they were involved… but what if he hates me now?”“If he does, then he’s lost an amazing friend”
Yawn, Keith’s eyes were starting to feel too heavy to keep open“You’re only saying that because you’re my mother”“Let me be proud. Now, come to bed. I’ll give him his feed tonight, and XC can sleep with me” “But…”“No more protesting. They carry my DNA”“Fine, I’ll take floor tonight”“Why? Too old to be sleeping next to your mother?”“Totally”“Then it’s a good thing I added a little something to your milk”“Mum…”“Nope. You need rest. Tomorrow morning is going to be hard and I don’t want you scaring Lance off with those bags under your eyes”
He’d been utterly defeated by his mother and by time. He’d run out. He had no answers for Lance… Hopefully Lance would have some answers for him…
|
The Forbidden Forest, 12:30 AM
- Friday, 04 December, 1998 -
It's been a snowy first week of December, but the floor of the Forbidden Forest is only lightly powdered with it thanks to the roof of thick, tangled branches. Not even enough to leave footprints behind. Harry had gone in still undecided whether he actually wanted to find the clearing again or not, but the decision is made for him when he looks around suddenly and realises he's in it. By the light of his wand he can even see a Death Eater mask sitting at the foot of a tree, leaning up against the trunk.
There's a monumental swell of fear and anxiety that climbs and peaks and then quickly recedes, leaving Harry breathing faster but otherwise okay. He sits down on a large log, lights a lantern and takes a joint from behind his ear, and as he puffs on it his eyes wander the forest floor, a small but not insignificant part of him looking for the shimmer of the Resurrection Stone even though rationally he knows it's gone for good, as it should be. As he'd promised Dumbledore, and himself. He thinks uneasily that if he saw his parents again, Sirius and Remus, he'd probably give up and stay here with them this time.
*
As winter folds itself over the castle, the forest and its heavy, sheltered canopy become an increasingly enticing alternative to the tower, directly in the wind’s teeth. (The forest, unlike the water by Dumbledore’s grave, and the tower where he fell, is quite untainted, for Draco. There was the time he saw hybrid-Quirrell sucking the blood from a unicorn, but it’s rather paled in comparison to everything that’s happened since.)
The thing about nighttime wanderings is that the body gets used to them. Tiredness has evolved from a desire to sleep into a kind of dull torpor that lives far enough away from his brain for it to be ignored. Far more prominent is the restlessness. So Draco walks across the grounds until the forest seems to find him, spinous edges of a path that crawl towards his feet.
After walking for a while, the mess of trees on either side of the path open into a small glade. High above, a smudge of dark sky disturbs the tree tops. Down below, a smudge of dark hair disturbs their spindly boughs. Draco half jumps out of his skin at the sight of the figure, sending stones skittering from under his feet. He keeps to the vague edges of the copse behind him, resisting the urge to run as it turns just slightly, moonlight revealing a fine profile obstructed by round glasses – fuck's sake, it's just Potter. He's not sure when Potter became 'just Potter'; i.e., a relief rather than a threat. Whatever. Draco makes to retreat.
*
Maybe it’s being back here, but when Harry hears footsteps cracking over twigs and dead leaves he goes automatically for his wand and stands up, breathing hard again. Then, through the darkness, he sees blond hair and realises who’s joined him — and who’s now trying to slink away again.
“Malfoy?” Harry calls out. “I fucking see you there. What are you doing?”
*
Fuck, fuck. “When has incandescent rage ever gotten you anywhere, Potter? I’m leaving.” And he really is trying to, but the foliage bordering the path is fast intertwining itself.
*
It’s a neat little spell Hermione had taught him last year and he’d never really gotten to use — from where Harry's standing the animated branches look like snakes as they twist themselves into impenetrable knots, which is terrible actually, but they’re at least successful at blocking Malfoy’s path.
“First tell me what the hell you’re doing out here,” he demands, walking closer. “You scared the fucking shit out of me.”
*
“Could you cease with the histrionics? I was walking,” Draco says. He’d like to step back for the distance Potter is closing between them, but his back is already close to flat against the branches behind him.
*
Harry lowers his wand, feeling sort of silly but also fully justified, to be totally honest. He’d died here not too long ago. So.
“Sorry,” he says on a sigh. “I haven’t been here since …” He gestures vaguely instead of saying it. “Bit jumpy, I guess.” Holding up the joint, he says, “Stay a minute?”
*
Until Potter’s vague motion, Draco hadn’t realised where they were. His mother had told him what happened here one night before their trials, as frail and grief-stricken as he’d ever seen her.
There’s even a mask on the scorched ground. The inky, red-scrubbed mark on Draco’s wrist twitches when he sees it. Fuck, shit.
“Can’t,” he says, turning back to the sealed path. “Fuck, what’s wrong with these trees.”
*
“Charmed,” Harry says, crossing to where Malfoy is and tapping the branches with his wand so they untangle and retreat. The lantern over by the log throws ominous shadows over them.
“Stay a minute,” Harry repeats. The joint, when he offers it again, glows dimly in the darkness. “Please?”
*
Draco waves away the joint, but doesn’t move when the path opens. “Why?”
*
Harry shrugs. Says, “I dunno. Now that you’re here I realise I could use some company.”
*
“Even if it’s mine?”
*
“Well at least you won’t treat me with kid gloves,” he half-heartedly jokes.
*
Draco clears his throat. “Well. Fine.”
*
Harry says “Great” and gestures back towards the centre of the clearing ahead of returning there himself. He sits on the log and finishes off the last of the joint, watching the smoke made visible in the light from the lantern. He’s pretty fucking blazed, which is definitely the only way he can handle being in this place (and he wants to be here, only he doesn’t really understand why), and when Malfoy comes closer he can smell him again, that same scent as last time that he’d liked.
*
Hesitantly, Draco joins Potter on the log. The smell of his smoke is heavy and cloying. Draco turns away from it, and the mask lands in his eye line. He clears his throat again. He says, “Could you get rid of that fucking thing?”
*
Harry raises his eyebrows. It’s about dead anyway, though, so he says “Sure” and tosses the roach on the ground, stepping on it to put it out.
*
When Potter flicks away the end of his joint, Draco sighs. “I meant the mask, you imbecile.”
*
“Oh.” Harry looks past Malfoy at the mask lying against the tree trunk and thinks that it’s highly ironic he can’t even look it at. Of course he doesn’t say that — he gets up and goes over to it, picks it up, turns it over in his hands. He’s never looked at one up close; it’s pristine still, probably Charmed not to scratch. He wonders whose it might have been but doesn’t dwell on it, tossing it into the blackness of the forest beyond the clearing.
“Can I ask you something?” he says as he sits back down, nodding towards Malfoy’s arm. “About the Mark.”
*
Draco pulls his sleeve further into his palm. He nods.
*
He feels a bit bad for making Malfoy talk about it but still asks, “Have you felt anything since?”
*
“All the time.”
*
A shiver travels up Harry’s spine. He dry swallows and tells himself it doesn’t matter, his scar hasn’t so much as twinged, it’s just lingering Dark Magic, but his unthinking, highly-reactive, completely instinctive lizard brain recoils from the idea of anything about Voldemort surviving, even as a memory.
He touches his scar absently. Looks at Malfoy’s arm, then up to meet his eyes. “Can I see it?”
*
“What the fuck?” Draco says, covering his wrist out of instinct. “Why?”
*
“You don’t have to,” Harry assures him. “I‘ve never really seen it up close. Just curious.”
*
Curious. Hm. Draco draws back the sleeve of his cashmere jumper, dropping his eyes to Potter’s hand on the log while he holds out his wrist.
*
It looks evil. That’s the best word for it. Red like Karkaroff’s had been, but so much more out of place on Malfoy’s forearm. Harry smoothes a cautious thumb over the very bottom of it, curious about the texture. Nothing happens, and it just feels like skin.
“I’m sorry this happened to you,” Harry says in a low voice. “Dumbledore knew. He should’ve done something.”
*
The Mark writhes under Draco’s skin when Harry touches it, though Draco knows Harry can’t see it. It’s bizarre to be touched by him, rough finger pads on his tender, milk white wrist. There was the elbow to his ribs and a fist to his jaw on the Quidditch field, his chest flush against Potter’s back, fingers digging into his waist on the broom. This is very different.
Draco clears his throat again. “I made my choices. Dumbledore couldn’t have helped.”
*
“They weren’t your choices,” Harry says. “Not the big ones, anyway.” He laughs bitterly. “We both got fucked over by adults we should’ve been able to trust.”
*
Draco shakes his sleeve back over the Mark but leaves his hand palm up between them. Potter, in some weird duality, is both the last and the first person Draco would expect to be so forgiving. Draco kind of hates him for it. He says, “I appreciate the sympathy Harry, and I’m actually not being sarcastic, but I know what I've done,” he says.
*
It’s like he’s not even talking to Malfoy, particularly when he says ‘Harry,’ which he’s definitely never done before.
After a moment, Harry says, “Would you have handed me over? In the Room of Requirement, if you’d had the chance. Would you have done it?”
*
“We’re actually going to talk about this, then?”
*
Harry's stomach twists into a weird knot and he shrugs. “Would you?” he repeats.
*
Draco says, simply, “No.”
*
He’d sort of expected the answer but it’s still odd to hear it.
“Why?”
*
“Don’t worry,” says Draco. “It was for entirely selfish reasons.”
*
“Those being?”
*
Draco shifts his weight. “Unlike you, I like to consider my actions before I take them,” he says. “And, also unlike you, I’m not an idiot. You were the only one who could’ve killed him. So.”
*
“What makes you say that?” Harry frowns. Because the only people in the world who know about the Horcruxes are Ron and Hermione and him, and that’s an unexpected amount of confidence from someone who’d relentlessly bullied him for so long.
*
Draco blinks. “You’re you.”
*
For a two-word sentence it riddles Harry with a lot of emotion. He stares at Malfoy for a long few seconds, taking him in from his familiar white-blond hair to the sharp nose and the no-longer sneering mouth, and it feels distinctly like it’s the first time he’s actually looking at him.
He’s not exactly sure what Malfoy means by it, honestly, and he wants to ask but decides not to. He’s suddenly aware of how close they’re sitting, and Malfoy’s hand lying palm-up between them, and that smell of cologne.
“Right,” he says eventually. “Well I had a lot of help and got really lucky.”
*
“Mm,” Draco says. He looks up at the sky far above them. “I’m sure.”
*
“Including you,” Harry adds. “Your wand worked really well for me. In retrospect I s’pose it’s because you trusted me.”
*
Draco’s hand twitches when Potter mentions his wand. He shifts it back under his thigh. “You’re welcome, then.”
*
A not uncomfortable silence descends and Harry’s high brain flits haphazardly through all his peculiar encounters with Malfoy these last three months, the new things he now knows about him and some of the suspicions they’ve spawned. He’s told Hermione about it — the random encounters, not the suspicions.
After a minute, he says, “You can leave if you want, I won’t sic the trees on you this time. Thanks for staying a bit. ”
*
"Oh," says Draco, strangely bereft. "Okay."
*
”See you,” Harry says when Malfoy gets up. He wishes he wouldn’t leave but doesn’t stop him when he does, because he’s not really sure what the point would be.
Outside the Room of Requirement, 2:00 AM
- Sunday, 05 January, 1999 -
Sometimes when he can't sleep Harry pulls out the map. It's soothing, tracing paths through familiar corridors and seeing the names of sleeping students, staff who are awake and walking around, even Filch and Mrs. Norris. Sometimes he finds Hagrid wandering the grounds or clusters of ghosts who must be having gatherings. McGonagall never paces the office the way Dumbledore did.
The night he finds Malfoy sitting in the seventh-floor corridor outside the Room of Requirement is the first week back from holidays and it gives him a sense of overwhelming déja vu. It's two am and that's another one of the spots he's been avoiding, but this particular circumstance seems like the right one to go face it. Besides, he sort of feels like seeing Malfoy. He hasn't since the forest last month.
And there he is when Harry rounds the corner, sitting against the opposite wall facing the Room of Requirement, just below that bizarre tapestry.
He sees Malfoy notice him as he approaches and lifts a hand in greeting, which he then stuffs into his pocket.
"You tried it?" he asks unceremoniously, gesturing with his head to the blank stretch of wall.
*
When Potter rounds the corner, Draco feels a little twinge of satisfaction that always comes with being right. Like, he’d somehow suspected Harry might appear. And he has. Draco’s definitely not glad to see him.
Draco says, “At what point does coincidence become stalking?”
*
At that Harry laughs. "At the point it stops being coincidence, I suppose."
He sits down next to Malfoy and, surprising himself, takes out the map and hands it over. He doesn't see why he shouldn't — he'll be gone from Hogwarts after this term, and it's not like there's any real trouble to get up to anymore. "I only used it this time. And it was chance I saw you sitting here. I like looking at it when I can't sleep." He points to the names at the top, Prongs specifically. "That was my dad."
*
“Ah,” says Draco. He turns the worn parchment over in his hand, ink bleeding into gossamer fine threads around the lettering. “So your true namesake is ‘Prongs’? How idiosyncratic.”
*
It's still Malfoy giving him shit, but it's not like it used to be. There's no venom — or less of it, at least — and Harry's able to appreciate his dry sarcasm.
"My Patronus-sake, actually. He was an Animagus," he explains. "Turned into a stag."
*
Draco smirks. “So if your father was so brilliant, why’re you such a twonk?”
*
“That’s a great question,” Harry says, grinning. “I’m simply doomed to be common as we’ve established my name suggests.”
*
“You could always change it,” Draco offers. “I could pick you a new one.”
*
"Out of morbid curiosity, what would you choose?"
*
“You’d make a nice Cygnus. Perhaps Eridanus.”
*
Harry shoots an affronted look Malfoy's way. "A little refined for me, don't you think? Also it’s ugly."
*
“Perfectly suited then,” says Draco. “You know, if you walked past this wall three times and thought about what you need most, it might give you a haircut that doesn’t make you look seven years old.”
*
"Oh, that's very funny. I like my hair, thanks very much. At least mine isn't a shade of white that suggests inbreeding."
*
Draco sniffs. “My parents were thrice removed, thanks very much.”
*
"You shouldn't tell people that."
*
“Why?” Draco smiles. “What were your parents? Fourth cousins, or something?”
*
"God, I hope not," Harry grimaces. "I don't know much about my family, honestly. I'm choosing to believe I'm less inbred than you are." He takes the map back pointedly and folds it up. "How were your holidays? I assume you stayed here?"
*
“Utterly tedious,” says Draco. Pansy had wanted him to come home with her. The prospect of dinners sat across from her mother, who hated him (ever convinced that Draco was one faulty contraceptive spell from condemning her daughter to teenage motherhood – hello, he's fucking gay), was marginally more depressing than Christmas alone at school, and so he stayed. “Yours?”
*
“Fine,” he shrugs. Stressful, more like. Quite sad. Unexpectedly satisfying in other ways. “No worse than when I lived with the Dursleys, anyway. I always liked Christmas here, I almost wish I’d stayed.”
*
Draco wonders who the fuck the Dursleys are, then says, “It was lonely. You know, with no one here to follow me around like a lost Crup.”
*
Harry looks at the opposite wall and then down at his bent knees. He's pretty sure Malfoy's referring to Crabbe.
"Shit, I'm sorry, Malfoy. Did Goyle go home?"
*
Draco would have laughed, if not for the lurch in his stomach. “You're much too earnest, it's embarrassing. I was talking about you.”
*
"Ah." Harry clears his throat and lifts his gaze back to Malfoy. "Well in that case, fuck you, then. If anyone's the lost Crup, it's you."
*
“And how do you figure that one?”
*
"I dunno," Harry says. "Because you seem lost."
*
Draco frowns. “I’m not lost. You’re probably picking up my elegant nonchalance.”
*
"A rose by any other name and all that," says Harry. "It's alright, I'm lost too. You kill the psychopath whose been after you for seven years and suddenly your life has no purpose anymore. Funny how that works."
*
“Perhaps you could find another. It’s important to stay busy.”
*
"Good advice," Harry says flatly. He stands and crosses the corridor to touch the wall hiding the Room, instinct telling him he could walk past it a hundred times and he'd get nothing anymore. It makes him desperately sad. "You never answered my question. Did you try?"
*
“I did,” says Draco, watching Harry’s hands on the wall. “Nothing happened.”
*
"Shit," Harry says quietly. "Too bad." He looks it over once more, shakes his head, and turns back to Malfoy. "Listen, I'm gonna head down to the kitchens and see if they'll get me some hot cocoa. You wanna come?"
*
“I’m not nine. I’ll have coffee, though.”
*
“Coffee at two in the morning? Really?”
*
“Two sugars.”
*
Harry snorts. “Sure, whatever. Come on.”
He’s explored the castle more times than he could ever count and knows his way around better than his first-year self could have ever conceived. Some shortcuts are ones he’s learned from the map, some from his own wanderings and rule-breakings, and he likes quietly moving through them with Malfoy, like they’re mates or something.
When they reach the corridor lined with portraits of food and the one at the end hiding the kitchens behind it, he looks at Malfoy.
“Ever been in the kitchens before?”
*
Draco says, “Are you serious?”
*
“How do I know what Slytherins get up to?"
*
"We'd never visit the kitchens. How plebeian."
*
“Of course,” Harry says drily. “Well you’ve been missing out.” He gestures to the painting of fruit. “Tickle the pear.”
*
"Is that a euphemism?" says Draco.
*
Harry’s mouth twitches with a grin. “For what, exactly?”
*
"Not sure," Draco murmurs. "Something gay."
*
That makes Harry’s stomach do something weird.
“Right,” he says, and goes to do it himself. The pear giggles and the door opens and he gestures for Malfoy to go in ahead of him. “Well I wouldn’t know then, would I? You tell me.”
*
“No,” Draco agrees. “I suppose you wouldn’t.” He walks through the door Potter’s holding for him. The kitchens are big and high-ceilinged, with rows of cluttered workstations and brass cookware on hooks from its stone walls. “Perhaps a toss off.”
*
Fuck, his face has gone red. He can feel it and he hates it but shit like that still gets to him considering it’s only been Ginny he’s ever done anything with and that relatively recently. All they’d done sixth year was snog.
“No thanks,” he says, trying to find his footing again with some stinging wit. “I appreciate the offer, though.”
*
Well fuck. “'Twasn’t an offer. Simply attempting to educate the ignorant.”
*
“How thoughtful,” Harry comments. Thankfully at that moment a house-elf (not Kreacher, who must be sleeping) comes to greet them and Harry asks for his hot cocoa as well as Malfoy’s coffee with two sugars.
When they both have their drinks, he says, “Go on, then, who in Slytherin were you secretly being gay with while Parkinson played beard?”
*
Draco stirs his coffee with his pinky. “No secret about it,” he says.
*
Harry frowns. He tries racking his brain, anything about Malfoy he might have noticed sixth year but deemed insignificant to his cause. But he draws a blank, remembering only seeing him around Crabbe and Goyle or Parkinson most of the time.
“I’m out. Who is it?”
*
Trying his best not to smirk, Draco says, “Sometimes Theo. Mostly Blaise.”
*
It’s impossible not to picture it, although Harry tries. His cheeks burn again and he lifts his mug, gulping the cocoa down and coughing when it scalds his throat. Why had he asked again?
He wipes his mouth and says, “Why are Slytherins so incestuous?”
*
“Bit rich,” Draco says. “I’m not the one trying to fuck my way into my best friend's family.”
*
Harry positively gapes at him. “Fuck you, Ginny and I aren’t even together anymore!”
*
“Points for effort,” Draco offers.
*
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
*
Draco smiles. “Nothing at all.”
*
“I had to get it out of my system,” Harry says defensively, looking down into his mug. Shit. “Still getting it out of my system, technically. But we’re not together.”
*
Draco sets down his almost full coffee. It’s bitter. “Get what out of your system, exactly?”
*
“Dunno,” Harry shrugs. “Ginny? She was good, you know. Before. Safe and familiar and all that, and she’d always liked me.” His hand goes to the back of his head, rubbing awkwardly, and he sighs. “Now I’m just leading her on.”
*
Leaning against the nearest bench, Draco says, “I thought you said you weren’t together?”
*
“We’re not,” Harry mutters. He sets his mug down, drops his head into his hands, and his voice is slightly muffled when he says, “I’m just sleeping with her.”
*
“So? Do you think I’m with Blaise. It’s just a fuck, what’s the problem?”
*
“Is Blaise your best mate’s sibling?”
*
“Hm,” Draco concedes. “A fair point.”
*
“I should probably stop,” Harry muses.
*
Draco turns for the door, knowing Harry will follow. “Your problems are pitifully easy to solve, I hope you know,” he says, over his shoulder.
*
Hesitating a second, Harry abandons his drink to follow Malfoy out of the kitchen, frowning. “How’s that?”
*
"Be more selfish. You'll be much happier."
*
“Meaning what, exactly?”
*
Raising one shoulder, Draco says, "Whatever you want. Keep shagging the She-Weasel. Don't. Just stop forcing the image upon me before it scalds my retinas."
*
“Yeah, well, unlike you, I have a conscience to worry about,” Harry says flatly. As they crest the stairs leading back up to the first floor Harry touches Malfoy’s shoulder to stop him. “Don’t say anything, alright? Seriously.”
*
Draco’s eyes fall to Potter’s hand on the crease of his shirt. His fingers, long and with a slightly crooked pinky, reach almost to the margin of Draco’s clavicle.
He says, “Whatever, Potter.”
*
There’s nothing for it but to trust him, and for some reason Harry does.
“Right,” he says, “well. I’m heading back up to Gryffindor. S’pose I’ll see you next time I feel like manufacturing a coincidence, yeah?”
*
“I suppose so,” Draco murmurs. Then, when Harry’s halfway up the stairs, he says, “Potter.”
*
Some part of Harry had been expecting it, because there’s a release of tension when he hears Malfoy’s voice saying his name. He turns and raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”
*
Draco clears his throat. “It is important,” he says. “To stay busy.”
*
Harry frowns. He’s not entirely sure what he’d been expecting, but it’s not that. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
*
Idiot. Draco says, “Perhaps I could help.”
*
Oh.
Harry’s chest feels oddly tight suddenly, but not necessarily in the bad way. Maybe tightness is the wrong word. In fact he feels distinctly short of breath. And warm. In a short and surreal sequence of movements, he checks his watch, notes that it’s almost three, and then looks back down at Malfoy, meeting his eyes. Fucking shit.
Harry walks back down the steps and stops just above him, still frowning and at the same time just beginning to acknowledge something low in his stomach that he can identify perfectly fine, except of course that it’s attributed to Malfoy right now. And that’s confusing for a lot of reasons.
He’s proud of the steadiness in his voice when he says, “How could you do that?”
*
Draco's not exactly unaware of how much his offer sounds like an innuendo, but he figures context is important. To Potter, it shouldn't matter. And then Potter comes closer, and looks at him like that.
Carefully, Draco says, "Do you read?"
*
“Do I … what?” Harry responds, blinking owlishly. “I — I mean … not as much as Hermione. What are you getting at?”
*
“There’s a book you might like,” Draco says. “I could give it to you.”
*
Harry blinks again. The not-so-terrible tightness in his chest turns into something extremely, horribly terrible. Humiliation is a word for it. “I —" he says stupidly, still reeling less at Malfoy’s offer and more at the fact of whatever the fuck he had just been assuming was going to be offered. “Erm. Sure, thanks. What — what book?”
*
“Jekyll and Hyde. You and your moral absolutism should love it.”
*
Unbelievable. “Just because I have opinions on what’s right and wrong doesn’t mean I see in black and white,” Harry says bitterly, recovering finally from his misstep. “But fine, I’ll give it a try. I didn’t know you read Muggle literature.”
*
“Exclusively,” Draco says. He adds, in jest, “I’ve evolved.”
*
“Right …” Harry says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “So ... shall I get it from you tomorrow, then?”
*
“I won’t be here tomorrow,” Draco says. He takes a step back. “Next time you feel like manufacturing a coincidence, I’ll be sure to have it on me.”
*
“You won’t be here tomorrow?” Harry echoes, laughing incredulously. “What does that mean?”
*
“I’m otherwise occupied,” says Draco.
*
“We’re at school,” Harry points out.
*
“Are we?” says Draco, because his desire to be a cunt flares up at the most unpredictable of moments. “How nice of Granger to have lent you the Gryffindor brain cell for today. She really should give the rest of you a turn more often.”
*
There’s the old Malfoy.
“Never mind,” says Harry. “None of my business. I’ll see you round, Malfoy.”
*
Nodding to the map shoved into Potter’s front pocket, Draco says, “I’m sure you will.”
|
"We don't conveniently and unrealistically have lube at our disposal for this scene, what's up with that?"
"Oh, yeah," Dream responded after a moment of taking in how George just called him a good boy, so casually, and struggling to focus on anything else but asking for more of that, "It's a plot device, as, we used all I had, which, by the way, wasn't that much, in our defense."
George laughed, "Yeah, because you used most of it already all on your own."
"Well.. let me just say it's effective in a variety of situations."
"I knew I wasn't the first person in your bed."
Dream grinned, an eyebrow raised as he flicked his gaze down to their close proximity and George's obviously aroused state, "Looks like that line worked on you pretty damn well, anyway."
George sighed, but, of course, he couldn't help his soft smile, "I can't believe I fell for it. But, can we get back on track? The lube? Me fucking you? That's the whole reason we're here."
"It's perfect timing," Dream murmured, "As I just so happened to buy a few things."
"Oh god, the look on your face can only be a bad sign."
Dream's expression only grew more suggestive as he got up, chuckling as he skipped over gleefully to gather his special little purchases.
"I'm excited about this," Dream grinned, kneeling down in front of the couch as he dumped out the contents of his package onto the seat.
He turned to face George, his enthusiasm switching into eager anticipation as he saw the other had stripped down while he was away, George left in just his boxers.
"You just want me so bad, huh?" Dream teased, sliding his hand over George's thigh, the other immediately leaning into the touch.
George's eyes were cast down low, sucking in a sharp breath as Dream slowly opened up his legs to sit in between them.
Dream ran a finger over the band of George's underwear. "You want these off?" he murmured, ghosting his touch lightly over the other's dick, making him hiss, "Hmm, seems like this is making you excited, George."
"I just.. like where this is going."
Dream grinned, pulling down George's boxers just a bit, placing a quick kiss to the now exposed hip bone, responding, "Oh, do you now?"
George nodded, lifting himself up to help as Dream at a very leisurely pace removed the last of George's clothes, tossing it aside and looking up at the other, a stupid expression on his face, intent on making George wait or ask for it.
"Well?" George prompted.
Dream tilted his head to the side, looking at the other's very impatient dick, the corners of his mouth curling up into an amused smirk. "Want something, George?"
The other let out a long breath, just ready for Dream to do his job as a service top and start servicing, instead of another one of his endless teasing games.
But, George knew this was what he was signing up for.
"I'll help you."
Dream was surprised by the response, thinking he'd get to hear George actually say the words, but, didn't put up any protest as he let George guide him, the other pressing a hand on the back of his head to push Dream forward, George lining up his dick until the tip slid past the other's parted lips.
Dream's face grew hot with how he felt about George controlling him like that, deciding to distract himself by focusing on the dick inside his mouth instead.
He probably should do that anyway.
Dream went down, taking a bit more, sucking lightly, adjusting to the odd stretch as he heard the other's breath grow heavier, felt the hands in his hair clutch tighter, trying to pull Dream onto him, to fuck into his mouth.
He moved back, as much as George let him, anyway, testing the other's limits by giving all his attention just to the tip, sucking hard.
George immediately bucked up into Dream at the oversensitive pleasure with a gasp, struggling to move as Dream held him down, the other trying not to choke as George thrusted further inside him in that motion.
He had to pull off, Dream slightly out of breath, and even more turned on than before, which, uh, was definitely something to find out.
"I get you like me sucking you off, I mean, who wouldn't," Dream said, climbing up on George's lap, not wanting the other to finish so soon, and especially without him, "But, I can't take it all yet."
"That's why you should be practicing. Only way to get better."
Dream rolled his eyes, muttering against George's lips, "You would say that."
Though, he quickly found a way to get a little bit of retaliation, making George open up in their kiss, swiping his tongue intentionally in the other's mouth, feeling George falter when he did so.
Dream grinned wide, moving back to tease, "Like the taste?"
"Not really."
Dream chuckled, exaggeratedly pouting, "Aw, I wanted you to do it to me so we could sixty-nine."
George's eyes widened, deciding to change the subject since that was a little overwhelming, not because he was a little bitch who couldn't give a blowjob, let's be clear here, so, he turned Dream's attention elsewhere, "Didn't you want to have sex? You already got the necessary supplies for that."
"Oh, yeah. Got distracted."
They looked over to the various items that were strewn on the couch.
George glanced at Dream when he saw a particular box. "Condoms?" he asked incredulously, "Are we going to start using them now?"
Dream laughed, "If that's what you would prefer, though, based on our previous discussion, you were pretty adamant on not thinking they were needed, so.."
George shot him a look, only making Dream's smile grow.
He continued, "But, no, the reason I got them was because, and, okay, I saw the feature and I couldn't not buy them at that point, it was too tempting. As," Dream picked up the box, pointing out the text that provided evidence for his claim, "They glow in the dark. Come on, that's too good to pass up."
George shook his head in amused exasperation, "Of course. And, let me guess, they glow in green."
"Obviously, they're basically Dream brand condoms."
"I don't even know why I'm surprised," George sighed with the fondest smile ever, looking back over the rest of the package contents, "What else did you find on your shopping spree?"
Dream excitedly presented the rest of his purchases, "So, got some lube, of course, a couple different types, actually, one is even flavored. I'm sure you'll become very familiar with that, no doubt."
George rolled his eyes as Dream went on, picking up the last of what he bought, "And then, we have this."
"Which is?" he questioned, looking at it in the palm of the other's open hand curiously.
Dream grinned, clicking it on with the attached remote, glancing up at the other when it started to buzz, revealing the identity of the object in just that telling motion.
Oh, it was a vibrator.
"Why did you buy this?" George asked incredulously.
"Thought it'd be fun," Dream explained simply.
"Mm," George replied, considering the option this now presented, "Wanna try it out?"
With a satisfied grin, Dream started to respond, "Yes, I-"
He cut himself off, looking at his now empty hand as George grabbed the still buzzing vibrator. "I'm still in charge, remember?" George teased.
"Alright," Dream conceded, as, even though this wasn't his plan, it wasn't like he was going to complain.
Especially as George pressed it against his dick immediately, making Dream fall quite quickly back into his desperation that had been simmering on the back burner this whole time.
George lightly ran the toy over the other, both of them watching as the vibrating pressure was applied to Dream through the layers of his clothes, which were still on, preventing further stimulation, much to Dream's dismay.
He breathed in sharply, biting his lip at the unfamiliar sensation on his dick. Though it was good, Dream already wanted more as he pushed into George's hand impatiently, trying to get something besides the barely there brushes the other was so tauntingly giving.
"George," he whined, all the pent up horniness flooding in at once, Dream reminded he hadn't gotten off for days.
George's face was far too evil as he gave the other what he was asking for, dipping his hand into Dream's pants, sliding the vibrator up and down as he stroked the other's dick.
Dream choked, jerking into George's hand as the other pressed the toy against the tip of his dick, making him immediately oversensitive.
"Ah, George," Dream gasped, moving closer until he was slotted against the other, so close George could have jacked them off together.
But, he didn't, resuming his slow motions on the other's dick, making sure to squeeze the vibrator around the head until Dream couldn't take the targeted intensity anymore.
Dream was panting, feeling so light-headed and nearing so close to the edge, just not getting quite enough still. He whimpered, dropping his head onto George's shoulder.
"Hey," George chastised, trying and failing to push Dream off, now blocked and unable to view his administrations, "I can't see."
Dream shut his eyes, taking a bit to hear what the other was saying. "Need more, George."
"You always do."
With a huff that sounded more like a whine, Dream bit down on George's neck, his hips moving up into the touch as much as he could in this position, growing more and more dazed.
Then, everything was interrupted, Dream opening his eyes in surprise as he was suddenly shoved down onto the couch, lying on his back, miffed at the break of connection.
"Dream," George murmured, crawling on top of him, kissing the other's petulantly turned cheek.
The other sulked, looking away, feeling so incredibly frustrated and high strung.
"Aw, what's wrong, Dream?" George asked with a knowing grin.
"Georgeee," he whined, not caring as he lost himself in shamelessness. "Can you just please do something?"
"What do you want me to do, Dream?"
Dream let out a long breath. It was so much different being on the receiving end of the teasing and edging. George did not go easy on him, which, well, was pretty much what he expected. But, still.
"Can you... fuck me?" he said quietly.
George smiled, happily complying to that request. "Sure, I can do that," he replied, quickly undressing the other. He coated his fingers in one of the various lubes, leaning down to kiss Dream as he pressed a finger inside him.
Dream was quiet, kissing George back slow and hot, relieved they were finally getting somewhere, content. George, on the other hand, being a little shit, wanted more reaction and noises. He curled his finger up, thrusting it roughly at Dream's prostate.
"Mmf," Dream mumbled against George's lips, pressing his hips up slightly.
George inserted another finger, not very long after the other, too focused on prepping quickly than effectively.
Dream winced slightly. "Slow down, George," he grumbled.
George eased up, going slower to let Dream adjust. He scissored his fingers widely, pressing deeply into the other.
Dream scrunched up his face, letting out a groan at the treatment. George was not very gentle, especially since this was his first time doing this. But, even so, why did Dream kinda like how rough George was being with him...
He grit his teeth as George inserted a third finger, the stretch more uncomfortable than when Dream did it to himself.
George pumped his fingers in and out, twisting them around inside Dream.
He went to pull them out, impatient to move on. Dream gripped his wrist, keeping George's fingers pressed inside of him.
"Wait," he stressed. "You need to do more or you're gonna hurt me," Dream said through his teeth, panting slightly.
"Oh, okay," George replied, a little sheepishly, continuing to finger fuck Dream.
He didn't stop. For the next fifteen minutes, George slowly stretched Dream, making absolutely sure he was prepared enough, like a good top should. Though, that wasn't the only reason, as this was also a great opportunity to edge Dream further.
"Alright, that's good, George," Dream gasped for probably the twentieth time. He was definitely good to go like twelve minutes ago.
"Sh," George hushed, "I'm almost done," he replied, pushing up harshly at Dream's prostate, making him moan.
Dream was sweating, mouth open slightly as he panted, the fingers up his ass driving him crazy with the random jabs. George was teasing him again, dammit.
Dream whimpered, desperately pulling at George. "It's enough. It's enough. Please just get inside me," he choked out.
George kissed him softly, finally taking mercy as he gently removed his fingers. He lined himself up, pushed Dream's knees up to his chest, and slid his dick deep inside him.
Dream's breaths were ragged as George went all the way in, effectively bending him in half.
"You're so tall, I can't reach your face," George chuckled breathlessly, slowly starting to thrust into Dream.
"Probably because I'm a 6'3 bottom," Dream muttered as George picked up the pace slightly.
"Hm," George hummed, snapping his hips quickly. "Being top is.. harder than it looks."
Dream smirked. "Oh, come on, George. I do it all the time, no problem."
George rolled his eyes, gripping Dream harshly as he slammed into him. "Tough talk for someone with a dick up their ass," he teased.
Dream flushed slightly at that. "Shut up, you can't say anything, ah, fuck," he stuttered a bit on his words as George hit his prostate roughly.
George smirked. "What was that, Dream?" he purred.
Dream turned his head away as he pouted, embarrassed at George's cocky (hehe) attitude.
He snapped his head back to George with a gasp as the other grabbed his dick, stroking it roughly along with his pounding into Dream.
Dream choked out a moan, coming immediately onto George's hand. After all the teasing and days of the other not letting him get off, it only took one tug on his dick to send him over the edge.
He gasped as he finished, struggling to breathe as Dream finally, finally got his so long awaited release.
George pushed up all the way into Dream, reaching his own end when the other tightened around him.
He laid down on Dream's legs, keeping him bent and unable to get up, pressing such a sweet kiss to the other's lips despite their absolutely inappropriate position.
Dream protested, not being nearly flexible enough for this, starting to get uncomfortable as his knees dug into his chest. "Ugh, get off, you're going to break me, fucking hell."
George grinned, pushing himself up slowly as Dream glared at him. "I think I should definitely top more."
Dream sighed, "I give you the slightest hint of power and you abuse it."
"Oh," George titled his head in a leer, voice low, "But, that's the thing, Dream, you like it."
Dream just scoffed, not giving a response, which, the lack of an argument only confirmed the fact more for George, sitting up when the other gave him enough room to move.
He watched as George glanced down and immediately pulled a guilty face.
"Uh, oh."
Dream eyed him warily, "What?"
"Maybe we shouldn't do this on the couch," George replied with a short laugh, "We kinda, uh, made a mess."
Dream grimaced as he felt and saw what was specifically George's mess. "Uh oh is insufficient."
Dream's mood was softened as George tried to cover his mouth and suppress his laughter, especially as the other cleaned up everything, as the top's duty, of course.
He was further appeased by some shower sex.
-
After a couple days, Dream needing a bit of recovery in order to get his bearings back after being utterly railed by George the other night. Though he would never admit that to him, of course.
There was a specific reason why he got the vibrator after all, so, now it was George's turn.
Dream already had three slicked up fingers stuffed inside the other. George was a mess of pants and gasps as he clutched at the sheets, Dream pushing the digits in harsh and rough.
Dream reached into their set aside drawer of sex supplies, grabbing the cleaned and properly sanitized vibrator.
He replaced his fingers with that, sliding it into George's ass.
George watched, slightly delirious as Dream inserted their new toy. It was small, which was the point, so it would be able to go in nice and deep.
He panted softly, jerking immediately when Dream turned it on.
The vibrator felt so intense inside him, buzzing right against his prostate. It was insanely stimulating, putting all the focused pleasure and pressure on one point.
George gasped, thrusting his hips up into nothing, feeling entirely overwhelmed.
Dream ran a hand over the other's waist, pressing the vibrator settings up slightly higher with a satisfied grin at George's state.
He sucked hickeys on the inside of the other's sensitive thighs, holding him down as he tried to buck up, choking out gasps with the vibrator inside him.
His hips stuttered, growing more erratic, and he whimpered brokenly, coming untouched.
George squirmed as he was pushed into too much stimulation again after his orgasm, the vibrator still buzzing.
He scratched at Dream's shoulder.
"No more, stop, p-please," he begged.
Dream complied, immediately turning it off and removing it out from inside the other.
Obviously, as consent was literally the bare minimum, if George told him to stop, he'd stop.
George gasped in ragged breaths, his head still thrown back as he calmed down after that. Which was probably the quickest that Dream had ever allowed him to finish, he realized.
Dream brushed his lips over George's pelvis, fingers wrapping around his waist. He hovered over George's cum that was spread over his stomach and chest.
Dream leaned down, licking up a bit of it with his tongue.
George choked, staring as Dream cleaned up his mess, with his mouth. So unpredictable, but so goddamn hot.
Dream looked up at him slyly, flattening his tongue languidly over the other's stomach, locking eyes with the dumbstruck George.
All it did was just turn George completely back on.
He was fully hard again as Dream finished up his job, such a service top.
"Didn't know you were going to react like this," Dream grinned, referring to George's hard on.
George tried to scoff, but it left his lips as a strangled noise.
Dream's grin widened. "Oh. Did you like that, George? Me swallowing your cum?" he pestered in a low voice.
"I, ugh, shit," George tried to begin, mouth dry, having to cover his face. "I can't even defend myself," he responded, muffled.
Dream chuckled, running his hand over George's dick. "So excited, so soon. Even after you just came, George. Naughty," he chided.
George kept his eyes covered, shivering slightly at Dream's touch. It wasn't like he knew he would like it that much either, in his defense.
Dream, never one to let an opportunity go to waste, quickly removed the rest of his clothes and spread lube over himself, glad for another round.
He lifted one of George's legs over his shoulder and pressed inside him. "I guess I'll reward you anyway," he said, with feigned resignation.
"Oh, whatever, you just wanna get off."
Dream smiled, laughing softly, "Just admit the vibrator was a good idea."
"I dunno, it could be bigger," George replied after a moment of consideration.
"Wow," Dream murmured, "Could you sound any sluttier?"
George huffed, facing the other fully, "Fine, you know what, it is good, so much so that it's even better than you."
Dream shook his head, knowing this was just a taunt, "You're trying to get a rise out of me, George. And, god do I love it."
Commence the fucking, Dream, my good sir.
Which he did, of course.
-
|
Clint was the first one to realize exactly how deep the problems at SHIELD went. “Steve is just the tip of the iceberg. They’re trying to kill him right now because they want him out of the way for this. They’ve got other plans for the rest of us, and worse plans for the rest of the world.”
He projected what he was looking at onto the wall and everyone around the table sucked in a collective breath through their teeth. Those were some awfully big gunboats hiding under DC.
“Are these active plans?” Bucky asked, rotating his new StarkTech arm in its socket, “or is this some of their trust-no-one, plans within plans bullshit? They’ve always got a bunch of irons in the fire.”
“They seem pretty active,” Clint answered, flicking his fingers to shoot another window up onto the projection. “There’s a clear timeline. They wanted to take Steve out in April, initially. He was actually third on the list, but the video gave them the opportunity to get both of you out of the way early.”
“Who’s on first?” Steve asked, and Bucky kicked his chair.
“This is not the time to try out your Vaudeville act, Rogers,” Bucky snapped.
“That’s a relief, because I’m a terrible dancer,” Steve replied. “But seriously, who are the first targets?”
“Nick Fury and Maria Hill,” Sam said, breaking in before the two supersoldiers could snipe at each other any more. “I guess that means that Fury probably isn’t in on it.”
“Jury’s still out on whether he cut up the Boy Wonder, though, or knew about it happening” Tony said. “So we may not want him dead, but we might still want him in custody until we know more about what’s going on.”
Everyone spent a moment looking silently at the projections.
“Whatever it is, it’s nothing good,” Steve said. “And we’re going to stop it.”
Steve gritted his teeth and flung the shield. When he’d said that they were going to stop SHIELD he hadn’t anticipated that his teammates would leave him behind.
“I hate this,” Bucky said, his voice tight and clipped.
“Now you know how I feel,” Steve said, watching the shield bounce off three walls of the gym before he caught it.
“I wish,” Bucky said, leering cartoonishly at Steve’s backside. He was throwing knives at a target with his new hand, hitting the center rings of his target even when he was looking away and goofing off. He threw another knife and sighed. “How can you stand it?”
Bucky was anxious. Steve was anxious too. The rest of the team had taken a jet to DC, leaving Steve and Bucky locked in the building ‘for their own safety.’
Steve threw the shield harder, hard enough that he staggered with the momentum when he stopped it on the second bounce. “Normally, I would have tried to break out by now.”
Bucky snorted and set his remaining knives down. “I bet between the two of us, we could probably break a window and get to the hangar that way.”
“Please don’t,” said Jarvis, sounding as frustrated as an AI could sound. “Agent Romanov has asked me to keep you apprised of the situation on the ground and would like you both to know that she and Agent Barton have safely infiltrated the Triskelion and are in the midst of sabotaging the helicarrier engines.”
“What about Sam?” Steve asked.
“Sargent Wilson has left Secretary Pierce’s office. He activated the USB tool and I have access to the network; I am copying its files now.”
“What’s going on with Fury?” Bucky said. He wasn’t shouting or growling, but a deep thread of anger underscored his question.
“Sir and Dr. Banner have very ably convinced him to return with Miss Hill to New York to view the results of their experiment. Everyone should be safely returned to the tower within a few hours, Commander. Again, I must assure you that this is not an action that is going to result in a firefight.”
Bucky did growl, then, and stalked away from the targets. “You can’t guarantee that.”
Steve agreed, personally.
But it was better being left behind with Bucky than being left behind alone. And it even made sense, considering that if Bucky and Steve were seen together unexploded it would be very suspicious to the people trying to explode them.
“C’mon,” Steve said, and jerked his head toward the elevator while hefting the shield. “I’ve got a better practice room for this thing upstairs. You’re strong enough that you should be able to use it in the field.”
Buck grumbled and picked up his knives, tossing one to himself as he followed Steve.
“If you’re going to keep juggling like that maybe we should put together a Vaudeville act,” Steve said, jostling the other man’s shoulder lightly.
“I’m not gonna let you make me look like an ass onstage,” Bucky said with a huff, visibly choosing to play along instead of worrying about the team. “If we’re gonna put together a routine I’m teaching you how to dance.”
The elevator doors opened and Steve laughed, leading Bucky onto a floor that was two stories high with walls of tinted glass that looked out over the city in a three hundred and sixty degree view. “Wow,” Bucky said. “You’ve got a view of Manhattan like this and you waste it on tossing around a dinner plate?”
Steve snorted. “It’s a very fancy dinner plate. And yes. Heads up.” And that was all the warning he gave before he sent the shield toward the wall so fast that it sang as it cut through the air. It clanged twice and on the second bounce seemed to aim itself directly at Bucky’s skull.
“Fuck,” he shouted, flinching and getting his metal hand up just in time to keep the thing from caving in his face. When he looked up he saw that Steve’s hand was beside his on the edge of the shield. Bucky huffed and shoved the thing back at Steve. “Jesus, move a little slower, pal. Buy a guy a drink first.”
Steve laughed and turned pink. “If you want. Sure. I’d love to.”
Bucky’s jaw dropped. “Are you joking?” He shook his head. “You have to be joking. You’re not asking me out while our teammates are saving the free world.”
Steve shugged. “Of course not. I’m just saying yes. You asked.”
Bucky sputtered and ripped the shield out of Steve’s hands. He threw it like a frisbee and looked like he wanted to set it on fire when it flew twenty feet before tumbling to the ground and losing all momentum. He stormed over to pick it up and throw it again, and the same thing happened.
“Throw it like a discus, not a toy,” Steve said, walking up behind him. “Want me to show you?”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Bucky said, grinning. “Here, let me help you with your shooting stance. No, you’re doing it wrong, this is how you bowl. Bend over just a little bit more if you want to sink that eight ball like a shark. I know how this goes, Romeo. You don’t want to teach me how to throw your shield, you wanna get your hand up my skirt.”
“What was that about teaching me to dance, Barnes? How do you know how this goes again?”
"Don't ask stupid questions," Bucky said, lowering his shoulders and opening his posture. He nodded, and let Steve step forward to show him how to throw the shield.
“You move your whole body,” Steve said, “not just your arm, no matter how strong it is.” He put his hands on Bucky’s hips, adjusting where his feet were. “You’re a dancer, I know you know how to spin. This is similar. You’re a counterweight, and a spring.” He tucked the shield closer to Bucky’s chest. “You wouldn’t normally throw it from a standing position. The vibranium stores kinetic energy, so using the shield is all about momentum. Fluidity. But this is a good place to start.” Steve stepped back, and checked Bucky’s positioning. He nodded. “Throw it.”
It was like pulling the trigger on a gun. Bucky flowed into motion, pirouetting where he stood and snapping the shield out of his hand. It ricocheted off the wall in front of them, the ceiling, the back wall, and directly into Bucky’s waiting left hand.
“Good,” Steve said, nodding. “Try it again.”
The second throw was similar, starting from a nearly identical stance, except that Bucky had done something odd with the placement of his feet. When he threw the shield it followed the same path as before but with much more force.
“Again,” Steve said, “but this time throw it right after you catch it, keep the momentum going.”
Bucky nodded and once again spun, releasing the shield. He caught it and flung it away with his left hand, letting the energy of it pull him into a beautiful turn that sent the shield toward the ceiling and bounced it off the glass before Steve caught it and sent it on another path.
They traded back and forth for a few throws, Bucky growing more confident every time he handled the weapon properly, and soon he was leaping and tumbling like Steve, but infinitely more graceful, every line of his body drawing into a sharp ray that told Steve where the shield would go when it left his hands. Steve had been using the shield for a very long time, and he was incredibly good at handling it, but he handled it like a brawler. It was an extension of his body, a fist that he could use remotely. Bucky threw the shield like it was a partner; it wasn’t a part of him, it was something beautiful and strong for him to accentuate. He was able to generate more force with tighter movements, but he was long and languid with his body when he threw it.
Steve caught the shield and hung it from the harness on his back. He was panting. They must have been throwing the shield back and forth for some time, but it felt like only seconds had passed.
“That was - nobody’s ever caught on that fast. That was good. Really good.”
Bucky was panting too, and strands of his long hair were sticking to his forehead. He’d left his ridiculous, strappy jacket in the locker room, but that only meant that Steve had a clearer vision of the way the sweat on his chest made his shirt stick to his skin. He rummaged in a pocket of his tactical pants and came out with a hair tie, which he used to pull his hair back into a tidy little bun. Steve immediately wanted to rip out the elastic and use his hands to push the hair away from Bucky’s face.
“It felt good,” Bucky said. “I’ve never done anything like that before. I’m not usually good at working with a partner. Not with weapons, anyway,” he said with a wink.
Steve turned toward the kitchenette on the wall next to the elevator to get them some water instead of responding to that the way he wanted to, which probably would have involved something embarrassing like dropping to his knees and either offering Bucky his mouth or proposing marriage.
They sat on the floor of the shield gym and drank water and got their breathing under control. Steve was flushed and it was hard to tell if that was from exertion or flirting.
Thinking about that was a sucker’s game. “Jarvis, is there any update on the team?”
There was a palpable pause. “Mr. Fury and Ms. Hill are secure on the quinjet with Sir and Doctor Banner. Agent Barton is disabling the engine on the final helicarrier.”
“Where are Sam and Natasha?” Steve asked.
“There was an unexpected encounter with Secretary Pierce’s security team. Sergeant Wilson is in custody, Agent Romanov is liberating him. Neither are in danger.”
Steve was on his feet immediately. “We can be there in half an hour if we leave now,” he said, looking at Bucky.
He reluctantly got to his feet and shook his head. “There is no reason for us to show up in DC that isn’t suspicious. Stark and Banner can handle it if things go wrong. But breaking one person out of custody is something that Natasha can do in her sleep.”
Steve looked miserable, but nodded. “I know. I know it would be a terrible plan. I just - if anything happens -”
Bucky shoved Steve’s shoulder. “Stop it. Don’t fixate, don’t think about it. C’mon.” Bucky lifted the shield off of Steve’s back and leaned it carefully against a column in the center of the room. “Let’s get that out of the way. You taught me something, now it’s my turn.”
They walked to the middle of the floor before Bucky stepped close to Steve and lifted the other man’s hand onto his shoulder. Steve’s eyes went wide and he took a huge step back.
“No,” he said. “I can’t - what if something’s wrong?”
“If something was wrong, Jarvis would tell us and get the other jet ready for us,” Bucky said. “Until then, there’s nothing we can do. So think about something else.”
“But I don’t know how,” Steve said, glancing at his feet before looking back up to meet Bucky's eyes.
“So we’ll go slow,” Bucky replied. “And besides, anyone who can do what you just showed me can handle a foxtrot.”
“You only say that because you haven’t seen me try it,” Steve said, but gave a jerky little nod and lifted his arms.
Steve was tall, and broad, but not taller or broader than Bucky. It made it easy to put Steve’s hand on his shoulder and to rest his own hand on Steve’s waist, keeping the touch light. “Just follow me,” Bucky said, “if you knew where I was going to throw the shield, you can figure out where I’m gonna put my feet, okay?”
The other supersoldier nodded and bit his lip, looking ridiculous and lovely in his combat suit with his arms held up and his spine straight.
“One, two, three, four,” Bucky counted in half time, slowly moving Steve through the rudimentary steps of the dance. “Good,” he said, when they’d completed four bars. “A little bit quicker now.”
Steve squeezed his hand and Bucky realized he could hear both of their heartbeats, both pounding hard. “One, two, three, four,” he said, faster and quieter, and Steve moved with him, learning the steps, and following along when Bucky threw in a little tap on a crossover. Bucky stopped counting, and sped up, and Steve kept up with him. After another minute or two Bucky guided them to a halt and pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“Jarvis,” he said, and pressed play. The speakers in the room came to life with the gentle string overture of “Moonglow,” while Steve’s eyes went wide. Bucky grinned at him and slipped his phone into his pocket. By the time the drums had started counting the beat, his arms were around Steve again, guiding him across the floor.
Whoever had told this man that he couldn’t dance was a liar. He was smiling and looking into Bucky’s eyes instead of at their feet. He was graceful and agile, effortlessly moving into a twirl to one of the clarinet flourishes, and pointing his toe to accentuate the curve of his body as Bucky leaned him into a dip.
Too soon, the song ended and Steve stepped back, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck and blushing at the floor. “So what do you think, are we ready for the stage? You’re good at leading me. If dancing ain’t our act, you can be the ventriloquist and I can be the dummy.”
Bucky laughed, and reached out to grab Steve’s hand. “I think we’re going to need a lot more practice, pal. And I, for one, can’t wait.”
Steve smiled, looking shy and sweet and frightened. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot. Maybe when you take me out for that drink?”
“Anytime you want, champ. What do you wanna bet Tony’s got a bar squirreled away somewhere close by?” Talking to Steve felt incomprehensibly weird, like they were strangers and best friends and an old married couple all at once. Everything disappeared when he was alone with Steve, all of his concerns and sadness hiding away, blocked by the sun-bright glare of Steve’s smile. Bucky wanted it all the time.
“I’m sorry,” Steve blurted out. “I’m sorry. I was such an asshole to you when you showed up. You didn’t deserve that.”
“I got sent here to blow you up, I guess I can take some ribbing in return.”
Steve laughed. “Okay, I guess fair’s fair. We’re both forgiven. What now?”
“How about another dance?” Bucky said, injecting every ounce of charm he could muster into his smile.
“Same song?” Steve asked. “I haven’t heard Artie Shaw in about a million years. Makes me feel like home.”
“Anything you want, sweetheart,” Bucky said, and took hold of Steve as the music started.
He managed to make it all the way to the bridge before he kissed Steve. And if Steve was a better dancer than he thought, he wasn’t good enough to dance and kiss Bucky as hard as they both wanted. They came to a stop with the soft, jazzy notes filling the air, and pressed as close to each other as they could. Bucky pulled Steve tight against his chest and moaned when the other man opened his mouth and welcomed Bucky inside.
Bucky opened his eyes, and caught Steve staring at him like he’d hung the moon. He pulled his head back far enough to smile, far enough to let Steve nod and grin back. Bucky pressed his lips to Steve’s again just as all the windows in the room exploded.
|
Rhonda was an absolute unit; the Hummer cruised along Interstate 10, passing other vehicles like they were sitting still. Granted, most of those drivers probably saw the massive SUV-truck hybrid come barreling down the highway at them and got out of the way as soon as possible. Will let out a few terrified shrieks when he felt like Percie was cutting her turns just a tad too close for his comfort, and Piper stuck her head up again to let the daughter of Poseidon know, in no uncertain terms, that she reserved the right to strip Percie of her driving privileges and pass it off to Jason.
The son of Jupiter didn't look elated at the prospect of steering the behemoth posing as a car on a busy California highway, and coupled with the idea of Rhonda getting ripped away from Percie right when she was finally starting to understand the gorgeous piece of machinery, she took Piper's warning to heart. The Hummer slowed as they turned towards Las Vegas, hopping onto Interstate 15.
"Haven't been to the Entertainment Capital of the World in some time," Percie commented, as they opened onto a stretch of highway that was a lot more deserted than the previous one. Though to be fair, this road was literally going through a desert; came with the territory.
"Well, it's still going to be a bit before you return to the city of gambling and lights," Thalia returned, leaning back in the passenger's seat. "We don't have to go through Las Vegas to get to the canyon; we're gonna hit Barstow first, and from there, you turn onto Interstate 40. That road will take us to Flagstaff, Arizona. The canyon is just north of there."
"Nice sense of direction, Thalia. Is that a Hunter thing, or a you thing?"
The daughter of Zeus snickered. "More of the first one, really. After Gaea was defeated, we ended up tracking the Krokottas Hyena through this part of the country for about a month, before finally catching up to it near the Hoover Dam. Thing put up quite the fight, too; took more than sixty arrows before it finally went down."
"Sixty... damn."
Thalia glared over at Percie, the child of the sea giggling at her own dumb punchline. "I thought Leo was supposed to be the purveyor of bad jokes," she complained to the teens in the back seat.
"He is; doesn't mean he has a monopoly on them," Jason answered. "If there was any doubt in my mind that Percie here is Percy, through and through, that little joke just did away with it. Only he would make a statement like that and then have the nerve to laugh about it by himself."
That only provoked more chuckles from her. "Then I'm glad I could ease your doubts, Jason. If it makes you feel any better, I think you're an even better match for Janice than I am for Percy. Few people exhibit an aura like she does; yours is so close, I couldn't tell the difference."
Jason paused at that, taking a moment to glance over his seat at Piper, before facing the front again, a curious expression on his face. "So... about that; nobody told you the reason for... who was Piper's equivalent again?"
Percie sighed. "Peter; sweet guy... just like her. But the longer I knew him, the more he seemed to be wrestling with something about Janice. He never spoke about it to me, and if he talked to anyone else about it, they never told me either."
"I see," Jason trailed off, looking out the window as the desert passed by.
Thalia turned in her seat, putting a hand to her brother's knee. "Are you all right, traveling with her again?" she asked.
Jason didn't turn away from the window. "I don't really know; on the one hand, I'm more than happy to help Percie out. Friends are friends. I can push my feelings aside for the good of the mission... but that doesn't mean it won't sting."
His sister let the moment linger, before nodding and facing the road again. "Fair. If you need anything, just let me know, okay?"
"Yeah. No problem."
The Hunter rapped her knuckles against her legs for a moment, then bit her upper lip. "Percie... the gender-swap... it affected just about all demigods, right? At least, the ones alive today anyway?"
"From what I can tell," Percie confirmed, keeping her eyes on the road. Didn't want to ruin Rhonda's paint job by sideswiping a minivan loaded with elementary basketball players heading to Vegas for the chocolate fountains. "Just about everyone has a doppelganger; even Rachel has one, in River."
"We theorized that that happened because Fate had connected her to Delphi," Will said from the back. "If some cosmic force is overseeing both universes, it makes sense that things might unfold like that, right?"
True. Erebos might have traveled between the worlds, but he didn't control them. Just observed.
Thalia absorbed that info, then closed her eyes. "So... that also means Luke got caught up in the mix too, yes?"
Percie allowed her eyes to briefly dart from the road so she could indulge in an uncomfortable glance at the lieutenant. Thalia didn't return the gaze, which didn't make what had to come next any easier. "Yeah, he did. You guys had Luke; we had Lucille. Blonde, charming, and utterly smitten with the idea of toppling the gods."
"That sure sounds like him," Thalia grunted. "Did being a woman make him... I don't know; more sympathetic, in his final moments?"
"What do you mean?"
"I wasn't there when he died on Olympus. Annabeth told me he sacrificed himself to stop Kronos, but didn't go into any further details. May I ask you?"
Percie winced a little at the steering wheel. "It is true that Lucille managed to regain control, and used her knowledge of Kronos' weak point to kill him before he could wipe the gods from existence. Percy, just like myself, let her do so; it was Alister's knife that did the dirty work. As for the sympathy... I don't really know how to answer that." She flexed her right hand a little before continuing. "Lucille was a woman who felt like her father had abandoned her; something both you and I can probably relate to."
Thalia tensed up. "Yes. I'd say we can."
"But as much as I can empathize with that sentiment, the methods she resorted to are things I can't reconcile," Percie admitted. "She got a lot of good people killed, on both sides. Demigods who just wanted to feel appreciated for once. Even then, I still might be willing to let the mistakes be just that; mistakes. Except for one small problem... how she manipulated Alister."
Percie didn't have to look in the mirror to know she had the undivided attention of everyone in the car, assuming Piper was still asleep in the back. "The three of you were family. Lucille was the first hero he ever saw in action; she became his personal hero." Nicola's reflective words the night she'd confessed to the daughter of Poseidon echoed in her head, the parallels making her want to slap Rhonda's gearshift in frustration. "She could do no wrong in his eyes... for a long time. She knew that... and took full advantage of it."
"The sky," Thalia breathed, a shudder running through her body.
"The most blatant example, yes. She played on his love for her, and goaded him into taking the burden from her. Then... she left. She left him there, alone and suffering. The same boy she'd promised family to; all so she could win herself into the good graces of the Titans. If Artemis hadn't come along," Percie shivered, "I don't think he would have ever recovered from holding up the sky for that long."
The daughter of Zeus startled a bit at that. "Wait a minute... I knew Artemis took the burden from Annabeth in this world because she hated to see a maiden be treated like that. But if the Artemis of your world also took on the sky for Alister... how did that come about?"
The child of the sea grimaced. "From what I saw in my dreams, Artemis wasn't very keen on taking the burden from him. What finally swayed her was the realization that the boy currently being tortured in front of her was the same one that I had a strong attachment to."
Behind her, she heard Will snort. "Let me guess: she was thinking that if she relieved him from holding up the sky, it might go a long way into ultimately getting you to join her Hunters?"
"Bingo."
Thalia rolled her eyes. "Honestly, as much as I respect Lady Artemis, I will admit she can get very... zealous, about trying to recruit certain women into her ranks."
"Just look at Bianca," Will muttered under his breath.
Percie nodded at both of them. "Yeah; I got so annoyed at her for that, I ended up waking myself shortly afterwards. Once that whole mess was sorted out-," Percie flinched at remembering the stress of Thomas' trial and sentencing for Zoe's death, "-Alister reunited with me in earnest there on Olympus. Athena made some vague threats about my fatal flaw, yadda yadda, and right as I finally felt like I had a moment alone with him, who should show up but Artemis, looking to finish making her official invitation for me to join the Hunt."
"And how did that go down?" Jason inquired.
"Gloriously; I thanked her for rescuing Alister, and then proceeded to finish the dance we had to abandon in Westover Hall due to manticore shenanigans. Right in front of her, no less. For a brief moment, I was concerned we might have accidentally mistaken Artemis for Apollo, she was so red in the face."
Thalia smirked in approval. "Nice. And let me guess: you thanked her with sincerity so piled on, she had no choice but to assume you had to mean it."
"That was the idea; play up the airhead angle, so my rejection of her invitation came as less of a snub, and more of an idiot-in-love kind of scenario. Though, if I'm being honest, I'd say the latter description fits me pretty well as I am now."
"Now, I wouldn't call you an idiot," Jason joined in. "More of a... free spirit."
Percie sniggered, then grew serious again. "But in regards to Lucille, Thalia... as much as I pity her at times, I wouldn't say I ever really forgave her. Maybe the day will come when I can, but I suspect that day is still far off."
The Hunter let that sink in, before nodding. "Okay. That's understandable... and thank you, for answering."
"My pleasure."
With that reveal out of the way, the conversation turned to more light-hearted matters regarding the assembled demigods and their counterparts. Percie did have to bite her tongue more than once when she was speaking to Thalia, though. As much as she wanted the daughter of Zeus to know about herself on the other side, she'd spent more than three years tiptoeing around Thomas and his more... personal details. As they neared Vegas, and approached their turn, Percie recalled the day she retrieved Thomas from the Lotus Hotel, once the Great Prophecy had come to pass.
She'd used her newfound sixteen years of age status to make the drive herself, and back again. He of course had several questions about how much time had passed, what had transpired while he was out of the game, and how certain events of the prophecy unfolded, but there had been something else lurking behind those blue eyes of his. There were moments where silence would fall on the pair of them, and Percie would catch the son of Zeus just staring at her. Naturally, she made the 'take a picture, it'll last longer' joke the first time it happened, but she counted at least eight more instances of it transpiring over the more than 36 hour drive back to the Big Apple.
Interstate 40 arrived, and with it, so did nightfall. The total drive time from Los Angeles to the Grand Canyon came out to be around eight hours or so, and having left the city of famous pretty people famous for being pretty around 6:00, that meant it would be the wee hours of the morning when they finally got to their destination.
Will dozed off in the back, as did Jason. Piper didn't stir, either, leaving Percie alone with Thalia as the only ones still awake, which only further cemented her memories of driving alone with Thomas right after Kronos was defeated.
"It's good that they're sleeping," Thalia noted. "Odds are decent we'll attract some sort of nefarious attention at the canyon; assuming we can get Leo's attention, we'll still have to wait for him to show up."
Percie tilted her head in agreement. "No argument here; it's been a long day, though really that could be said for most days of my life."
"Mine, too," Thalia chortled, before she seemed to come to a realization. "So Percie... since I know Thomas couldn't have joined the Hunters, due to being a guy in your world... do you know if he ended up with someone?"
"Pardon?"
The daughter of Zeus took on a wistful look. "Don't get me wrong; I love where I am right now. The Hunt is working for me, and thanks to your efforts of the previous days, the bad apples dragging us down are no longer a factor. Even so... knowing if my other self ever really found someone who worked for him might open some doors for me."
Percie had to hold back a more startled reaction. "Are you... technically looking for someone, then?"
"Not looking; just planning on letting it happen, if it does," she answered. "It's happened before; Hunters have left the Hunt of their own free will because they fell in love with someone. Typically, Lady Artemis isn't too harsh in her reaction. Now that she seems to be trying to turn over a new leaf due to you," Thalia pondered for a second, "I think I might one day take her up on that stipulation."
"Assuming you met the right person, of course?"
"Absolutely; I'm not going to leave my sisters unless I'm one hundred percent confident that the person I'm devoting myself to is the right one."
Percie hesitated, then shook her head. "I admire your resolve, Thalia, but to my knowledge, Thomas hasn't found anyone like that yet. Which is a little weird, the more I think on it. He's handsome enough to have his pick of the ladies... or gentlemen, if you two swing that way. Nevertheless, he's got no girlfriend or boyfriend that I know of."
Thalia deflated a bit, before brightening up. "Guess he's just waiting for the right one, just like me. I shouldn't be surprised; we're the same person, after all."
Yeah... that had to be it. Thomas was just waiting to dip his foot into romance. Considering how much he loathed his father for sticking him with a rather unfortunate reputation for treating his partners, no wonder he'd be hesitant to just leap into a relationship.
At least, that was what Percie was hoping.
The rest of the drive passed without incident; Percie didn't even honk the horn when some douche in a Corvette cut Rhonda off just as they crossed state lines into Arizona. It was still the wee hours of the morning when they made it to Flagstaff, Arizona. By that point, Piper had finally woken up, and after quickly jostling Will awake so they could borrow his ultra-platinum Underworld credit card, all five demigods were munching on bagels and granola bars as Percie drove them into the last leg of their journey.
By the time they'd reached the canyon, it was still dark, though there was just the barest hint of light peeking up over the horizon to the east. Percie took a moment to wonder which deity was covering the sun shift today, with Apollo out of the picture, then pushed the poetry god's plight from her mind. As much as the music-obsessed Olympian tended to annoy her, she did worry that Zeus was being a tad too harsh in his punishment of Apollo. As long as the sun god didn't come stumbling up to her front door looking for a handout, though, she could live with whatever the King of the Gods decided on.
Driving to the canyon from the direction of LA meant that the first real stop on their arrival was the Visitor Center. At this time of the morning, it was closed, so when Percie pulled Rhonda into the parking lot, they were the only vehicle in sight.
"Okay... we're here," Jason said, hopping out first. The others followed, though Piper did signal for Percie to give her her keys back. With obvious reluctance, the daughter of Poseidon parted with her soulmate's ignition, before looking around the dark lot and surrounding canyon.
"Now that we're here, we need to figure out how we want to try to get Leo's attention," she pointed out. "I don't suppose anyone has something that would naturally draw him in, like a group of cute girls or a giant mechanical robot of war?"
"No robots, and no cute girls," Piper remarked, turning her nose up as the wind picked up its pace, whipping her braid around like a reckless kid on a swing set. "No offense, Thalia."
"None taken," the Hunter responded.
"So, what's our plan, then?" Will asked.
Jason crossed his arms. "From what I can remember the last time I was here, we can get to Mather Point if we leave on foot from this lot. It's the first real view of the Canyon in all its glory, and if I'm right, it'll be the best spot for signaling Leo."
Percie shrugged. "Unless anyone has any better ideas, I'd say we're stuck with that one. Lead on, Jason."
Lead, he did. Despite it being quite a few months since he had last been to the canyon, Jason seemed to remember all of the turns they needed to make along the path, despite the lack of visibility. As they walked, Thalia eyed the sand of the desert with distaste.
"Considering the environment we're in right now, we might want to prepare for Scorpio to show up again," she mused. "This sand would be perfect for him to launch more of his signature underground ambushes."
"Well, if a giant scorpion does attack us, at least we'll have the option of pushing him off the ledge into the canyon," Piper mentioned in an optimistic tone. "Unless scorpions are vulnerable to charmspeak, of course."
"Dandy," Will mouthed off. "We could make Scorpio dance a really disturbing version of the Macarena with its pincers; somehow, I doubt we'd be that lucky, Piper."
"It helps to look on the positive side, Will."
Jason led them around Grand Canyon Village, and up to Mather Point in the next few minutes. The platform extended out over a good portion of the canyon, and even in this dim light, Percie was impressed by how... well, grand the whole formation looked.
"We made it," she commented, keeping herself well away from the edge, which resulted in a good two hundred foot drop down towards a rather rocky ledge. "Jason, I take it you have an idea for what comes next?"
"Why is it always me to the rescue?" the son of Jupiter quipped, taking out his Imperial Gold coin and flipping it into his javelin.
"Because I'm grouchy about doing everything myself," Percie shot back, raising her eyebrow at the Roman. "But if you're going to complain about it, I'll happily take the reins from you and summon Leo by screaming to the sky about how much funnier than him I am."
"That actually might work better than whatever you're planning, bro," Thalia murmured, her eyes indicating that she was only half-joking.
Now Jason was rolling his eyes. "No thanks; it was my idea to come here, and I can handle the responsibility of getting the attention of my best friend without the sarcastic jabs, thank you."
Percie's teasing aside, Jason did look remarkably confident in whatever he was about to attempt. Percie, as did the others, all stepped back a few paces as the son of Jupiter took his javelin in both hands, planting it in front of him and closing his eyes. Even under the darkness of the sky, Percie could see the clouds above beginning to pool together. Taking a moment to collect himself, Jason lifted his javelin aloft and leapt over the edge. He didn't fall, though; rather, he actually seemed to walk on air, climbing higher and higher towards the festering storm clouds thundering over his head.
When he was close enough, Jason arched his javelin in between himself and the cloud. The moment he did, a single bolt of lightning shot out of the formation, arcing its way down and around his weapon for a moment, building up power. With a flick of his wrist, Jason increased the voltage, spinning in mid-air and discharging the stored power in all directions. A gargantuan amount of electricity erupted over the canyon, carried all the way over the horizon and out of sight. With that done, Jason coasted back down onto the platform, grinning like a kid at an arcade.
"I do believe that should do it," he boasted, his grin going even wider at the surprised looks he was getting. "What?"
"Um, as impressive as that was, Jason," Will mumbled, "how exactly is it going to get Leo's attention?"
"Well, the last letter he sent us said he was riding the winds of the world, with Calypso. I didn't just send out an electrical flare over this area, guys. One of the perks of being a kid of Jupiter's is that you get air powers along with all the flashy lightning. That wave of energy I just unleashed should flow along every spare bit of air it hits, and if Leo really is riding the wind, he should be getting it at any moment now. Electric current travels fast."
Thalia narrowed her eyes at her brother. "Okay, but how will he know that you're here? At the Grand Canyon?"
"Because I put a bit of myself into that wattage; Leo and I talked about getting in touch with each other in case of emergencies, but never got to finalize a lot of the details. All I said was that he should come to the place where we first met for real; he'll figure out pretty quickly I'm at the canyon."
"A nice plan," Percie commended, "but technically couldn't anyone riding the wind, as you put it, also receive it? Or at the very least, wouldn't anyone within eyesight of that discharge figure out something's going on?"
Jason pouted. "Sure, but we didn't have any other options, remember? Doing it that way is risky, but it's also the most efficient way of getting Leo here without us having to track him down by hand over the entire world."
Percie would have liked to butt in with another sassy remark about how they only ever seemed to take riskiest path whenever they needed to do anything, be it signal an old friend or decide on the color of a bathroom wall, but a second bolt of lightning interrupted her. This one flashed behind them, the rumble of thunder crashing into her ears almost immediatly after. That strike had been dangerously close, but in that one second of illumination, she caught sight of someone she was not wanting to see anytime soon.
The newcomer was male; tall, muscled, and clad in leathers. None of that would have seemed out of place for someone planning to trek through the Grand Canyon, but it was the color of his hair that made Percie recognize him immediatly: it was a shocking shade of red. Not orangey red, like River's, either. Full blown fire engine red.
He was behind them, about fifty feet or so, on the path back to the village. Once it was obvious Percie had spotted him, he clapped his hands together in a methodical fashion, like he was sarcastically applauding a bad comedian for finally getting off the stage.
"Quite the impressive display, Jason," the man called out, smirking as he took a few more steps towards the demigods. Next to her, Percie felt Thalia reach for her bow, while Piper's hand went to Katoptris. The son of Jupiter fixed the man with a glare, but he didn't seem to know what to say.
"Is this guy familiar to any of you?" Piper asked quietly, readjusting herself so Will was in the back of the group.
"Yeah," Percie muttered. "He was at the meeting I saw in my dream the other night."
"You mean the one between Lamia and the constellations?" Will piped up. "So he's one of the signs."
"Yep." And Percie knew exactly which one, too. Because he'd made a pretty clever joke about it to Crotus. "He's Cancer."
"Geez, that seems kind of rude," Jason snarked. "I mean, who would name their kid after-"
"No, I mean he's literally Cancer! As in, the giant crab."
"He doesn't look very crabby to me."
Cancer rolled his eyes at their conversation. "Spare me the dumb jokes; I've heard them all, and they all stopped being funny forty years ago," he said. "I'm actually offended, Jason; I thought you'd be rather honored to meet one of Hera's fellow champions."
"You? A champion of Hera?" Thalia asked, incredulous.
"I know, I know. She's a bitch. But yes; Hera created me herself, to finally put an end to one of her least favorite heroes of all time: Heracles," the Crab sniped with loathing in his voice for both the demigod and goddess. "Of course, I bided my time. As much of an arrogant dick as he was, Heracles was skilled. Just charging in was sure to get me killed; I decided to wait, for an ideal moment to strike." Cancer smirked. "That time came when the legendary warrior was facing the Hydra. He was distracted, and I took my chance."
"You bit him in the foot," Piper replied, unimpressed. "How exactly was that supposed to work out?"
"Okay, so I might have slept on the tiny details, but I still used more strategy than Taurus, or those absolutely mind-numbing twins! Either way, my cunning plan did not come to fruition. Heracles slew me on the spot, Hera cast me to the stars so I could never be allowed to forget my failure, and I've been resentful of children of Zeus ever since." Cancer blinked innocently at them. "Anything else I should explain?"
"Sure," Percie cut in, tossing Riptide in her hand. "Would you prefer to be served steamed, or boiled?"
"Gross," Piper blanched. "No thank you, please. Vegetarian."
"Same here," Will added, looking sick.
Cancer furrowed his brow at them. "By all means, keep making light of your imminent death, Percie Jackson. That'll make it all the more sweeter when I rip you in half and drink your insides like a succulent milkshake."
Piper covered her ears. "Ah! Why is everyone being so gross today?!"
The Crab hooked his hands in front of him, his form shifting from his human appearance into a crustacean. His fingers became pincers, his leather clothes melded into a hard exoskeleton, and his size altered... shrinking him down to the size of an average cancridae crab.
Percie stared down at the tiny shellfish in amusement. "Am I supposed to be intimidated right now? Because I'm really not."
It was a hilarious moment; too bad she had to open her mouth about it. Cancer shook with fury at her mockery of him, and then began to grow. His shell extended outwards, and his pincers grew longer and longer until they were about the size of bulldozers. Before anyone could react, the tiny seafood dish had grown large enough to carry an entire classroom of children on its back, with room to spare for their desks, teacher, and bookshelves.
"Okay... so that might be a challenge," Percie deadpanned, craning her neck to look at the monstrous crustacean bearing down on her on its funny crab legs. Even when he was a swaggering behemoth, Cancer still ran sideways, like some drunk version of Mr. Krabs.
They couldn't really dodge something that big; Cancer completely blocked their exits to the side, and going backwards would have meant doing a tumble right off the edge of the cliff. The crab was both too low to the ground to roll under, and too big to really jump over. For a brief second, Percie thought she and her friends might actually get killed by a dinner platter.
The arrival of Happy, the Dragon, changed that. Okay, technically Lea had named the giant mech Festus, but ever since she heard Janice point out that Festus just meant Happy in Latin, that was all Percie could ever call the cutie pie. Nevertheless, Happy came out of nowhere, blitzing Cancer mid-charge and knocking the crab sideways, landing belly up with its legs frantically flying around looking for something it could use to flip itself over again.
The dragon sank its talons into Cancer's soft underbelly, earning an animalistic shriek from the constellation as it thrashed under the strain.
A dirty face waved at the demigods from the dragon's back, before yelling out to Happy: "Let's teach this shellfish what happens when you mess with Leo Valdez's friends, Festus! We're going to be eating good tonight!"
That's what Percie had been looking forward to!
Sadly, before Leo and his pet dragon could make Cancer into a delightful three course meal, the crab changed forms again, slipping out from under Happy's claws by returning to his human shape.
"Leo Valdez!" the redheaded constellation roared, dodging in between Happy's legs. "I'm going to get you for that!"
"Tell it to Tartartus, pal," the son of Hephaestus shouted from his vantage point. "Time to turn up the heat; maybe we'll see if you taste as good even without wearing your crab outfit!"
Apparently threatening to resort to cannibalism hit one of Cancer's personal buttons, since the sign visibly paled before yelping and diving out of the way of Festus' tail. Calling him Happy when he was trying to cook a dude alive really didn't seem all that fitting, the more Percie thought about it. With panicked fear written all over his face, Cancer jumped, evading the dragon's claws and Leo's burst of flame, but he must not have been paying attention to his surroundings.
Cancer's leap took him over the edge of the cliff, and wails of terror echoed off the walls of the canyon for several seconds before one very large crashing sound erupted at the bottom of the ravine. Percie braved her fear of falling for a moment to glance down after him, but it was too dark for her to make anything out.
Will joined her, looking puzzled. "Did... we just witness Cancer inflict a Disney villain death on himself?"
Maybe; knowing her luck, Cancer probably landed on some soft mattress at the bottom of his fall, and would inexplicably be back for the sequel. That seemed more on par for how Percie's life had unfolded up to this point.
With the Crab at the bottom of the canyon, Percie turned her attention to Leo. The son of Hephaestus was slightly taller than Lea, but looked just as boisterous as he greeted both Jason and Piper with a hug strong enough to chain down a bear.
"I knew you'd try that dumb lightning trick one day, Grace! I knew it!" he exclaimed, hopping up and down in his excitement. "Imagine my surprise; one second Festus, Calypso, and I are cruising over the Mexican countryside, and the next thing I know, I'm getting signals from my best friend in the entire world that he needs me at the place we met. Calypso thought I was crazy when I told her what was going on."
"I've always known you to be crazy, Valdez, before you ever told me that," the Titaness replied, sticking her head over Festus' side before she slid down to the ground. Percie must not have noticed her during the exchange with Cancer.
Leo giggled at her, before turning back to his friends. "Jason. Piper. Calypso." He introduced them all one at a time. "So, what seems to be the problem that only I can solve?"
It took Leo a while to notice the other three demigods all awkwardly standing around while he got reunited with Jason and Piper, though for the first time since meeting them, Percie noticed that the son of Jupiter and daughter of Aphrodite looked genuinely happy as they returned Leo's embrace.
When he finally did, he latched onto Thalia first. "This is her? Your sis?" he asked Jason.
Thalia laughed. "Guilty as charged; Thalia Grace. Daughter of Zeus, and lieutenant to Artemis."
"And you better not have forgotten me already, Valdez," Will said, coming up.
"How could I, Solace? The boy who introduced me to Camp Half-Blood; the only way you could have made a bigger impression on me was if you first appeared out of a fiery explosion, covered in glitter and party steamers."
"There's an image," the healer whispered, his eyes widening in horror at the thought, which only inspired more laughter from the circle of friends. That left... Percie.
Once he finally noticed her, Leo went silent, clearly trying to place her in his memories, but coming up short. Calypso had a similar reaction, her eyebrows scrunching together in thought.
"You're never going to guess," Percie told them, cutting their musings short.
"Try me," Leo returned, putting a hand to his hip. He was so confident, Percie almost didn't want to rock his world completely. Almost.
When she'd finished, she got treated to two hilarious reactions: Leo looked like someone had pulled the rug out from under him completely; Calypso, meanwhile, only looked slightly put-off, like she'd asked for a coffee with cream, and instead got handed one with milk.
"So.. you're girl-Percy?" Leo asked, befuddled. "And... there's a girl-me? And a girl-Jason? And a boy-Piper?"
"But no boy-me," Calypso observed, frowning. "How... odd."
Jason sighed. "I'm right there with you, bud. I just found out a few hours ago, myself. If it makes it any easier, I don't think anything of value was lost in the exchange; Percie's just as capable, and just as entertaining, as Percy."
"I'd hope so," the son of the forge responded. "Imagine how awkward that would be: sorry, Percy, but the girl version of you just wasn't funny. At all. In fact, I think she's taken away a lot of your luster."
"Ha-ha," Percie tossed out, giving Leo a half-smile. "Keep talking, Valdez. I'm sure someone will laugh... eventually."
"My heart! You're breaking it!" Leo mimed a heart attack, before breaking out into a grin. "Fine, I can live with it. So, you guys came all the way out here just to find me?"
"That's the long and short of it," Piper told him, brushing at Katoptris' blade absent-mindedly. "Annabeth and Nico headed on to New Rome, so they could bring Frank and Hazel into the loop; Reyna too, I imagine. Now that we've tracked you down, we can meet them up there."
A loud beeping sound from atop Festus' head blared, silencing whatever Leo was about to say in response to that. The dragon lowered itself to the ground, allowing Leo to hop on real fast and come back with a small round object in his hand. "I think I'm getting a call," he mumbled, shaking the item a little against his leg.
"A call?" Thalia asked, leaning towards him. "A call from who? And how?"
"Just a little something I've been working on since leaving Oggyia," Leo explained, opening the contraption up. "I call it the Interceptor."
"A name I've insisted he change ever since he first came up with it," Calypso added, rolling her eyes.
"And maybe I will, but not until I work out the kinks. Anyway, this baby is supposed to pick up magical methods of communication, and allow me to listen in on whatever's being said over the waves."
"Like... an Iris message?" Will asked, gesturing to the swirling blue lights that came popping up right in front of him.
"Yes. Exactly like that."
The blue lights coiled into a rainbow, before clearing, revealing a crisp image of a Hispanic woman dressed in Roman armor, with a purple cape slung over her shoulder. The scowl on her face instantly allowed Percy to peg her as Reyna, Rey's counterpart. If the scowl didn't do it, the intensity of her eyes would have sufficed.
"Will," the praetor said, deliberately ignoring everyone else she saw in the message. "Due to the... circumstances we're dealing with, I know about the decision to stay away from the Iris messages. However, there has been an... incident here at New Rome that both Frank and I feel is serious enough to warrant defying that embargo."
The healer seized up at her words. "Okay; and you're deliberately seeking me out, to respond to it?"
"Yes. It's something you, as well as anyone who just might be listening in on your side, need to be made aware of."
Clearly, Reyna was referring to Percie, without actually using her name. The Roman leader must have been doing everything she could to deliver whatever news she needed to without sending up alerts all over Olympus about Percy's disappearance.
Everyone was silent so Will could answer. "All right. What's going on over there, Reyna?" the son of Apollo asked, trying to stay blasé about it.
The daughter of Bellona dithered for a moment, before rocking on her heels in anxiety. "It's Nico. From what we can tell, something horrible has happened."
|
Izuku was cold, even with Tomura’s warmth emanating around him. His fingers and toes felt tingly, frozen clasped around each other.
He hadn’t been outside in forever. He’d almost forgotten what being cold even felt like. His room had been ventilated and constantly monitored, kept at the perfect temperature. Dad had said it was good for his health, that any fluctuations might hurt him. Could break his fragile, quirkless body.
The cold hurt, but Izuku loved it. It was
different
and that was all it needed to be. Every breath felt harder than it had ever been, but it was a struggle wreathed in freedom, so Izuku didn’t mind. It was a constant reminder that he was out, no longer trapped inside that cell of a room.
Tomura (Should he even call him Tomura? Izuku didn’t want to call him Shigaraki even though that would be more polite - that was his dad’s previous last name before he’d used Midoriya, and Izuku didn’t want to call Tomura what people would call his
dad
, so Tomura it was.) moved his hand to keep Izuku’s legs pressed closer to his chest as they began the steps upwards to Kacchan’s house. Luckily Izuku still remembered Kacchan’s address; luckily Tomura knew the route there.
When Tomura had asked where to go, his first thought had been Kacchan. Mum was… gone, and Izuku hadn’t really known anyone else. Kacchan had been friends with him once, ages ago. Surely Kacchan could put aside whatever weirdness he had with Izuku’s quirklessness and be nice about it? Seeing your missing classmate after three years would hopefully shock him enough to not immediately go for a punch.
Hopefully.
They stopped outside Kacchan’s door and Tomura slowly let Izuku down to the concrete floor. The ground felt all rough and odd under his bare toes, much unlike the overly soft furnishings of his room. Everything had been padded, nothing for Izuku to possibly harm himself on.
Everything except for the metal chain, but the curves meant it was never viable to be used as a weapon, no sharp edges to cut or to bleed. He had tried, but had given up when he figured it was too strong to break. There was always the fear of what his dad would do if Izuku figured out how to use
that
too, if Dad would go one step up from ankle chains to something that would stop Izuku from even using his hands. With everything else gone, Izuku hadn’t wanted to risk one of the few freedoms he had left.
But now he was out, all thanks to Tomura. Out, and going to see Kacchan. He’d always hoped that one day he would be able to see him again, a hope that grew gradually ever weaker as the days went on. Seeing that old familiar door in front of him… it was an impossible dream made true.
Izuku hesitated. He should knock, but first…
He turned to Tomura.
“Um, my friend can be a little… angry? But he’s just like that so don’t worry about it! And he tends to go a little overboard sometimes but I know he doesn’t mean it, so don’t get mad at him?
“Oh! And also, what should I call you? I’ve been thinking of you as Tomura but if that makes you uncomfortable…”
Tomura stared down at him.
“Tomura’s fine,” he said hesitantly, throat gravelly.
“Great!” Izuku chirped. He wasn’t
un
aware of Tomura’s - discomfort? Yeah, discomfort, that seemed to be the right word - with anything vaguely social. He’d seen how nervous Tomura was when Izuku had jumped on his back, how careful he’d been with his hands not to get his fingers too close. His quirk had to be permanently active with how he acted, which was definitely interesting and Izuku had
so
many questions, but that wasn’t the point. The point being that Tomura must have been as alone as Izuku had been. Izuku wondered if Tomura had been locked away in a different vault at some point and had only been let out when he’d agreed to go along with Dad’s plans.
Obviously, he wasn’t
actually
with him, Izuku knew that. No one as nice as Tomura could be properly working with Dad. Dad was evil and mean and treated Izuku like an object, whereas Tomura had seen him crying and tried to do something about it.
Tomura was
not
a villain, end of story.
Hopefully, Kacchan would agree with him and not jump on Tomura if Tomura tried to insist he was a villain again.
Right. Kacchan. He had to knock on the door.
Izuku could do this, he was brave and older now and capable and -
He could do this.
Izuku stared dead forward as he reached sideways, fingers curling around Tomura’s wrist. The presence made him feel better, a reminder that all this was real and he wasn’t just dreaming again. No monsters were going to jump out once he opened that door, and, if they were, Tomura would just protect him from them.
He reached out and knocked on the door.
The door swung open on its hinges a few moments later, two red eyes peering suspiciously through the gap. The eyes shot open before the door closed again, this time accompanied by the harsh jingling of a chain.
The door opened, fully this time, revealing Kacchan in all his glory. Older than Izuku had last seen him, but the same spikey blonde hair, the impressive stature that filled the space, the same one that had drawn so many eyes towards him when he’d received his quirk. Even after all this time, Kacchan had that same admirable glow around him.
“Deku?” he yelled hoarsely, whipping his head around the corner like he was looking for something, or someone. “What the fuck?”
“Um, hi, Kacchan,” Izuku said nervously. “Can we come in?”
Sparks popped from Kacchan’s palm as he reached forward, grabbing Izuku by the collar and dragging him in, Izuku’s fingers losing their grip around Tomura.
Tomura followed right behind them and the door slammed shut.
“Deku, explain now how you aren’t
dead
or else I’ll - ” Kacchan was shaking with undiluted rage, hands clenched into tightly pressed fists.
Izuku should have supposed his return would be surprising. Three years was a long time. Everyone had probably all thought him dead. Dad had been pretty keen on making sure Izuku knew that the best place for him was with his family now. The only parent he had left.
But while Izuku understood Kacchan’s threat was harmless, his guest clearly didn’t despite Izuku’s warnings.
“Or else you’ll what?” Tomura asked, tone deadly serious. Kacchan’s eyes flitted over to him, glaring sharply. His teeth bared, and Izuku could already see how Kacchan was readying for a fight, the familiar motions the same as they always had been. Kacchan hadn’t changed, and the thought was comforting. He still should probably try to decrease the conflict before something explosive happened though.
Izuku stepped forwards, wrapping his hands around Tomura’s arm.
“Kacchan’s just like that, he doesn’t mean it!” Izuku pleaded. He spun around giving Kacchan a glare. “Please don’t fight, either of you!”
“Who the hell are you anyway? Were you the one that took Deku?” Kacchan asked, puffing out his chest in an attempt to make himself look big.
“He got me out, actually,” Izuku said defensively. “Can we sit down before I tell you what happened?”
Kacchan looked between them. He must have seen the state of Izuku, the thinness, the shivers of cold that Izuku couldn’t seem to stop for the life of him, for he only huffed and moved aside to let them move past him. Still, he didn’t stop glaring as Tomura passed by.
“You’re lucky my parents are out!” Kacchan called after them as he followed them through into the living room.
“It wasn’t luck,” Izuku whispered conspiratorially to Tomura. “I hoped his parent’s schedule would be the same as when I left, considering they all had good jobs and didn’t seem likely to leave them. I didn’t know what day it was but I knew they were out late every weekday which meant a 71% percent chance of them not being here, which was still kind of a risk but hey, I was right, right?”
Tomura stared at him.
“Damn, you’re a smart kid,” Tomura said, and Izuku couldn’t help but blush. Dad hadn’t complimented him all that much, although to be fair most of his brains went into making escape plans, so it probably wasn’t all that likely that he would get complimented for that. But still! It was nice to be recognised.
Tomura immediately sank down onto the couch, kicking his feet up and resting lengthwise along the length of the couch.
“You know, for such a thin brat, you’re heavy,” Tomura complained, pushing pillows behind his back.
“He was carrying you?” Kacchan hissed. Izuku jumped, not realising when Kacchan had gotten so close to him.
“Yeah,” Izuku admitted. “I, um, needed the help.”
Kacchan looked at Izuku with an indecipherable gaze. It looked like he was going to say something else but his jaw twitched, closing tight shut with an impressive level of force.
He twisted around, marching into the kitchen without a word. Clearly he expected Izuku to follow him and obviously Izuku would. Kacchan-ese was a very subtle language but Izuku had spent his whole childhood trying to understand it, and even with the -
break
- he had a good grip on it. At least he thought he did, but that jaw twitch was a new one. Not something Izuku had encountered before, Kacchan appeared to be holding himself
back
. Normally he just went right out with whatever he wanted to say, normally about how Izuku was a quirkless weakling who could never be a hero, but Izuku was used to that. Why would he stop now?
“I’m just going to go see what he wants,” Izuku said to Tomura, who shrugged.
“Do what you want,” Tomura replied, “But if I hear anything that sounds like he’s hurting you, I’m coming in there.”
It was kinda sweet how protective Tomura was. But it also was uncomfortably familiar, sort of like the oppressive protection his dad -
No, Tomura wasn’t like that. He was nice, he’d gotten Izuku out. He wasn’t like Dad. Izuku couldn’t think like that. It was just paranoia, the constant doubting of Dad’s actions bleeding over to everyone else.
Izuku simply nodded and headed into the kitchen where Kacchan leaned against the counter, looking at Izuku suspiciously.
Kacchan clearly wasn’t expecting the massive hug Izuku launched at him, wind pushed out of his lungs with a massive oof.
“You don’t know how much I missed you, how scared I was about never getting out,” Izuku mumbled into Kacchan’s shirt. “I thought I was never going to be free, I - ”
Kacchan shoved him away, Izuku stumbling to the side. He nearly tripped, legs feeling weak and wobbly again. Izuku laughed it off. He should have expected that. Kacchan was Kacchan, after all, no matter the years.
And yet Kacchan was looking at him with an emotion Izuku couldn’t understand, one he couldn’t place.
“So how are you alive and why the heck are you so thin?” Kacchan grunted, arms crossed and eyes piercing.
“Well, um, turns out my dad’s a villain who
really
didn’t like the idea of his son being out there in the world, vulnerable and quirkless, so thought the best thing to do was kidnap me. As for the thinness, well, kinda hard to stay healthy when you’re trapped in a vault,” Izuku stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. When he said it all like that, it sounded crazy. And it was absolutely totally insane. The day his father had come and taken him, Izuku had been so happy. Even with the intense scarring covering his dad’s entire face, Izuku had felt warmth as his dad looked at him, had taken pleasure in his attention.
That warmth had quickly died when Izuku had woken up inside a vault, ankle chained to a wall. Any further warmth he might have had died further when he learned his mum had been killed to cover their footsteps. It hadn’t helped that his dad had spent the last few years desperately trying to convince Izuku what he was doing was okay, that keeping him inside the vault was for his own protection from the big scary world out there, that the villainy his dad did was only because the heroes were oppressive and dumb.
Izuku had quickly learnt how to tune him out after
that
line.
His dreams of All Might coming to rescue him had been the single thing to keep him going, to keep him living each day, even if it was a constant hell. He had had books and entertainment at one point, but each had been taken away after he’d figured out a way of trying to use them to escape the vault. The books had been the last thing to go, taken about three weeks ago once Izuku had gotten so annoyed he’d chucked one straight at Dad. Last time he saw Dad, there was still a scar standing out fresh amongst his current mess of a face. He was still proud of that one. There wasn’t much Izuku had been able to
do
inside the vault, so any act of rebellion was something he held very close to his heart.
Now he was
free
. Free, out in the open, where the air felt harsh and biting and the light was too bright and he found it hard to focus on anything further away than a few metres. It was painful after his body had adjusted to living within what was basically a cell, but it was ecstatic pain, euphoric pain, the pain of finally seeing something different than those blank cream walls.
And here he was with Kacchan, much like in his wildest dreams. He’d never told Dad about Kacchan, shutting up about his own interests as soon as he’d realised something was wrong, waking up inside that isolated, lonely room. Izuku considered Kacchan’s house safe, out of the radar of All for One. He had no way of knowing Izuku viewed Kacchan differently than any other classmate, so it was unlikely Dad would think he would come here.
There was the question though, of why Kacchan had
let
him come in here.
Why he was standing so strangely quiet, not threatening to kick him out immediately. Izuku knew their days of friendship were fleeting, far gone even before Izuku had been taken, and their relationship had taken a turn for the worse, but Kacchan had
never
been this quiet.
“Your dad’s a villain? Your dad’s a villain and he
kidnapped you
?” Kacchan echoed back, leaning so his hands were pressed right up against the counter, knuckles white.
“Yeah,” Izuku replied. “I know it sounds insane, but he did, and he wouldn’t let me go outside, ever. He didn’t want me to ever leave him.”
“Everyone said your mum died of a heart attack,” Kacchan said, tone emotionless. “Was that true?”
Izuku took a deep breath.
Heart attack
. He’d never know what it was that killed her, Dad never specifying that far. If that was what was publicised, then what his Dad had said made sense. That her death was a kind one, one that wouldn’t send people looking. Izuku had had a long time to come to terms with her being gone, but… it still hurt to know that even when he was free, he would never get to see her again. Ever.
“I don’t know,” Izuku said, forced through a half-closed throat. “All I knew is that he - he killed her.”
A single tear dripped down his cheek and he rubbed it away with the sleeve of his sweater, conscious of Kacchan’s piercing eyes. He couldn’t break down now, not again. He had to be strong, had to be an adult. He wasn’t weak and he wasn’t a baby, no matter what his Dad had said, repeated and echoed so many times. A weak, vulnerable, quirkless
baby
.
“Anyway, I’m out now, so that - it doesn’t matter,” Izuku said forcefully. “That’s the past… I can’t change that, so. Are - um - are people still looking for me?”
Kacchan’s hands tightened reflexively around the counter. He looked away, the crushing weight of those red eyes turned elsewhere.
“They called off the search only a few days after you went missing,” he said carefully, still turned towards the fridge rather than Izuku. “They said because you were quirkless… there was far less chance of you still being alive, so there wasn’t any point in continuing to look for you. Just a runaway, fleeing after your mum died. After that… people didn’t really care. Case closed.”
“Oh.” Izuku looked down, twisting his fingers around his sweater sleeve. Not his, a gift from Dad. Not his, not really. Dad had been sure to make Izuku know that. That he was the only one that would care for Izuku, the only one who would make poor little quirkless Izuku safe. He also made sure to let Izuku know that no one would come for him, no one would ever bother to search for him. That was just how the world worked, no one would come for a quirkless kid.
Izuku had considered all that lies. Lies to keep him downtrodden and trapped, to wash away his desire to escape.
Apparently it wasn’t as much of a lie as Izuku had thought.
“It was stupid,” Kacchan said suddenly, right out of the blue. “They were stupid. You were quirkless, but that wasn’t - ” he cut himself off, mouth slamming shut, jaw twisting as he forced himself through thoughts Izuku wasn’t privy too.
Kacchan raised his head, looking directly at Izuku. Izuku felt himself frozen, pinned down by the weight of his gaze. “Some of them thought it was my fault. My fault you ran.”
Izuku felt sick, nausea rising thick and slimy from within. The only one at fault was his dad. Not Kacchan, never Kacchan.
“Kacchan, you know that’s not - ” Izuku began, but Kacchan quickly cut him off.
“Shut up, Deku, I don’t wanna hear it. Doesn’t matter anyway if it was my fault or not.” Kacchan’s eyes were steady, steady and filled with the weight of -
Guilt, Izuku now realised. Steady with the weight of guilt.
“Really, it’s not your fault, I didn’t run, he
took
me - ”
“Who’s the guy out there then?” Kacchan interrupted.
Izuku settled back. Kacchan had made himself clear, no more talking about that. Izuku was not to bring that topic back up. He couldn’t force it, not unless he wanted a punch or a small explosion to the shoulder. So Izuku let the subject change, let Kacchan take their discussion far away from whatever Kacchan had gone through. He could feel it in the air like an oncoming stormcloud, hovering over them but just out of reach. Even with Izuku’s attempts to breach it.
“Tomura, he’s - um - well, he’s supposed to be my dad’s student, but he chose to save me so I think he’s not anymore.”
Kacchan’s eyebrow arched high. “His student? A student of a
villain?”
Izuku flapped his hands, desperate to make Kacchan understand. “Look, he got me out when no one else did! He’s been kind to me so far, even if he doesn’t have -
great
views on heroes, he seems kind. And all I know of him is what Dad told me and Dad doesn’t have the best track record of not lying about things, did you know he tried to tell me that unfiltered water can be poisonous to quirkless children due to the changes that occur in the human bodies that accompany quirks, like clearly that wasn’t true but he tried it anyway so I really don’t trust him when he said Tomura is the destroyer of worlds, you know - ”
“Deku,” Kacchan said heavily. “Shut up.”
Izuku breathed out then back in. He felt tense, humming energy flowing throughout his body. He wasn’t lying, he did think Tomura was not the same person his dad had told him he was, but he couldn’t stop
talking
. Couldn’t get himself to calm down. Everything was overstimulating, all the sounds, noises, lights, all
too much
, setting him on edge.
Maybe spending all that time in a ventilated, always monitored room had done more to him than he realised.
Kacchan tched, palms finally letting go of their pincer grip on the countertop, crossing over his chest and slouching back.
“If you’re sure you can trust him, well - whatever, I guess,” Kacchan said. “If he makes one
single step
out of line, I’ll blow him up. Got it?”
Izuku huffed out a laugh. Tomura and Kacchan… they were so similar at their core. That just made their fight so funny, the fact that even they didn’t see that. Maybe that was why Izuku instinctively liked Tomura so much. “I know I can trust him. My dad, I didn’t get the feeling Tomura was with him because he
came
to him. I think he… I think he didn’t get a choice. But he made one, by taking me.”
“You know all that for sure?” Kacchan asked, eyebrow arched.
Izuku nodded deftly. “Yes!” He declared. “I do. I don’t think he’s really ever hurt anyone.”
Dad had spread words of Tomura being his successor, the one to carry on his mantle as the world’s next greatest villain, but Dad liked to…
overestimate
a lot of things. Like his own importance. He couldn’t
really
have lived for two hundred years, that was stupid. And while Izuku didn’t doubt the extent of his control since Dad dragged him out to look around their base just to show off his power (noumu were really
gross
, honestly very disturbing and Izuku didn’t wanna think about that so he suppressed it, just like he did a lot of things nowadays - )
But the point was Izuku didn’t think Tomura was as bad as he said he was. Not a real villain, not like Dad was. Dad had probably said it to try and make him scared in case Tomura wanted to get him out. Well, Izuku wasn’t scared. Tomura had gotten him out, and he said he would never let Izuku get taken again, and Izuku believed him. No one said those words that strongly without really meaning it. He’d sounded like a hero. Well, a kinda odd gruff one that didn’t know how to talk like heroes
should
, but a hero nonetheless.
Kacchan let out a quiet tch. “Okay then, I guess. So what now? We call the police?”
That would be a good idea. Almost a great one. But Izuku knew his dad, knew the power he held. He almost definitely had contacts with the police, had proven that to Izuku when he’d shown him classified documents he must have obtained through bribery or something like that, just to brag about his latest crimes. Talking to the police now wouldn’t help them, wouldn’t help either Izuku or Tomura. There wasn’t anyone but Kacchan left who would care for him still being alive, nothing worth fighting for his record to be updated. Tomura might even get taken in for illegal quirk use since he
technically
hadn’t been under threat of death when he’d done all that decaying. Izuku didn’t want to think that, but it was true.
All going to the police would do was leave a paper trail, one All for One could follow far too easily. They would have to hide elsewhere. Not here, obviously, Kacchan’s house couldn’t be a permanent residence, but it would do for a night.
But not forever.
“If I go the police, he would be able to find me again. Kacchan, the power he has, he doesn’t just have a quirk, he has the power to take quirks. He has
hundreds
. They wouldn’t be able to help unless they got All Might in, and I don’t think they’d believe me when I would say I needed him.” A painful truth, but the truth. Izuku knew he was unlikely to be fully believed, knew the word of a young quirkless boy was next to nothing. Especially if he went to the same cops that had given up on him so quickly the first time. They wouldn’t go to All Might first, even if Izuku begged. All Might was busy anyway, busy helping more people. Izuku had Tomura to help now, he didn’t need to take away All Might’s attention from people who didn’t have anyone. That would only be selfish.
Kacchan tilted his head back in consideration, fingers tapping against his arm. “Guess you’re going to need somewhere underground to stay, won’t you? Good thing I know somewhere.”
Izuku’s eyes widened and he leant forwards on tiptoes. “You do?”
Kacchan looked down at him and his mouth slid into a grin. “Tomorrow morning. Then I’ll tell you.”
He shoved Izuku’s shoulder and Izuku nearly tripped over on his weak legs, hands grabbing onto the counter for control. Izuku glared at Kacchan as he wrestled for stability.
“See? You need sleep. You’re all weak and babyish,” Kacchan declared.
“I tried to exercise, I did but - ”
“Doesn’t change what you are now,” Kacchan huffed. “You’re not going back out there alone.” Kacchan stood taller, hands on his hips. “I know the streets, I know what I’m talking about, Deku. It’s dangerous out there. You need to be stronger like me to deal with it, so I’ll tell you where it is tomorrow.”
“But Kacchan,” Izuku whined, but he could already tell there was no changing his mind. Not when Kacchan was fixed on something like this.
“What? You think your villain Dad is going to find you after one night?” Kacchan said cockily. “Nah, there’s no way he’s getting past me. He can’t be
that
powerful, you’re just all Stockhold syndromed.”
Izuku decided not to reply to that one, especially the fact that Kacchan had gotten the name of Stockholm syndrome wrong. Dad was powerful and kinda vengeful, and Izuku
really
didn’t want him and Kacchan meeting. But Izuku had guessed Dad wouldn’t know to come here, and he hoped his bet was right.
One night wouldn’t hurt.
One night.
|
“Why the hell do they make these so uncomfortable?” Dean asked, while pulling at the collar of his tux.
“I’m fine,” Sam answered, grinning. “You’re just nervous.”
“I’m not nervous, you’re…nervous.”
“Great comeback.”
“Shut up.”
Dean paced his mother’s kitchen until Sam forcibly sat him in a chair.
“Relax, you’re killing me here,” Sam said. “Jess planned everything. All you have to do is walk out and marry Cas. Easy.”
“I’ll remind you of that when you and Jess get married,” Dean retorted, and Sam’s face flushed red immediately.
“Dean?” Jess’ voice said, and she walked through the backdoor and into the kitchen. “It’s almost time. You and Bobby wait until you hear the music.”
“Bobby?” Dean asked.
“Yes. Just like we practiced last night, you just walk down with Bobby. Come on, Sam, we need to sit down. And Dean? You’ll be fine.”
Sam and Jess made to go out the door. Sam looked down toward the wedding aisle, and a grin spread across his face. He peeked back into the kitchen at Dean and winked, then walked into the sunny, cold winter afternoon.
“Hey, boy,” Bobby’s gruff voice said, and he walked into the kitchen. “You’re lookin’ nervous.”
“I’m going to puke,” Dean answered with a shaky laugh. “What did Jess rope you into doing?”
Bobby rubbed at his neck.
“Hell, son. She said you didn’t have anyone to walk you down the aisle, what with your momma sitting in for Cas’ mom and all.”
“You’re giving me away?” Dean asked, bewildered. “Damn, I’m not a bride!”
“I ain’t givin’ anyone away!” Bobby said back, looking just as horrified about the idea. “Jess mentioned you had to walk alone, since your daddy…well. You’re like a son to me, boy. Now I ain’t trying to take his place, but no one should walk alone on their wedding day. You’re not mine, but I would have been proud of you if you had been.”
Dean blinked rapidly, and he squished Bobby into a tight, fast hug. Bobby wiped at his eyes and scowled.
“Alright, enough mushy crap,” he said, and Dean chuckled.
Music trickled in from outside, and Dean was pleased to hear that Jess had gone with what sounded like a New Orleans jazz band recording instead of a traditional orchestra.
“You ready?” Bobby asked, and Dean nodded, his mouth too dry to speak.
Bobby moved over to open the door for them and he and Dean stepped forward into the clear view of everyone seated outside.
Jess had done a beautiful job. The chairs lining the aisle were a pearly white, and filled with Cas and Dean’s closest family and friends. Jo and Anna were sitting together, beaming back at Dean, while Ellen sat to their side and hastily wiped at tears on her face. Bert and Chuck Shurley grinned from the back row, and Missouri and her husband sat to their right. She blew Dean a kiss and winked at him when he emerged from the kitchen. Pam sat with Isaac sleeping in her arms, and Julia bounced up and down on her toes, dressed in a beautiful golden dress and long sleeve sweater thrown over the top to combat the winter chill. Annie was seated near the front, beaming with pride as though Dean was her own child, and beside her sat a picture of Eli, another one of Jess’ thoughtful touches.
Dean could see his own mother seated at the front, sniffling in place of pride in the mother’s seat and dressed in a baby blue dress with her hair pinned up in ringlets. Beside her, Jess had placed photographs of John, grinning up at the camera with a wrench in hand and a baby Dean in his lap, and Naomi, seated on her living room sofa with a cup of tea in her hands.
The decorations were shimmering. Jess had taken the winter theme and ran with it, and it was echoed in all the accents. The flowers were white, and though Dean didn’t know or care what type they were, they looked gorgeous pinned to the sides of the chairs lining the aisle, and decorated the simple wooden arch at the front. Silver accents were thrown in to mimic snow, and the winter sun cascaded down behind the arch in the late afternoon set everything aglow.
Dean vaguely noticed the preacher at the front from his father’s funeral (a downfall of a small town was that preachers usually pulled double duty on good and bad events), and Sam and Jess on their respective sides of the altar, both dressed in silver and white.
Dean noticed all of this in the space of seconds once he walked out of the door and began his trek down the aisle, trying to still his trembling hands.
Then Cas turned around, and everything else disappeared.
Cas was wearing the same sort of black and white tux Dean was, with their white rose boutonnieres both pinned to the same place. But Cas was, there was no other word for it, glowing. He radiated happiness and calm, and suddenly Dean’s feet couldn’t get him to the front of the aisle fast enough. Dean sped up just slightly, and Bobby huffed in amusement beside him. Once they made it to the front of the aisle, Bobby moved off to the side to take a seat, and the wedding officially began.
Dean was hardly paying attention. He and Cas simply stared at each other throughout the opening comments, the definition of marriage, and even the prayer. Dean didn’t want to take his eyes off Cas for a second, wanting to drink in his happiness and memorize his face.
“Dean,” Sam whispered, and Dean snapped back to attention.
“Sorry, what?” he said, and the onlookers laughed.
“I said please repeat after me,” the preacher smiled.
“Oh, right,” Dean said, flustered.
Dean repeated the preacher’s words back to him, eyes never leaving Cas.
“I, Dean Winchester, take you Castiel Novak, to have and hold from this day forward…”
This was really happening. Dean’s heart was hammering madly in his chest. He focused on Cas’ peaceful smile to ground him.
“For better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward…”
Mary gave an audible sniff from the front row, and all of Dean’s nerves vanished when Cas smiled at him like never before. The sun breaking through a cloud behind them had no chance of being brighter than that moment.
“And death shall not part us.”
A cold winter breeze blew through the backyard, and Cas took a deep breath of the frigid air before repeating the vows back at Dean, eyes alight with happiness.
“I, Castiel Novak, take you Dean Winchester, to have and hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health,” Cas leaned in and added so quietly no one else could hear, “even when I tell you to get your flu shot and you don’t.”
Dean huffed out a laugh at the memory, and Cas moved on.
“To love and to cherish, from this day forward, and death shall not part us.”
“If you would both face me, please,” the preacher said, and he bowed his head to give a quick prayer.
“Dean,” Cas whispered, barely audible.
“Yeah?” Dean whispered back.
“I’m so nervous I’m afraid I may throw up on the preacher.”
Dean bit back a laugh.
“Oh, please go all Exorcist on him, Cas. A wedding and exorcism in the same day? I need that to happen.”
“Amen,” the preacher finished, and Cas rearranged his face into a happy, neutral expression. “The rings?”
Jess and Sam both handed over their rings, and Dean took Cas’ hand in his, listening to the meaning of rings (circular, never ending, just like love, of course…ugh, that was so cheesy Dean nearly wrinkled his nose).
“Dean, do you promise to always love Castiel?” the preacher asked, indicating Dean should slide on the ring if he agreed.
“I do,” Dean said, and he pushed the gold band onto Cas’ finger.
“And Castiel, do you promise to always love Dean?”
“I do,” Cas answered, and he slipped on Dean’s ring as well.
“Then by the power given to me by the church, I now pronounce you husbands!”
Dean and Cas stood frozen, staring at each other, while the crowd cheered and clapped.
“Dude!” Sam’s voice cut through the noise. “Kiss him!”
Dean put his hands on either side of Cas’ face, and Cas brought his own hands up to cup over them. He leaned forward and kissed Cas as gently as he had the very first time, but this time there was no confusion or panic. This felt right.
*
After cake and gifts, the guests started to dwindle, leaving Dean and Cas to prepare to leave for their trip. Dean had been adamant about not telling Cas where they were going, much to the other boy’s amusement and annoyance.
“How will I know what to pack?” Cas had asked repeatedly.
“Clothes,” Dean had retorted, and Cas had just sighed, exasperated.
At nearly eight, Dean announced that he and Cas had to go, and Mary, Sam, and Jess surrounded them to wish them well. The boys walked to their car, which Dean was pleased to see had been spared the worst of what he knew his brother was capable of. Sam had used washable car markers (Dean could hug him for that), and though the car was covered with cheerful and often lewd statements, as well as a few strategically placed penis illustrations, he found he was too happy to be upset. He laughed as he pulled the condoms off the windshield wipers, and only grimaced a bit at the green and purple clay dick someone had molded and stuck to his dash.
“Dean, this car is your baby. Are you alright?” Cas questioned, and Dean just grinned.
“Yeah, it’s not permanent. Besides, I want everyone we drive by to know I married my best friend.”
Cas smiled back and closed the trunk, their bags inside, and was ready to climb into the car when he heard Anna and Jo calling for them.
“Wait! Wait!” Anna yelled, and she and Jo dashed up to them, red-faced and wheezing.
“We won’t be gone that long,” Dean winked, and Jo rolled her eyes.
“No…you idiot…” she gasped out. “Our present…here it is.”
Anna and Jo caught their breath and Cas looked around, curious.
“What is it?” he asked, and Anna beamed.
“It’s me,” she said happily, breath now semi-returned.
“I’m not sure how to tell you,” Dean said, whispering conspiratorially. “But I’m married.”
“Dammit, Dean,” Jo said, slugging him in the shoulder; for a small girl, she was remarkably strong. “It’s us. We know about the trouble you’ve been having finding an adoption agency. We’ve been looking into it for you too, but no one will let same sex soulmates adopt.”
Dean knew all of this already; Cas had broken down in tears in Dean’s arms only a few nights prior, convinced they would never have children if all agencies kept turning them down. Dean had even mentioned the possibility of adopting their nephew to Sam, which had caused an explosive comment from his brother loud enough to rattle the windows. For everything he had said when Jess had found out she was pregnant, Sam had absolutely no intention of giving up his son. He told Dean as much, after they had calmed down and hugged, claiming that John may have been a horrible father, but Sam would never intentionally abandon a child.
“So this is our present,” Anna jumped in. “You go with us to Roman Medical Center-”
“You pick out a donor egg from a list of qualities,” Jo interrupted. “They mix your baby gravy together so that both of you are potential fathers, fertilize the egg, then implant it in Anna-”
“And I carry your baby to term.”
Dean stared at them.
“There has to be a less creepy way to describe that,” he finally said, and Anna sighed, shushing Jo’s retort before she could even say it.
“Look, you two deserve a baby, even if you’re already a family as you are. So the rest of the world hasn’t accepted same sex soulmates yet. They will. Until then, though, we want you to have what you want, and we’re willing to make it happen.”
“I’m not using you as some baby factory,” Dean said, looking disgusted, and this time Jo landed an excellent punch worthy of Muhammad Ali on his shoulder.
“Do you think I’d let you?” she asked. “I love Anna, and we both love you and Cas. This is what we want to do for you, if you want it. If not, fuck it, we’ll get you some towels or silverware. It’s your call, it’s not like there’s a reason to know right now.”
Jo looked at her watch.
“It’s getting late. Take your time deciding, and be careful on your trip. Cas, you’re going to love it,” Jo said, and Cas huffed in mock indignation.
“You told Jo where we’re going and not me?”
“I didn’t marry Jo,” Dean said.
“Thank God for that,” Jo retorted, and Anna laughed, wrapping up Dean and Cas in hugs.
“Have fun,” she said, and then it was Jo’s turn.
“Yeah, do the horizontal hula like proper newlyweds,” she said, and Dean and Cas climbed into their car. “And don’t forget, my soulmate’s vagina is open for business!”
“Jesus, Jo!” Dean yelled out, but Jo and Anna just laughed and walked back off toward the endings of the reception.
Dean drove off, and Cas leaned his head back against the seat, feeling the warmth of the heat blast his face. They drove in peaceful quiet for a bit, until Dean reached across the seat and took Cas’ hand.
“It’s an option,” he said quietly, and Cas nodded.
“I know. But we have time to think about it, and right now, I’d like to focus on one milestone at a time.”
Dean squeezed Cas’ hand.
“I can’t believe we’re married,” Dean said, and he played with the golden band on Cas’ hand. “And that ring is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Got a thing for married men, Mr. Winchester?” Cas teased.
“Just for you, Mr. Winchester. Damn, I’m never going to get tired of hearing that.”
“Yes, well, it was part of the deal,” Cas admitted. “But I rather like it too.”
At first, Cas had refused to take Dean’s name, calling the practice archaic and sexist, while Dean thought it was more traditional. Cas had also balked at the original, traditional vows, which stated that they must love and obey each other. Cas had insisted that part be removed, and he and Dean had negotiated with each other until they were both satisfied about the ceremony.
“I’ll agree that we take out the obey part, because that’s stupid. But if we do, I want you to take my name,” Dean insisted.
“I think it means I’m property,” Cas crinkled his nose.
“I don’t see it that way,” Dean said, and he moved closer to Cas on the couch. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to, but I hope you will.”
“Why?” Cas asked.
“Because whenever we sign our name to something, there will be a little reminder that, somehow, I was lucky enough to marry you.”
“That’s what the rings are for,” Cas reminded him gently, and Dean leaned in to kiss his cheek.
“Rings can get lost, but your name sticks with you forever.”
Cas looked out the window at the approaching bright lights.
“Lincoln? Is this where we’re staying?” Cas asked, excitement building even though the city was miles and miles away, only illuminating the winter sky because of its enormous size.
“For tonight,” Dean said, throwing Cas a wink. “Then tomorrow, we drive for six hours, and we make it to our real destination.”
“Which is?” Cas pressed.
“Patience, Cas,” Dean grinned, and he held Cas’ hand the rest of the way to Lincoln.
*
“Newlywed special?” she asked happily, and Dean nodded. “Here’s your keys. Top floor, room 817. Enjoy your night!”
“We will,” Dean winked, and Cas rolled his eyes before leading him to the elevator.
“What?” Dean asked once the doors had closed behind them. “I wasn’t flirting!”
“I know you weren’t,” Cas answered. “You were implying that we were going to have sex tonight. And that assumption is completely-”
Cas leaned over and licked a stripe up Dean’s neck.
“True.”
Dean gulped, happy when the elevator doors clanged open on the top floor. He practically dragged Cas down the hall to their room, not even caring that it was getting late and other guests were probably starting to go to bed. Dean pulled Cas to him and reached behind his own back to fumble with the key card and open the door. Cas pressed against him, the heat seeping through the layers of their tuxes, and Dean gave a triumphant murmur when the door opened behind him and they very nearly toppled through.
Cas staggered and stood up again, his gaze fixed past Dean and toward the back of the suite.
“That’s beautiful,” he whispered, but Dean was busy nipping at his neck and locking the door behind them with one hand.
“Dean.”
And little though he wanted to, Dean tore his attention away from the tan expanse of perfect skin across Cas’ neck and looked into the room.
“Wow,” he breathed, and he took Cas’ hand to walk further inside.
Dean vaguely registered a beautiful bathroom to his left, stocked full of soft, cream colored towels and larger than his childhood bedroom, and a sitting area decorated lavishly to their right. The main view was directly in front of him. The master bedroom lay waiting, a set of sinfully comfortable silken sheets and comforter thrown delicately over a thick mattress. An honest to God fireplace with gas logs was glowing in the corner of the bedroom, casting long, arching shadows onto the walls.
The other wall of the room, much to Cas’ delight, wasn’t a wall at all. Rather, it was one enormous window, the curtains thrown back to reveal the city of Lincoln, lit up with the type of beautiful industrial glamour only found in the city. Far below them, horns blared and people bustled about, even in the cold night air.
“The view is incredible,” Cas breathed out, standing so close to the window that his hot breath fogged up the glass when he spoke.
Dean reached out and pulled him in, feeling the warmth of their bodies pressed together once more. He kissed Cas long and softly, tongues slipping over each other languidly. They stayed there for a moment, and Cas began to work his fingers into the muscles of Dean’s shoulders, kneading gently. Then he slipped his hands beneath Dean’s tuxedo jacket and slid it down over his shoulders, allowing it to slump in a heap to the floor. Dean did the same to Cas, and began to work the other man’s tie loose, allowing Cas to work on his as well. Their shirts came next, hitched up from their dress pants and unbuttoned slowly and purposefully, then their shoes were toed off, socks slipped down and away, and finally the black dress pants shucked away as well.
Dean slowly moved his fingers under the band of Cas’ underwear and pulled them down, allowing Cas to tug his away too. Then Dean walked Cas backward, never once breaking their kiss, until the back of Cas’ knees brushed against the silk fabric of the bedspread. Dean leaned Cas back, slowly, hands supporting him as though he were a precious heirloom he was afraid of breaking, and gently lay him on the bed. Cas pulled Dean down by the shoulders until he was laying flush against him, his pounding heart pressed against Cas’ chest.
“Dean,” Cas breathed out at the feeling, and Dean leaned back down to pepper kisses along his jaw and neck, dipping his head down to lick and nibble on Cas’ clavicle.
Cas arched his back at the feeling and Dean pressed down on him at the same time, causing wonderful friction and pressure to build between them.
Dean moaned out a small sound and pressed down again, biting his bottom lip when Cas rolled his own hips up to meet his thrust. They began to quicken their pace, and suddenly Cas stopped, rolling them over.
Dean was surprised to find himself suddenly on his back, but his dick didn’t seem to mind. It gave a twitch at the sight of Cas above him, pupils blown wide, hair a mess, and…
And pressing one finger into himself, moaning as he did so.
Holy shit.
Cas was fucking himself open on his own finger, and had carefully positioned his body so that Dean’s cock was rubbing against the soft skin of his ass while he did it.
Dean’s hips thrust upward, but Cas simply sped up his finger, pulling it away only to squirt some more lube on that he had apparently materialized out of nowhere. At least, Dean hadn’t noticed it until now. Cas pushed a second finger in and scissored himself open, adding a third when he was open enough. He was squirming now, hips bucking slightly and hard dick bouncing in front of him with every move. Dean didn’t speak, not wanting to stop the moment, though he was so hard he ached.
Finally, Cas withdrew his fingers and reached behind him to grasp Dean’s cock in his hand. He paused, and leaned down to kiss Dean softly on his lips.
“Is this alright?” he asked, and Dean nearly laughed.
“Yes, fuck yes,” he said, holding himself back from thrusting into the crack of Cas’ ass.
“Good,” Cas said, and he sat back up.
He lined Dean’s erection up with his hole and began to sit down on it, pushing it in slightly, inch by inch, until he was fully seated in Dean’s lap.
“Dean,” Cas moaned. “I feel so full.”
Dean groaned in response, and thrust up slightly, drawing a lingering moan out of the other man’s mouth.
Cas started bouncing, little movements at first, tiny twitches of his thigh muscles under the fingers that Dean was pressing into them. Dean slid his hands up Cas’ thighs stopping at his hips, and he lifted Cas slightly during his bounces, causing him to moan and move faster and harder.
“Feels so good, baby,” Dean moaned, and he began to thrust upward each time Cas came down.
Cas threw his head back and clasped his hands onto Dean’s thighs as he rode him, squeezing his long fingers into the tight muscles under his hands.
Dean reached forward and wrapped his hand around Cas’ dick, causing Cas to cry out and increase his speed, needing that finish.
“Ah, Dean,” he moaned out, tongue darting out to lick at his chapped lips. “You feel so good inside me. Big, and hard. Do I feel good too?”
“Fuck yeah,” Dean grunted out. “Tight and hot. You’re perfect.”
“Mmm,” Cas moaned. “I love it when you’re deep inside me. Love feeling you stretching me open. Love you.”
“God, Cas! I’m gonna-,” Dean was on edge, about to fall over, and he worked his hand over Cas’ hard cock, wanting him to feel just as good.
Cas could sense the desperation in Dean, just how close he was. With a quick movement, he dropped all the way back down on Dean, pushing his dick in as far as he could and grinding into him hard and desperate while still clinging to his thighs.
“Mmm! Ah!” Dean shouted, and he was coming hard, his body emptying into the tight, wet heat surrounding him.
He worked Cas over with his hand still, even in the throes of his orgasm, until Cas was gasping above him, hips rocking into his hand.
“Dean!” he shouted, and he came in long spurts of warm liquid across Dean’s chest.
Cas rolled over and collapsed onto the bed, both he and Dean panting and heaving breaths from their exhausted, sated bodies.
“Can we do that forever?” Dean finally said into the darkness, and Cas laughed.
“We’ve got forever now,” he said, and Dean lazily rolled over and wrapped their sticky bodies up together.
“How about we start with going all night?” he winked, and Cas chuckled back.
“I say it's my turn to be top.”
They managed a few more times that night, collapsing into each other’s arms at the end of each explosive moment, before falling asleep tangled together in the early hours of the morning. When they both awoke the next morning, sore and naked, they decided to begin their first full day of married life by promptly crawling back under the sheets.
|
Stiles doesn’t know what’s harder – being Pack!Dad or Regular!Dad. Right now, he’s starting to think that Isaac’s being more childish than his three year old.
Stiles readjusts the little girl on his hip, her nose snuffling into his body as the remnants of a temper tantrum drained from her small body, rendering her sleepy and exhausted. His brown eyes are fixed on Isaac as the slightly younger teenager looks away shame-faced. In front of Stiles is a note, a note, from Isaac’s college, he didn’t even know that colleges did that. As far as he knew, they didn’t give a shit about whether or not their students did well, as long as they got the money to keep running. But no, Isaac is sent home with a fucking note that says ‘could you please talk to Isaac about his temper issues’. Stiles thought this was definitely one for the baby books.
“What is this?” he asks, voice tempered as Laura shuffles on his hip, clinging tighter as she senses her father’s disappointment. “Isaac?”
“It’s a note.”
Stiles scowls at the petulant tone in the nineteen year old boy’s voice. “I can see that, what I want to know is why we got one.”
“I wolfed out.”
“Christ’s sake, Isaac,” Stiles groans as he picks up the note, one hand curling around Laura so she doesn’t drop. “You’ve been a werewolf for nearly three years now, why on earth are you wolfing out in class?” Even Stiles knew that Isaac was the quickest of the betas to gain control of the wolf and the shift. “Explain,” he huffs as Laura twists in his arms, energy slowly coming back as she turns to face Isaac as well, fixing him with her blue gaze, alight with amusement.
Isaac mutters something, too quick and too low for Stiles’ human ears to catch and he gives the universal clearing of throat that indicates that Isaac better repeat himself, or he’s in trouble.
“Louise said she’d rather fu—” Stiles clears his throat, pointed look down at the toddler in his arms. “Louise said she’d rather date Rowan Parks than me.”
Stiles raises an eyebrow, because last he checked Isaac wasn’t so petty.
“And?”
“She’s my mate, Parks isn’t worth the air she breaths,” Isaac growls out, eyes glowing amber for a short moment.
Stiles sighs, this is so not his department. Mating, hunting and what not are Derek’s department, just like school and greeting the first date is Stiles’ department. But he does know when to draw the line.
“I know that you’re going to be positive, but that is no reason to wolf out during,” he checks the not, “Contemporary Art History.” Why was Isaac studying this again? “Take the note to Derek when he’s back from work and explain yourself.” He jerks a hand behind him and Isaac practically scampers out of the kitchen, Laura giggling at the way he submitted to Stiles’ rule. Stiles lifts the little girl off his hip and places her on the table, looking at her directly in the eye.
“And you, no making faces at your brother when Papa’s trying to tell him off,” he scolds lightly.
Laura just giggles again.
***
“BOOOOOOYYYYYDDDDDDDD.”
The whine echoes throughout the train yard, and Boyd’s face just lights up into the serene smile that always graces his features. The twenty-four year old can’t help the laugh that pushes past his teeth at the site in front of him. Derek’s standing there, looking completely lost as his seven year old tugs at his sleeve, frustrated pout marring his face.
“Boyd, tell Daddy that he’s not ‘sposed to throw a baseball like that!”
Derek’s pretty sucky when it comes to baseball, they’ve discovered since adopting Trent. Luckily for the boy, over the last three years Boyd’s gotten pretty good at it. Between Boyd and Jackson, Trent’s got a pretty good team to play baseball with when he wants.
“Yeah Dad,” Boyd grins as he draws closer, crouching down to be level with Trent. “You’re not supposed to throw a baseball like that.”
Even Stiles is better at pitching than Derek – though Boyd knows that’s only in baseball.
“I don’t see what I’m doing wrong,” Derek says. Boyd would almost say Derek is wallowing in self-pity, but Derek’s wallowing in self-pity usually happens when the kids are in bed and Stiles is there to comfort him. “I throw the ball, it goes up, it comes down.”
Trent snorts.
“Even Papa knows that’s now how it’s ‘sposed to go. You’re not very good, Daddy.” He pouts up at his father, and before he can argue he’s swept up into his father’s arm. “Daddy! Put me down! I wanna play! BOYYYDDDDDD!”
Boyd knows better than to step in on this, and sits back on his heels, tossing the ball between his hands as he observes Derek tease his son. It’s not something he ever thought he’d see, but that’s what happened in the end. Derek’s smiling, and laughing and tickling his son, and it’s almost heartwarming.
“Not going to put you down until you admit that Daddy’s very good at baseball,” Derek taunts as he twists his squirming son in his arms. The boy giggles, body practically falling out Derek’s arms as he tries to escape. “Daddy’s better than Papa at baseball.”
“No!” It’s a high pitched squeal of joy as the boy clings to his father’s forearm. “Papa’s better, Papa’s better!”
Derek’s still grinning and Boyd can’t help a low laugh as he watches the young human’s staunch defence of his younger parent.
“Does Papa let you have candy before bedtime?” Derek pulls the trump card, because not even Stiles knows about that. It works and Trent freezes in his father’s arms.
“Daddy’s better at baseball.” He’s deposited right way up, hair mussed as Derek laughs again.
“Boyd, come on, you going to play, or not?” Derek asks as Boyd rises, hand already poised to gently throw the ball at the little human. “Don’t go easy on him, everyone knows that Trent’s the best at baseball.”
***
Stiles and Derek are stretched over the couch, exhaustion trembling through their limbs. Adopting three children before Stiles was even legally allowed to drink was a risky move on their part, but it works out in full for them, despite the fact they get almost no sleep between them. They’ve grown up now, and they’re no longer the little children that were directed to a small pack, young enough to understand them and old enough to have a firm grasp on how to raise two werewolves and one human.
Derek can’t really believe they’ve been together for eight years, they’ve had the kids for nearly that long as well. It was a risky move, agreeing to adopt the children despite their mate bond being so new, so fresh, but it seems to have worked for them, because they’re a family. He pulls Stiles in closer and smiles, perhaps it wasn’t so hard raising young children even though Stiles himself was only fourteen years older than their eldest daughter, because it worked.
He’s about to nod off when the door opens and both men freeze on the couch – hearing hitching breaths as Erica enters the house. Stiles is up in a second and his arms are open, ready for the blonde as she slides between Derek and Stiles. Erica’s always been physically strong, but at times like this, Derek remembers that she’s not always emotionally strong – even if she wants to be. She’s engulfed in Stiles’ arms whilst Derek rubs her shoulders softly, letting her sob out the frustration and the heartbreak which was practically rolling off her.
“Erica, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Stiles is whispering soothingly and he presses his lips to her forehead. “It’s going to be all right.” Derek feels a pang of pure affection for Stiles as he watches the younger comfort Erica. “He’s not worth it, he’s not worth your tears,” he continues. Derek swallows, and just gives her as much silent support as he can – because this talking thing? This is what Stiles does. Derek leans in and presses his lips to the top of her head. Erica sobs again, but it’s more controlled and she buries herself into the two warm bodies on either side of her.
“Daddy?” Josie’s standing at the door, looking at Erica with wide eyes. She’s only ten and yet she can see how much Erica’s hurting. “I had a nightmare.” Her voice is soft, and Stiles doesn’t notice her over Erica’s crying. So Derek just lifts his other arm and she scampers to tuck herself beneath it. Derek presses her into his side, reassuring her with the pure strength of his touch before the young girl leans over and tangles her small hand together with Erica’s.
“It’s gunna be okay Er,” the young werewolf murmurs sleepily into Derek’s side. “Daddy and Papa’ll look after you.”
Derek looks over Erica’s head, eyes meeting Stiles, and in that moment all four of them know that everything’s going to be okay.
|
The summer she turned sixteen, Brienne Tarth discovered she was made of flesh and blood.
Not that she had thought she was made of sourdough or sugar and spice and everything nice before. She ran, climbed stiles and jumped over ditches better than any boy. She took swordfighting lessons, partly out of a young girl’s nostalgia for a bygone age, partly as exercise, and partly to get away from Mrs. Roelle and her ideas about proper activities for a young lady (sewing, painting). Brienne knew how muscles felt when they burned from too much exertion, the sweet heaviness of exhaustion. The sun on her skin, the sea wind in her hair.
What she had not known was how her own flesh could feel so strange. She had been only vaguely aware of the possibility of change. Girls in school had been talking about it since Brienne turned thirteen, but she never thought the same rules applied to her. She had been tallest in her class since she was ten, and where other girls started to talk about bras and lipstick and boys, Brienne remained resolutely flat, tangle-haired and untouchable even after her monthlies began, much to her silent embarrassment. Other girls claimed boys were stupid but couldn’t seem to shut up about them. Brienne hardly thought about boys at all except as opponents in sports or creatures she might have to punch if they got too pushy and loud with rude comments about her looks.
She stood naked in front of the mirror on her sister’s wardrobe one August day some weeks after her sixteenth nameday, and examined herself. Brienne did not have a mirror on her wardrobe, but Sansa did, though she was not yet six years old. Brienne had never needed one before. She had known she was ‘not pretty’ since she was a little girl, but ‘not pretty’ took on a whole new meaning now. Her broad shoulders, small breasts and long limbs were all to the good when she fought with a blunt sword or played netball or ran track, but no matter how she squinted and turned Brienne could not imagine herself as… what? Not merely pretty. Appealing. Desirable.
Her sister’s room was stifling, yet Brienne got goose pimples at the thought of another’s hands running over her arms, her pale, freckly thighs, up to…
She crossed her arms, crossed her legs until she looked like a little girl needing to pee, and scowled at her naked self in the mirror. Her hair was thin and tangled and straw-blond, the hair between her legs was thick and tangled and a darker shade of blond. Her skin was more ruddy than tanned, and littered with freckles after the long, hot summer. The muscles in her shoulders and calves were better defined than those on most boys she knew, let alone girls. Her nose was broad, her teeth were large, her eyes were blue. She was not-pretty.
Her father kept art books illustrated with rich, mouthwatering reproductions on a shelf in the sitting room. Brienne spent hours poring over the women in the pictures, women as seen by talented men. They were nude, not naked. They were sheathed in their painted flesh as in armor. Brienne could no more imagine them scowling at their mirrors than she could imagine herself among them, lithe and graceful in just a ballet tutu, posing on a daybed with flowers in her hair like a chocolate cake, spilling with voluptuousness as she rose from a bath, pouty and mysterious in a landscape out of legend, sitting spread-legged and unashamed in some Lyseni bordello.
It never occurred to Brienne that the pretty girls who called out their wishes for a good summer to her when school ended in June without really meaning a word might scowl at their mirrors too. Might cup their breasts hesitantly, watching for a reaction from their bodies, then cross their legs awkwardly and rub their arms to make the gooseflesh go away. Those girls would be nude and invincible. Brienne was merely naked and even more aware of her ugliness than usual.
She pulled on her T-shirt and shorts, and stomped back to her own room, sat on the bed and hugged Bear. He was originally called Eddard Bear when her father gave him to her for her fourth nameday, but the Eddard part fell off soon after, and only Bear remained. Bear had mismatched eyes because when he lost one years earlier, Brienne’s mother sewed on a plain black button as a replacement. His fur was threadbare, and he always looked pregnant with the bulging zippered pocket in front where Brienne kept her pajamas.
Hugging him used to always make her feel better in the past. She felt vaguely silly hugging him now. She was no longer a child, but she did not know what she was.
Not an adult, certainly. Her father was an adult. Mrs. Roelle was an adult, and Brienne knew she was not like them. Whatever she was, she was not like them.
Mrs. Roelle was the housekeeper, and had served as a semi-official nanny since Brienne was a child. She came to live with them not long after Brienne’s mother died, when Sansa was a baby and Pod had not yet started school. She was ugly not like Brienne was ugly, but in the way of old people who let themselves go. Brienne privately suspected that Mrs. Roelle had never been married, that she added the ‘Mrs.’ at some point on the road of advancing years to make herself sound more important. Like she was once desired, desirable.
Brienne vowed never to do that, never to call herself Mrs. Tarth, no matter that she strongly suspected she would live and die a maid. She could not imagine anyone in the whole world who would want to touch her as she sometimes touched herself, as if daring herself to do it, hands stroking her breasts to make her nipples stand to attention, thighs squeezing to enhance the curious tingly sensation between them, while Bear regarded her with beady judgment from the end of her bed. Still, she prided herself on having more dignity than Mrs. Roelle.
Brienne and Pod and Sansa were spending the end of the summer alone with Mrs. Roelle while their father was on a lecture tour of the Free Cities. For all that their family had once owned the island on which they lived, the Tarths were no longer wealthy, their noble title a mere frippery. Selwyn Tarth preferred to be called Colonel Tarth, a title he had earned over long years in the army. He often traveled, giving lectures on the great battles in the history of Westeros to sept groups and youth groups and anyone who would pay him. No shame in a man earning a living, he often told Brienne, nor a woman either.
Brienne nodded whenever he said this, waiting for the inevitable hair-ruffle which followed. Of his three children, she resembled her father the most. Sansa took after their mother with her reddish-gold hair and her delicate features, while Pod was an odd mixture of the two, gangly yet not as tall as he could have been, with the Tarth eyes and general cast of features, softened by baby fat, more fitting to a boy than to a girl like Brienne.
“I wish Papa had taken us with him,” she said over lunch to no one in particular. “I would love to see Pentos and Myr and Lys.” Maybe in those strange cities barely glimpsed through the postcards their father sent she could escape herself, her horsey face, her irritatingly ever-present flesh.
“Wouldn’t that be fun, Pod?” she prodded her little brother, desperate for someone to agree with her. Without her father there, Brienne often felt like her younger siblings presented a unified front with Mrs. Roelle. “We should ask Papa to take us next year.”
Pod didn’t even look up from his plate of bread pudding. “Not if he flies again next year. Airships are almost as bad as steel ships.”
Pod was eleven years old, and boat-mad. He made endless models from kits he ordered through the mail, intricate replicas of great sailships of the past. They had names like The Black Dragon, Sweet Cersei and The Inimitable, and once he finished each one, Pod placed them on the nearest available flat surface and moved on to the next one. He liked to see his boats and ships strewn about the house, a miniature armada in dry dock on shelves and mantelpieces and side tables. His boats gave him a better sense of space opening out around him than the blue horizon all around their island. Brienne regretted that the age of sailships was long past: had it not been, Pod would have been old enough to apprentice as a cabin boy. Maybe then he would learn to speak to people’s faces rather than watching his plate or his shoes as though he expected the floor to roll under him on a sudden wave.
“We’ve talked about this, Brienne,” Mrs. Roelle said, spooning more bread pudding onto her plate, even though she’d already said she didn’t want any extra. “Your father is far too busy with his lecture tour to look after you as well.”
“Lecher tour!” Sansa crowed.
Sometimes it seemed to Brienne the gods had divided the roles very carefully among the Tarth children. She was the strong, active one, the protector of her younger siblings. Pod was the quiet, absent-minded one. Sansa was the little princess. At five years of age, she was the sort of child who prompted strangers to stop Mrs. Roelle on the village high street so they could fawn over Sansa’s beauty. Mrs. Roelle always waited the longest time possible before she politely disabused them of the idea that Sansa was her own child. Brienne didn’t know whom she hated more at those times: Mrs. Roelle or the strolling strangers who looked at Sansa, then looked at Brienne, and visibly restrained themselves from asking how the two could possibly be related.
Sometimes Brienne wondered why she didn’t resent Sansa. Her baby sister’s birth had killed their mother, after all, a loss which still caused Brienne to cry herself to sleep sometimes. But Sansa was so sweet and so unaware of the very possibility that someone might not be instantly charmed by her that Brienne could not find anything but pure love for the girl in her heart. Sansa didn’t care if Brienne was big and ugly. She cared that Brienne carried her around on her shoulders so she could touch the ceiling if she stretched out her little arm. She cared that Brienne pulled faces to make her laugh. She was not very smart, but she was kind, and Brienne knew how rare that could be. She only wished Sansa would cling to her the way she clung to Mrs. Roelle, who wasn’t even family. But it was not Sansa’s fault if she was too young to understand this.
Brienne cleared away the plates before Mrs. Roelle could tell her to do so, pulling a face behind the housekeeper’s back to make Sansa laugh. Pod had already wandered off to his latest model ship. His spoon was sticky with the glue that was forever on his hands.
Brienne washed dishes while Mrs. Roelle took out her knitting, and Sansa played with Mrs. Roelle’s cat. Or rather Sansa played while the cat, a fat marmalade tom called Red Ronnet, who was the size and shape of a round, furry coffee table when seated, regarded her through slit yellow eyes. Brienne tried to keep an eye on them as well as do the dishes. She did not trust Red Ronnet any more than she trusted his proprietor.
“What is that you’re knitting, Mrs. Roelle?” she asked, out of politeness rather than genuine interest.
“A cardigan, dear.” Brienne hated being called ‘dear,’ which Mrs. Roelle knew and chose to ignore.
Sansa abandoned Red Ronnet and tried to climb up onto Mrs. Roelle’s lap. “For me?” she asked.
Mrs. Roelle laughed and petted Sansa’s hair, managing to gently push the girl off her lap and back onto the floor with the same gesture. “No, Sansa dear, it’s black, see? If this were for you, it would be pink with blue flowers. No, this is for me, my little grumpkin.”
“Why do you knit so many black clothes?” Brienne asked. She didn’t actually care, but asking questions was a way of preventing Mrs. Roelle from telling her she ought to spend less time outdoors, that the sun brought out her freckles, that she might sit and improve her sewing or read a good book like a proper young lady, didn’t she have a reading list to work through, and school less than a month away.
“At my age, there’s always someone for whom to wear black. If not right away, then sooner rather than later,” Mrs. Roelle replied with entirely too much relish. “You probably cannot even imagine that, at your age, but the Stranger comes for us all, Brienne.”
I can imagine it, Brienne thought, scrubbing a pot. The Stranger took my mother and brought us you in her stead. She sometimes wondered if Mrs. Roelle and her father were something more than housekeeper and employer. The thought made her so uncomfortable she squirmed where she stood at the sink.
“You’ll catch your death, dear, standing barefoot on the stone floor,” Mrs. Roelle said.
Brienne scratched her left calf with her right foot. Her calf muscles often cramped at night, waking her. Growing pains. She wished Mrs. Roelle were more like them, intensely unpleasant for a brief time, but then passing as though she had never existed.
Brienne wondered how old the woman was. Mrs. Roelle believed that a lady should never admit her true age. She seemed to Brienne very old and not much of a lady, but really, she must be close to Brienne’s father’s age. Brienne pushed that thought away as well, tried to conjure up her mother’s face as she scrubbed and rinsed.
Her mother had been small and graceful, everything Brienne was not. Even her hair was more gold than straw. Selwyn Tarth had met her doing a tour of administrative duty in the capital, where she was from, and brought her to live with him on this island. Her name had been Anyta Lannister, and lately Brienne had difficulty remembering her face. It was as though she could see her mother through a mosquito curtain or a thick veil of steam, but if she concentrated her mother dissolved into smudges of bright color, like a goal in a dream which receded the harder Brienne tried to reach it.
Done with the washing and drying, she asked Sansa if she wanted to go out and play. No, Sansa wanted Mrs. Roelle to tell her a story. Brienne might have stayed, were Mrs. Roelle’s stories ever about anything but beautiful, virtuous maidens who won a fair prince’s love after unimaginable hardships. As it was, she left Sansa with Mrs. Roelle and the sleeping Red Ronnet, and went up to her room to put on her running shoes.
The day was intensely hot. The only creatures which moved in the landscape were crickets, the fish in the sea, and Brienne. She had no specific goal in mind excerpt getting away from the house and from Mrs. Roelle. As she walked briskly through knee-high, sun-parched grass and climbed a stile which would lead her to a lane which led down to the sea, Brienne remembered a conversation she had overheard in the girls’ washroom in school some months earlier.
One girl had informed another that a magazine claimed women reached their peak physically at fifteen, and sexually at thirty-five. Brienne had hidden in her cubicle and rolled her eyes while the girls alternately primped over their reflections in the mirror – they were both the sort of girl one could easily picture in a tutu or spread-legged for some tortured painter genius – and squealed in mock horror at the very idea of sex or living as long as thirty-five.
So far as Brienne was concerned, they could keep their physical and sexual peaks. She was perfectly content to be able to climb over stiles and walk quickly over grass and shingle, and never consider flesh or legs or anything of that sort. Even if she could still feel the ghost of gooseflesh prickling on her sun-warmed arms at the memory of her hands cupping her breasts, her thighs rubbing together in her darkened bedroom.
|
The party came sooner than Harry would have liked. The days leading up to it were spent dodging Tom and trying not to close his eyes: he heard the crunch of a body thrown against a wall every time he did.
At the beginning, he hadn’t meant to avoid Tom. It had just sort of happened. Harry went to the hospital wing to get a headache potion after he awoke following Lestrange’s attack, and then had proceeded to coincidently miss Tom in every lesson. And then when he’d caught sight of him at dinner…
An ugly, bitter wave of betrayal rose within him. Huh. He thought he’d gotten over that. But in the cold light of day… without a concussion or the desperate shaking of his limbs to distract… wow. Tom had really been a dick.
Harry had trusted him — told him about the locket, despite the hungry, almost serpentine flashes that sometimes lit the Slytherin boy’s features — and Tom had told Lestrange about it; and sent him violently crashing after Harry. It had been reckless, and badly thought out, and cruel. It had been cruel.
But Harry knew that Tom probably didn’t understand ideas like that. Tom was half emotionally-dead, after all (you had to be, to become what he would become). He’d acknowledged that he’d made a mistake, and he’d apologised. It was actually a bit of a miracle — Tom Riddle apologising, and seeming genuinely repentant. Well, Harry knew he couldn’t ask for more.
It didn’t stop him wanting more.
He would forgive Tom eventually, of course, he would — Tom hadn’t meant any actual harm — but Harry knew it would take time. Time, and the reminder that Tom was a palatable human being, but perhaps that would come later. Everything felt a lot less complex without the sight of Tom, so Harry ended up… just sort of… not seeing him?
It didn’t stop Montgomery Lestrange from haunting Harry’s dreams. He couldn’t close his eyes without remembering his death and feeling the heavy, hot weight of guilt. Harry had thought he’d moved on from that, thought he’d put it behind him — but apparently those nagging stabs of nobility just wouldn’t let it go. They weren’t as sharp as they would have been a few months ago, Harry was sure of that, but they were still there.
Merlin, couldn’t he get a rest?
Oh. Tom blinked as he entered the Slytherin dorms and saw Harrison on the other side, staring into a mirror with a thoughtful frown. For a moment, he had forgotten the other boy was attending the party that evening, despite how hard Tom had fought to get him an invitation.
Harrison was clearly in the middle of getting ready, dressed in shimmering, well-cut, expensive dress robes that Tom remembered Orion wearing two years ago. Harrison had better be prepared for snide comments. Although, Tom considered with a tilt of his head, perhaps the gossipers would be distracted by other things. Harrison did look handsome, and the dress robes did all the right things to his shoulders and waist. Objectively, Harrison Peters was a beautiful young man and would surely attract attention.
Oh, this was going to be hilarious. Tom knew he’d wanted the boy at the Malfoy party for some reason.
There was just one thing…
“Your hair looks awful,” Tom said critically, stepping further into the dorm. “And you need to shine your shoes. Or maybe replace them.”
Harrison jumped, spinning around in an overdramatic whirl of stumbling feet and flailing arms. “W-what are you doing in here?”
“I live here,” Tom replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I know, I mean, I just—” Harrison stuttered, his cheeks flushing. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people! I swear I said this before…”
“Well, perhaps you should work on your peripheral vision, then. I made no attempt at artifice.”
Harrison huffed with something that could have been laughter. “You ’made no attempt at artifice’? Most people don’t step with all the impact of a kitten.”
Tom wasn’t sure he appreciated the comparison.
“And what’s wrong with my shoes, anyway?!” Harrison continued defensively.
“They’re your school shoes.”
“They’re comfy.”
“They have a hole in the heel.”
“They’re well ventilated.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Tom hid a reluctant smile, giving up. “At least fix your hair.”
“Trying to do anything with my hair is pointless. It’s unfixable.” Harrison shrugged, running a hand through the bird’s nest atop his head.
Tom winced. “If I could just maybe use some water and a comb—” Without realising it, Tom had stepped forward and raised his arms, as if to forcibly wrestle Harrison’s hair into some semblance of neatness. He froze, and let his arms fall. “Yes, well.” He coughed uncomfortably.
Harrison shifted from foot to foot, glancing at the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I am attending the party too. I require some time to prepare.”
“Ah, yeah.” A pause. “I’m pretty much done, so I’ll just get out of your hair.” Harrison turned to leave.
“Where are you going now?” Tom asked quickly.
“I’m flooing to the party. I’ll see you later.”
And Harrison exited, leaving Tom feeling more bewildered than he had in years.
Harry hated travelling by floo.
He stumbled out of the fireplace into Orion’s arms; his knees weaker than jelly.
“Woah!” Orion laughed, but held Harry up as he swayed dizzily. “Don’t throw up — I’m awful at cleaning spells.”
“I’m fine,” Harry mumbled. “I just really, really hate floo powder.”
“I love it,” Orion said cheerily. “It gets my blood pumping.”
“Weirdo,” Harry replied fondly, and patted Orion on the back once the room stopped spinning. “Hey, mate. It’s been a while.”
Orion shocked Harry by throwing his arms around him and enclosing him in a tight hug. “I missed you.”
“It’s only been a few days.” Harry laughed, squeezing him back. It felt like longer — in fact, Harry felt like almost a different person after the Lestrange attack.
“I’m still allowed to miss you,” Orion said earnestly. “You’re my first proper friend.”
“Sap,” Harry said, but a burst of warmth filled his chest. At least something good had come out of this trip to the past. Harry had always had Ron and Hermione; he didn’t know what he would’ve done without them. He was glad he could give Orion the same thing.
“So, this is the Malfoy Manor, huh?” Harry said, looking around a large, space with a tall ceiling, elegant panelling and luxurious wallpaper.
“This is just a floo lobby,” Orion dismissed. “The rest of the house is much more impressive.”
Harry thought it was pretty impressive already, but he didn’t want to start an argument this early on — he was sure there would be plenty more lavish extravagancies to disapprove of.
“Come on!” Orion declared, grabbing Harry by the wrist. “We’re rather early, but a few people have arrived. I think the Rosiers are here, and the Li’s, and perhaps the Babbages. Oh, and we can thank Abraxas for a wonderful evening before the masses arrive.”
“We don’t know if it’s going to be wonderful yet,” Harry said snidely, but allowed himself to be dragged down a corridor.
They soon came to a large open archway, the view inside restricted by a curtain of falling snow. Harry extended an arm cautiously, putting a hesitant hand underneath the snowfall. Immediately, his hand warmed up, the snowflakes melting into his skin like pinpricks of fire. Curious, Harry stepped through it; and each snowflake that fell onto his shoulders as he passed under felt like a tiny spark of warmth. It was peculiar and wonderful, and heated Harry up from the very inside.
The hall inside was certainly impressive; Orion hadn’t been lying. Harry could see the main doors on one side, lit up with millions of lanterns and what might have been actual fairies, through which the guests for the evening were arriving.
“We got the Hogwarts-regulated floo,” Orion muttered discretely. “There’s another one just outside.”
The rest of the décor was just as overwhelming. They had certainly taken the ‘snow’ theme and run with it, as giant crystalline structures hung from the ceiling; some appearing like oversized snowflakes, some appearing like huge dragons and various other creatures, swooping down upon the guests from great heights. The ceiling was enchanted to the same effect as in the Hogwarts Great Hall, but this ceiling was much more impressionistic: the stars turned into swirls of bright light and the sky a mix of purples and greens. Sumptuous fabrics tumbled from open windows in waves of velvets and silks, and the floor was a sparkling, polished marble.
“It’s beautiful,” Harry admitted.
Orion sighed happily. “I know.” He perked up, looking excited. “Let’s go and say hi to Abraxas!”
“Yes,” Harry said, wearing a falsely cheerful smile. “Let’s.”
It wasn’t difficult to find Abraxas, as his hair shone brightly under the lights, glistening like silver. Harry was very certain he’d put some kind of glitter in it. Abraxas wore gorgeous purple robes, and they swept past his knees and behind him in an elaborate bridal train.
“Abraxas!” Orion greeted enthusiastically.
“Orion,” Abraxas greeted politely, nodding his head. He turned to Harry, and his eyes got colder. “Peters.”
“Thanks for the invite. I was so surprised to receive one,” Harry said, a saccharine smile decorating his features.
“Well, Tom was very persuasive.”
“It’s so nice that you listen to your friends’ advice about your own party guests.”
“And it’s so nice to see that you’re into recycling,” Abraxas retorted with a petty glint in his eyes.
“What?”
“Well, Orion wore those robes to our party two years ago.” There was a little snarl to Abraxas’ lip that made Harry want to punch him.
“You can wear clothes more than once!” Orion piped up helpfully, looking like he was trying to be genuinely helpful.
“Yes,” Abraxas acknowledged patronisingly. “But it doesn’t often happen at a Malfoy Ball.”
Harry clenched his jaw. “Perhaps that says more about your guest list than my outfit.”
“Perhaps.”
It was then that Orion decided to engage Abraxas in a passionate discussion about the decorations, and Harry was lost once they got onto the topic of ceiling roses. He drifted away, letting his gaze trail lazily over the growing number of guests.
Oh — was that a familiar head of smooth, neatly arranged hair? Shit. Running into Tom earlier had thrown him off, and he really didn’t want it to happen again. Harry ducked away in the opposite direction and kept his chin tucked into his chest. He wondered how long he could keep this up.
Tom arrived at the party in a pair of well-transfigured robes, sparing little more than a considerate glance to the towering walls and polished sculptures. He’d quickly found himself pulled into Walburga and Druella’s conversation and had stayed to satisfy his own morbid fascination.
The two of them had dressed for the occasion: Walburga in a long, elegant red dress with beaded silver snowflake details over her right hip, and Druella in a shorter white number, strings of gold-tinted pearls strung amongst her wild hair.
“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Walburga asked, taking a sip from a glass.
“What’s odd?” Druella sighed, frowning at a wall of male-centric portraits.
“The way that Montgomery disappeared so suddenly.”
“Very odd,” Tom added, a sly kind of smirk settling itself on his lips. He peered around the hall subtly, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of Harrison. He’d been elusive these past few days — it was very out of character. Usually Harrison would join them and eye Tom oddly, whilst throwing in his passionate two sickles if anyone insulted Muggles or their offspring. Cassius was the one who slipped through meals and classes like a ghost.
“He went abroad, didn’t he? I didn’t think he’d ever expressed any interest!” Walburga pouted, like she was disappointed she’d missed out on the gossip.
“He called foreigners filthy, once,” Druella pointed out cynically. “I find it hard to believe he’d go to meet more.”
“If Lestrange decided to avoid everyone he deemed unsuitable or ‘filthy’, he might as well crawl into an early grave,” Tom said with hidden amusement. “And perhaps he’s decided that it’s not worth possibly throwing away a possible cure for his petty intolerances.”
“That’s the thing — he’s never indicated that he wants to cure his illness before. He just sort of spits about it.”
Tom had the urge to correct the conversation to past tense but thought it would be a little on the nose.
Walburga nodded her head enthusiastically in reply to Druella, fluttering a fan with her other hand. “Yes,” she agreed, swallowing. “He once told me his madness helped him to sniff out impure blood. Like it was some sort of sensor spell.”
Druella looked thoughtful. “He really is crazy.”
“In the politest and most politically correct way possible,” Walburga said quickly.
There was a new arrival at their gathering.
“So, Lestrange turned into a fucking globetrotter!” Rupert declared, sidling into place next to Tom.
Tom didn’t look towards him. “That’s what we were just discussing,” he said curtly.
“In a less crude manner, of course.” Walburga smiled sweetly.
“Who’d have guessed it, huh? Lestrange got out before all of us.” Rupert slung an arm over Tom’s shoulder, removing it quickly when Tom raised an eyebrow at him. “Although Peters might be next, with all that hiding in bathrooms and gazing at the sky he’s been doing. And he’s back to avoiding you! I saw him heading in the opposite direction just now.” He crowed triumphantly at Tom.
“We just haven’t seen a lot of each other,” Tom sad coolly. “He merely seems emotionally distressed. Perhaps he misses Montgomery.”
Everyone burst into laughter.
“Ha… ha!” Druella doubled over, clutching at her stomach as her shoulders shook.
“No one misses Lestrange.” Dolohov sniggered.
Walburga looked as if she might try a weak rebuttal, but gave up.
Tom smiled in satisfaction. He didn’t know what Harrison was sulking about. Clearly the world was better off without Montgomery Lestrange in it.
“How are you?”
The soft voice behind him barely made Harry flinch. “Hello, Cassius.” He sighed, turning to face his classmate remarkably. “That was a weirdly normal greeting.”
Of course, he shouldn’t be surprised that Cassius found him out here, even if it took Harry accidentally falling through an unlocked door to stumble upon it. The little garden behind the door had been quiet, modest, and beautiful; and Harry had quickly found himself a seat. At least Riddle wouldn’t find him out here, and it was a welcome respite from the party.
“I thought I’d try something new,” Cassius said vaguely. He joined Harry in staring out onto the courtyard, sitting next to him on the bench. “I can’t say the same for you. Still wallowing in guilt, I see.”
“I’m not wallowing,” Harry said hotly. He bit his lip uncertainly. “…Just reflecting.”
Cassius rolled his eyes. “You do too much of that.”
Merlin, it was like Hermione had joined him in the 1940s. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck tenderly. It was still twinging from the Montgomery attack, but not nearly as painful as before.
“How’s your head?” Cassius asked him.
“It’s fine. I went to the hospital wing, and the Matron said I was okay.”
Suddenly, Cassius burst out laughing.
Harry blinked in shock and flinched, inching back away from the boy on the bench. “What’s so funny?”
“You told Hallpepper that you slipped in the shower?” Cassius giggled. “Only you, Potter.”
Harry turned red, both from the shock of hearing his real second name and from embarrassment. “It was the first excuse I could think of!” He spluttered. “I didn’t tell you about that, anyway.”
“You didn’t need to,” Cassius said, smiling enigmatically.
How irritating. Harry sat up as he spotted a dark head of hair in a distant window. He relaxed as the head turned, revealing a sharp profile and a hawkish nose. It wasn’t Tom.
Cassius, as usual, missed very little. He raised his eyebrow curiously. “Now, why are you avoiding Tom?”
“Can’t you just ‘psychic’ the answers?” Harry said bitterly, hunching his shoulders.
“I don’t know everything — that’s not how it works. But I can certainly guess.” Cassius looked like he was having far too much fun. “Anger? Fear? Guilt? Gratitude? All of them?” Cassius guessed, scanning Harry’s face.
Harry set his jaw stubbornly. “You’re talking nonsense.”
Cassius gave a coy, small smile. “You’re angry because he betrayed you; scared because he killed someone; guilty because he killed them for you… and grateful that he did it.” Cassius threw back his head in delight. “Gods, nothing was this interesting until you came along!”
“Someone died so you could be ‘interested’.” Harry snarled.
“Someone died because Tom got possessive,” Cassius dismissed. “I had very little to do with it. I just watched it all unfold.”
Harry made a noise in the back of his throat disgustedly. “You watched? Why didn’t you do something? Why didn’t you stop him?” Harry didn’t even know if he was referring to Lestrange or Tom anymore.
“Why didn’t you? Tom wouldn’t have killed Lestrange if you said something,” Cassius countered, with absolute certainty.
“I was slightly distracted,” Harry spat back.
“Or maybe you just didn’t want to stop Tom. Lestrange was an objectively terrible person, no matter how wonderfully unpredictable. Killing him saved lives.”
Harry turned away, feeling sickened to the pit of his stomach. “Riddle betrayed me,” he mumbled finally, furiously.
“He did,” Cassius agreed. “And he’d probably do it again. He didn’t mean for you to get hurt though — it’s incredible, he’d never have felt guilty before. You’ve changed everything.” The glee in Cassius’ voice was palpable.
“Glad I bring out Riddle’s soft side,” Harry said acidly, doubting Tom even had a soft side.
“Not yet — but you will. I’m rooting for you two.”
Harry got to his feet, feeling even more conflicted than before. “Well, I’d love to stay and swap cryptic remarks with you, but I have a godawful party to get back to.”
“I’m not cryptic; I’m being perfectly candid.”
“Right,” Harry agreed blankly, and turned away.
“It takes two to tango!” Cassius called after him.
“That makes no sense!”
“Hey!” Orion called as Harry re-entered the hall, and his voice was slurred. “Y’ came back!”
“'Course, I did,” Harry said, supporting Orion as he tipped forwards a bit. “Are you drunk?”
“Jus’ a bit.” Orion giggled. “Druella kept handing me glasses.”
“She did, did she? Let’s go and find her.”
Harry silently cursed as he dragged his inebriated friend across the hall. What was Druella thinking, letting Orion get drunk at — Harry checked a nearby clock — nearly 9:30? It was that late already? Harry must’ve spent longer in the garden than he thought. Harry threw Orion a guilty look that he was too drunk to comprehend. “Sorry, mate.”
“It’s all okay,” Orion assured him seriously. “I forgive you, even if you’re weird and say weird things. ‘Cause you’re my friend.”
“Brilliant,” Harry replied absently, catching a glimpse of extravagant red that was sure to signal Walburga, which meant Druella had to close by. “Come on.”
Harry dragged Orion past solemn-looking witches and wizards who paid them no notice, acting as if the presence of a drunk teenager was a common occurrence at these sorts of things. It probably was. Harry must have muttered “excuse me” a dozen times before he reached the girls.
“What have you done?” he asked, letting Orion sink into a nearby chair, giggling. “He’s off his head!”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Walburga chided, barely looking at her drunk cousin. “He just had a few glasses of wine.”
“Besides,” Druella added, “He needed to loosen up. He got all worried when he couldn’t find you.”
Harry sent another guilty look towards Orion, who gave him a thumbs up.
Druella rolled her eyes. “It’s all fine. Orion’s not a bad drunk. He just sort of… gets even happier and compliments Walburga.”
“Walburga’s the best,” Orion agreed dreamily.
“Thank you, darling. Here, have another sip,” Walburga cooed, and pushed her glass into Orion’s hand.
“Is that a good idea?”
Druella raised an eyebrow in Harry’s direction and gestured towards Orion, who was enthusiastically taking great gulps of alcohol. “Do you really want him to come down from his high now? We’ve got to keep him peppy.”
Harry bit his lip uncertainly. “Just… just—make sure he doesn’t do anything he’ll regret.”
Walburga let out an offended gasp. “I’d never let Orion embarrass himself — it would be most unkind. Not to mention the scandal that the Black family would face.”
“He’ll just compliment people until he feels sleepy,” Druella said, prising the glass from Orion’s hands. “I reckon he’ll last ‘til midnight.”
“1 in the morning,” Walburga challenged.
Druella smirked. “Whoever’s right gets to use the shower first in the morning?”
“Deal.”
“Oh, you’re going down.”
“We’ll see.”
“I just feel so happy.” Orion sighed, and fell off his chair.
Tom spotted Harrison across the hall. At first, he wasn’t sure if it really was Peters, but then he saw Walburga and Druella next to him; all three of them had gathered around a drunken Orion. Orion always seemed to get drunk at events like this, but it didn’t usually happen so soon.
Tom crossed the floor quickly, weaving around dancing couples. He didn’t want Harrison to get the chance to notice him, lest he jumped onto a chandelier, or did something else ridiculous, to avoid Tom. Luckily, Tom reached the group without catching anyone’s notice. He tapped Harrison on the shoulder, his classmate turning around in what seemed like slow motion, and somehow the first words out of Tom’s mouth were:
“May I have this dance?”
Tom didn’t know why he said it — perhaps he’d realised that, otherwise, he didn’t actually have a reason to interact with Harrison — he was just bored with Harrison ignoring him. However, the more Tom thought about it, the more he liked the idea of a dance. It would be private, difficult to refuse — and quite possibly hilarious, from the panicked look on Harrison’s face.
“Of course, you can,” Druella answered easily, placing a hand between Harrison’s shoulder blades and pushing him forwards.
“But Orion—” Harrison protested weakly, digging his heels in.
“He’s drunk, not dying. Dance with Riddle before he cries.”
Tom was certain that he had never cried in his life, but Druella also looked a little tipsy, so there was little point in arguing. Anyway, her attempt at persuasive was successful: Harrison reluctantly took Tom’s outstretched hand and let Tom lead him away.
But before they could take another step, Harrison stopped and said stiffly: “Tom?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t dance.”
“Surely you must have some experience,” Tom said doubtfully.
“I mean, we all did some lessons for this ball thing about a year ago, but—”
“Don’t worry,” Tom assured him with a self-satisfied smile. “I’ll lead.”
“Like hell you will—!”
But before Harrison could protest further, Tom pulled him into the midst of the dancing couple, and they fell into hold. The music was slow and floaty, and the pair found themselves settling into a loose kind of waltz. Harrison was nearly as terrible at dancing as he had pretended. He wasn’t good, but he knew enough not to bruise Tom’s feet, which was more than could be said for many of his past dance partners. There was still a fight between them, though: Tom would lead in one direction, and then Harrison would abruptly change it, leaving Tom to stumble slightly as he adjusted.
They were not the only men dancing with each other, but their pairing was unusual enough to provoke curious glances from the other dancers, and both Harrison and Tom took great delight in sweeping close to the nosy pairs, leaving them to yelp and lurch backwards.
They danced mostly in silence for the first song, and Harrison would send Tom dirty looks when he thought the other boy wasn’t looking. It was delightfully aggressive.
However, finally, Tom grew frustrated with the silence. For some reason, Harrison was one of the only people whom Tom minded silence from. The idea of the boy never talking to him again, of never engaging in another carefully worded argument, or another moment of halfblood camaraderie, or another moment of shared exasperation was… unpleasant.
So, Tom tried for an outside spin, stepping elegantly into the waltz move. Harrison tripped over his robes, but Tom supported him enough that Harrison finished the move, and they returned to their stilted progression across the dance floor.
“Could’ve warned me…” Harrison muttered.
“But then it wouldn’t have been so much fun,” Tom said pleasantly, extending his right leg and leaning back. Harrison followed naturally.
“Sadist.”
“You’ve been ignoring me,” Tom said abruptly, and the immediate tensed muscles and panicked expression on Harrison made him feel much more at home. Best of all, how could Harrison escape whilst they were on the dance floor? “I can’t help but wonder why?”
“Ignoring you?” Harrison chuckled falsely, as they fell into another outside spin. This time, Harrison didn’t trip. “I wouldn’t do that—”
“I have seen neither hide nor hair of you, other than earlier in the dorm. Not since our… little moment.”
There was a lengthy silence, and Tom got the unpleasant feeling that he’d done something wrong. Harrison’s step quickened.
“What did you say?” Harrison asked lowly, narrowing his eyes.
Ah, well. In for a sickle, in for a galleon. “Since our little moment, you’ve been—”
“Our little moment!?” Harrison exploded, pulling Tom into a new direction sharply. “You killed someone!”
“He would have killed you,” Tom said calmly, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. Luckily, the music had risen to a sudden crescendo and Harrison’s outburst appeared to have been masked.
“You took a life!” Harrison hissed, panting heavily. This had clearly been building within him for the last few days. “I let you take a life.”
“You were unconscious. Hardly in a position to—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter about what?”
“It doesn’t matter if I was unconscious or not. You killed someone, and I didn’t stop you. And then I didn’t do anything, and there’s no way I will now, but I can’t stop thinking about everything—” Harrison was getting steadily more panicked by the moment, and as curious as Tom was to see how long he would continue for, he stopped Harrison mid-ramble.
“I’m uncertain as to why you’re so upset.”
“Why I’m upset?!” Harrison repeated, with more incredulity than Tom thought his remark deserved. “Merlin, Tom, I’m feeling guilty!”
They narrowly avoided colliding with an elderly couple, and the lady cursed at them in French as she was twirled away.
“Guilty…?” Tom said slowly. “To my understanding, guilt is triggered by one’s actions. You did nothing. You were, in fact, the victim in this particular situation—”
“Don’t remind me.”
Tom scanned Harrison’s face; the scarred, elegant facial features twisted into some sort of angered façade, and his rigid, fixed grip on Tom’s hand and back. Tom pursed his lips. “You’re angry at me, too.”
“Yes,” Harrison bit out, his body language closing off.
“I was under the impression that you’d forgiven me.”
“Forgiven you?” Harrison seemed to be doing little in this conversation other than repeat parts of Tom’s phrases. “Of course, I haven’t forgiven you. I just decided that you deserved a proper introduction and to be called by your first name. I never really gave you a chance, did I? I sort of hated you from the start.”
Tom was confused. That had sounded like an admittance. “So, you haven’t forgiven me.”
“No.”
“I killed Lestrange to protect you,” Tom offered. Tom was fairly certain he would have killed Lestrange either way — he had been an unpredictable danger to the school, but perhaps highlighting the danger to his personal being would make Harrison feel better…
“Maybe, I could believe that.” Harrison snorted, oddly bitter. “If you weren’t you.”
Evidently not.
Time to try again. “I will admit,” Tom said slowly, trying to calculate how honest he should be, “that I encounter difficulties when empathising with your guilt.”
Harrison’s lips upturned. “You don’t say.”
“And I am… uncertain of what I should be doing to gain your forgiveness. I saved your life.”
“After you endangered it.”
The music was faster and sharper now, and Harrison and Tom’s movements reflected it.
“That was incidental.”
Harrison rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. You didn’t mean for it to go so far, and you apologised. We can put the betrayal thing behind us, maybe.” He set his jaw. “But you killed someone, Tom. Lestrange may have been an awful person, but he was still a person. Do you even regret killing him, at all?”
“I regret my hastiness. It was sloppy.”
“Well, that’s something at least.”
Perhaps he should try the emotional angle. “I also regret causing you guilt. It wasn’t my intention.”
“I know.” Harrison looked conflicted, as he and Tom stepped swiftly to a quick drum beat. Finally Harrison relaxed, his grip on Tom loosening. “Just give it time, Tom. I need time to… fix everything that’s going on in my head.”
That was better than a no. In fact, Harrison was implying that forgiveness would be near on the horizon. Tom hid his satisfied smile (suspecting it wouldn’t go down well), and refocused on the music and their surroundings. Harrison was more relaxed too, and perhaps even wore a slight smile.
Tom searched for conversation material.
“That,” Tom pointed out a nearby couple subtly, as Harrison and Tom danced closer, “Is Minister Spencer-Moon. Rumour is that he’s rather close with the Muggle Prime Minister.” Tom raised his eyebrows suggestively.
“No.” Harrison scoffed in disbelief, craning his head to get a better look as they spun past them. “Who’s he dancing with?”
“His wife.”
Harrison hid a laugh.
“He worked his way up the Ministry stepladder from a mere tea-boy to Minister for Magic. He’d been quite the success story. A halfblood, too.” Tom peered around the room for other sources of scandal. “And over there is Vice-Minister Payton. He’s rumoured to be a dark lord supporter, and his outdated connections have led to a call for replacement.” Tom spotted a familiar face. “And that is Dorian Mulciber: a year out of Hogwarts, who achieved one of the highest NEWTs results for Charms ever seen.”
Mulciber was actually looking over at Tom and Harry, probably wondering why Tom was dancing with a stranger, or perhaps guessing how much money Harrison would inherit.
“Was he one of your sycophants?” Harrison asked drily. “He looks sickeningly adoring.”
“We do exchange regular letters,” Tom admitted. Mulciber had shares in Bubble’s Potion’s Emporium, every pawn shop in Knockturn Alley, and was steadily climbing in the Auror ranks. He was useful.
“Who’s that woman dancing with him?” Harrison squinted at Mulciber’s dance partner oddly.
“Sofia Dolohov. She’s Rupert’s mother.”
“…I recognise her. She was his boggart.”
“Mmm. Whenever they interact socially, he likes to drink and pretend they don’t know each other. It’s probably the root of his serial dating.”
“That’s so sad.”
Tom kept Harrison entertained with gossip; and by the end of another dance, Harrison was laughing freely. As the music came to a swelling crescendo, Tom leaned forwards, pulling Harrison down with him.
But Harrison stepped out of his grip, and the music finished with a quiet violin pluck.
“You’re not dipping me,” Harrison said with a laugh. “We’re not at that point.”
“Not yet,” Tom replied with a small smile.
Harrison snorted, and put his hands in the pocket of his dress robes. “Well, thanks for the dance, anyway. I’d better go and check on Orion.”
And then Harrison walked away, and Tom stared after him for a moment. That had gone surprisingly well. He turned, and set off to find another partner.
Harry found Orion in a corner, nursing a goblet and watching Walburga and Druella sway together on the dance floor. It looked awfully intimate.
“They’re so beautiful together.” Orion sighed as Harry joined him, sliding the goblet out of Orion’s grip and taking a swig.
“But aren’t you upset? They seem pretty close,” Harry asked, seeing the genuine contentment on Orion’s face as Druella and Walburga danced.
“I just want Burga to be happy,” Orion slurred. “And she’s happy with Ella. Happy, happy, happy.” He pouted. “She won’t be happy when she’s married. She thinks she will, but she won’t.” Orion brightened. “Maybe Ella should go to Romania too!”
“I don’t think that’ll happen.”
“Maybe not.”
Orion and Harry watched the girls for a moment.
“Don’t they look happy?” Orion said quietly, and Harry had to agree. For once, Walburga had slumped from her perfect posture, and Druella had kicked off her heels so she was the same height as her partner. They both wore soft, kind smiles. Druella leaned forwards to whisper something in Walburga’s ear, and Walburga shrieked with laughter — not the soft, demure giggle she often gave, but a full, loud, delighted cackle.
“Were you happy dancing with Tom?” Orion murmured. “I want all of my friends to be happy.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, considering. “Yeah, I think I was. Eventually.” After the awkwardness, he’d actually enjoyed himself. Tom was a wealth of information about everything, and his stream of witty observations were endless.
“That’s nice. That’s very nice.” Orion yawned, rolling his head back. Suddenly, Harry heard him go: “oooo” and raise a shaky hand to point at the ceiling.
Harry followed Orion’s finger and glanced up. Orion was pointing at a sprig of mistletoe nestled in the high rafter, just above where Harry was sitting. Where Harry was sitting next to Orion.
Harry glanced back to Orion, falling back in shock when he saw that Orion was puckering his lips.
“No way,” Harry said firmly. “I’m not snogging my drunk friend.”
“But it’s tradition,” Orion whined, his bottom lip trembling. “We have to.”
“We don’t have to do anything, and certainly not anything involving lips and contact.”
Orion looked disappointed, but didn’t push it. Harry saw him glance towards Walburga and Druella with a thoughtful look. “We could try and get Walburga and Druella to stand underneath it, and then they could kiss and be happy—”
“That’s just cruel.”
Orion’s alcohol-clouded brain didn’t seem to be able to keep up. “Huh?”
“Walburga will be married in the summer, and then she’ll be in Romania.”
“So they could be happy before she goes,” Orion insisted.
“You can’t just… give her something like love and then take it away like that. I mean, I don’t agree with this arranged marriage thing — but she’s going to have to carry through with it, isn’t she? She shouldn’t have to live with the memory of being happy, knowing it won’t happen again. And Druella shouldn’t have to watch her fly away, knowing they’ll never be together. She would never be able to live, knowing that was out there.”
Perhaps, Harry thought, the brief sips of wine he’d been taking him throughout the evening were affecting him more than he thought. How else would he explain that unusually-profound empathy?
Orion seemed to have found it moving though, as he gazed up at Harry with the twinkle of tears in his eyes. “That was so beautiful,” he whispered.
“And you’re so drunk.” Harry rolled his eyes.
They lasted until midnight, until Harry got tired of Orion slumping against his robes and drooling, and honestly had to fight to keep his own eyes open. Orion had mumbled, “Leh’s guh back to Hugwurts,” and Harry agreed. He hauled Orion out of the haul, nodding briefly to Tom who was talking passionately with the Minister. And then it was just a quick floo journey back to Dumbledore’s office, a painful shuffle towards the Slytherin dorms, and Orion and Harry collapsed into their respective beds, fully closed, before drifting quickly into a deep and heavy sleep.
Christmas Eve was dull. Harry spent most of it hungover and bored, playing obscure wizarding card games with Orion. The most exciting part of the day was when Orion received his letter of confirmation from the Ministry, saying that his ward had been picked up for production. Orion had excitedly declared it the ‘best Christmas Eve Ever’, and said that he was glad he could spend it with Harry.
It was at that point that Harry remembered that Orion had said he would be at home for Christmas. It was also at that point that Harry learnt that Rigel’s condition had worsened suddenly in the last few days, and Orion’s little brother would be spending Christmas in hospital.
“And so it wouldn’t be helpful for me to be at home right now,” Orion said robotically, and proceeded to get extremely drunk at the Hufflepuff Christmas party.
This time, Harry watched Orion’s drunken antics with a degree of sorrow, and hoped that Rigel would pull through. He had to, for Orion.
The sun rose on Christmas Day, and the grounds were blanketed with snow. Frost danced along the Great Lake, sending shards of light glinting and spinning over the blue-black ice. The grass was sharp and encrusted with frozen dew, and the sky shone with white-cold daylight glow, scattered with clouds.
Harry groaned as he opened his eyes. He shifted, and kicked something at the foot of his bed. Harry blinked and yawned, pushing himself up on one elbow and settled his bleary gaze upon a small pile of parcels at the end of his bed. Parcels… Presents… for him? His eyes widened, his heart leapt, and it was like first year all over again. Harry hadn’t expected to receive any gifts — after all, he’d only been in this time-period for — what? — five, six months? The Dursleys had known him for fourteen years, and he’d never gotten more than 50p from them.
“Orion,” Harry hissed, trying not to wake Atticus, Grahams or Tom.
Orion replied with a mumbled sigh that may have translated to something like ‘how can I help?’
“Orion, I have presents!”
At the mention of presents, Orion sat straight up in bed, looking wide awake with a huge smile on his face. “Well, of course you do!”
Harry took a moment to drink in the sight of the colourful little packages, just for him. “…Can I open them?”
Orion threw off his duvet, leaping across the room to sit on Harry’s bed. “What else would you do?! My present for you is under my bed, but you have to leave it for last.”
Permission gained, Harry set to work on the presents. The first gift was from Walburga: an elegant quill with royal blue feathers and a golden nib. Harry knew as soon as he saw it that it would be broken within the week, and took a vow to make the most of it. From Druella, he received a book on ‘The Origins of Feminism in Witchcraft’, which promised to be a thrilling read on the historical oppression of women. Harry suspected that Druella had taken ‘buy for others what you would want to receive’ to heart.
From Dolohov, he received a packet of cherry-flavoured sweets, shaped like penises.
“He buys them for everyone, every year,” Orion explained, chewing on one of the sweets from his own gift. “At least you didn’t get a box of condoms. That means he likes you.”
“Great.”
Harry also received a cracked mirror from Cassius, along with a note that read ‘stop’ in his small, cursive handwriting. He didn’t know whatever the hell that meant, and decided not to waste too much time on it.
“Oo, me now!” Orion said, clapping his hands and bouncing. He scurried back to his bed and knelt on the floor, dragging a package out from beneath the bedframe. It was long, and thin at one end, and looked very familiar.
Harry felt his heart both rise and fall at the same time.
“Oh, Orion,” Harry breathed, barely above a whisper.
Orion dropped the gift onto the bed with a delighted grin, and a command. “Open it!”
Hands trembling, Harry peeled back the wrapping paper to reveal polished wood, a dark handle, and glossy, well-groomed bristles. It was a state-of-the-art, bloody expensive, bloody magnificent broomstick.
“It’s gorgeous,” Harry said, choked with emotion. “I love it.”
“I remembered you mentioned that you loved flying,” Orion said sheepishly. “But I’ve never seen you with a broomstick. I thought it might have been destroyed when your house… y’know. I know you don’t have a lot.”
Orion barely finished his sentence before Harry wrapped him in a tight, squeezing hug. “Thank you,” Harry said shakily into Orion’s shoulder, and tried not to cry. He hadn’t realised how much he missed flying on his own broomstick, just him and the open air, and nothing else to think about. Orion had given that back to him.
“I haven’t gotten you anything,” Harry fretted, pulling back.
“That’s okay.” Orion shrugged. “You said you wouldn’t, and seeing you happy is a bit like a present, isn’t it?”
“No, I need to do something for you. You pick. Seriously, I’ll do anything.”
“Well…” Orion hesitated.
“Yeah?”
“Would you teach me the patronus?” Orion said quickly. “It’s just, I’ve always wanted to see what mine was, but it’s not on the curriculum, and you did one at the end of that duel and it was so cool—”
“Of course.”
“What?”
“Of course, I’ll teach you the patronus, mate. You got me a bloody broomstick!”
Orion cried out in delight, and enfolded Harry into another hug.
“Will you two shut the hell up?”
Harry and Orion looked over at Atticus’ bed, where said boy looked murderous in his sleepiness; red-ringed eyes glaring at them.
“I. Am. Very. Hung. Over,” Atticus punctuated hoarsely. “Stop squealing.” And then he buried his head back into his pillow.
“I didn’t get presents for anyone else.” Harry frowned, looking down at his pile of goodies. “And I forgot to tell them not to get me anything…”
“No one will mind,” Orion assured him cheerily. “Plenty of people don’t give gifts! Tom hasn’t ever given anyone a Christmas gift, I don’t think.”
Harry glanced over at Tom who was somehow still sleeping, his hair looking perfect even deep in slumber.
“If you’re sure,” Harry said doubtfully.
“Of course, I am. Christmas day isn’t for getting jealous or worrying — just enjoy yourself.”
From the bright light in Orion’s eyes, he seemed determined to forget anything had ever been wrong. As unhealthy as that seemed, it also sounded really nice, and so Harry decided to join him.
Christmas day was a lot of fun. Harry and Orion ate until they could burst, sang loudly at a bemused Tom, and Harry took his new broomstick out for a test drive.
Christmas dinner brought crackers and hats, and some truly dreadful puns about cauldrons and winter. By the end of the day, Harry had laughed more than he thought he ever could, and had eaten more turkey than he thought physically possible. When he crawled into bed at the end of the day, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit grateful for where he’d ended up, despite the guilt pressed deep into his stomach.
|
When Steve wakes up the next morning, he brushes his teeth before heading to the kitchen in search of coffee and to see if Peter is awake. But Peter’s bedroom door is wide open, his bed neatly made, and his shoes and jacket missing. Steve finds Tony sitting at the breakfast bar, dressed in an immaculate suit with his hair slicked back while he reads the news on his StarkPad and drinks an espresso.
“Hey Tony, where is Peter?” Steve asks the sleepy looking man.
“Huh?”
“Where is Peter? It’s 7.30am, what could he possibly have to have left the house for at 7.30am on a Monday morning?” Steve snorts incredulously.
“School, duh.” Tony replies distractedly.
“His uni classes start at 7.30am on a Monday morning?”
Tony looks perplexed before he bursts into laughter, “of course not, Petey’s still in High School; he’s 17.”
Steve blinks once, and then again, “17?” he whispers.
“Yup, I know he looks a little old for his age but last time I checked he is definitely still in High School. Unless his version of fun is standing outside the same one every Friday at 3.30 with a backpack and waiting for me to pick him up,” Tony smirks, an amused look in his eyes, “Why’d you ask, anyway?”
Steve panics for a moment. Last night he almost kissed a 17-year-old, and as much as he trusts Tony he really doesn’t think the man would be one thousand percent on board with that. He swallows guiltily before responding with, “oh, I was just curious. Did your meeting with Pepper go okay yesterday? How come you were back so late?”
“Oh, we uh, we went out for dinner afterwards. The meeting went incredibly well,” Tony smiles, looking lost in his own thoughts.
Steve grabs a protein shake out of the fridge and then says over his shoulder, “I’ll be in the gym if you need me!” before heading off to punch out some of his frustrations.
***
“Peter? Peter!”
Peter cringes when he hears Ned’s loud voice calling him. He speeds up his walk, but in the busy hallway he ends up having to grind to a halt and Ned catches up with him.
“Why are you avoiding me, dude? I haven’t seen you, like, all day and we share two classes!”
“I’ve uh, just been in a big rush?” He stutters, knowing that it’s a terrible excuse and that Ned really isn’t the cause of any of his problems.
“Sure, a big rush,” he responds, making air quotes around “big rush”, “more like you don’t want to explain why you were out on the town with a hot dude and tried to pretend that you used to babysit me?”
Peter blushes furiously before mumbling quietly, “he doesn’t know my real age. His name is Steve and he’s a friend of Tony’s, he’s 31 and actually talks to me like a real, intelligent human being instead of some dumb teenager and I want it to stay that way!”
Ned blinks repeatedly, eyes wide as he processes everything that Peter just said. Peter is having a hard time himself believing he said all that; it’s not like Steve would ever even be interested in him anyway so why did he feel the need to act like there might be a chance for him? He supposed that, even though nothing will ever happen, he still wants to be Steve’s friend, not just Steve’s friend’s protégé.
Peter isn’t staying at Tony’s again until Friday, and spends the next four days daydreaming about Steve and panicking about the whole lying about his age thing. Ned has been surprisingly cool about it all: after giving Peter an unnecessary - and completely unwanted - speech about safe sex and the dangers of older men: he had wheedled away at Peter’s sanity until he had been forced to tell him all about Steve. For a straight guy, Ned sure is interested in Steve’s incredible abs.
Or maybe he’s just humouring Peter whilst he pines over Steve in biology, but Peter chooses to believe he’s genuinely interested. Abs like that deserve genuine interest.
***
He hurries out of school on Friday, excited to be heading off to Tony’s workshop straight away. He’s chatting to Ned about possibly meeting at his tomorrow to build the newest Lego Star Wars kit and absentmindedly glancing around the parking lot for Happy’s car, when he spots Steve leaning against a gleaming motorcycle in the parking bay. He feels his heart rate spike in excitement before he remembers that he told Steve that he was a uni student, at which it increases even more and his palms become incredibly sweaty.
He briefly considers telling Steve that he’s picking Ned up from school and walking him home as part of his babysitting duties but Ned is so obviously not a little kid anymore, and the look on Steve’s face makes him think that it would be better to just… not.
“Ned?” he mumbles, tugging at the other boy’s sleeve, “Ned, Steve is over there. I repeat, Tony’s sexy housemate who thinks I’m in College is parked up over there,”
He stupidly does not express to Ned to importance of
not looking round
, assuming that Ned would just understand general social etiquette and not do that. Clearly he was mistaken, because Ned’s first reaction is to whip around in front of the school gates, looking left and right until his gaze settles on Steve. Peter wants to die.
“Thanks Ned,” he mutters bitterly, “That was really subtle.”
Ned ignores him in favour of totally checking Steve out, to the extent that Peter has to covertly step on his foot when even Steve is beginning to look a little creeped out. For a supposedly straight guy Ned sure does seem to appreciate Steve’s sharp jawline and sexily tousled hair, the way his jacket hangs off his broad shoulders and—
“
That’s
who you’ve been flirting with?” Ned chokes out, looking Peter up and down doubtfully.
“Uh, yes?” He responds, locking eyes with Steve and smiling awkwardly, “Ned, I’ve gotta go.”
“I’d say use protection, but I’m not gonna, get pregnant and bag him for life,” Ned claps him on the back.
“Ned! We’re both dudes? What? No, shut up,” Peter exclaims, walking away from his friend and shooting him a weird look over his shoulder. Ned really needs to get out more, Peter thinks. Totally unlike himself, of course.
Steve watches Peter as he gets closer and Peter feels himself blush under the scrutiny. He resists the urge to rub the back of his neck and, when he’s standing in front of the older man, he moves his backpack further over his shoulder and shifts uncomfortably. He never explicitly lied to Steve, but the way the man is looking at him now you’d think Peter had kicked a puppy right in front of him.
“Uh, Hi?” he stutters, feeling as if he really had kicked a puppy.
“So, biochem, huh?” responds Steve, trying to hide a smirk.
“I really do want to study biochem at Empire State, just... not quite yet?” he responds, scuffing his toe against the ground and blushing furiously.
Steve sighs and rubs a hand across his face resignedly, levelling Peter with a look he can’t place. Peter is aware of several students checking out Steve’s motorbike enviously - even more of them checking out Steve himself - and shuffles half a step closer to the man.
“Is, um, is Happy coming?” He asks awkwardly, eyeing up the intimidating bike behind Steve.
“Nope, figured you might wanna go and get some pizza?” Now Steve seems to be awkward one, but Peter is too busy hiding a smile to notice that. Steve found out where he goes to school, showed up at the end of the day and offered to take him out for pizza even though Peter (technically) lied to him. That must mean he likes him, right?
Unless Steve is just being friendly. God, Peter is so confused. He needs MJ to tell him what’s going on, but at the same time he’s not sure telling anyone else would be such a good idea.
“I live for pizza, so, um, I’d love to? But how are we getting there?” he asks, looking nervously at the bike.
Steve pats his bike gently, “figured you might enjoy a ride on this thing,” he grins at Peter and Peter feels his heart stop. Steve’s whole face lights up when he smiles, and it’s impossible to feel awkward around him when he looks like that. He looks at the bike again and imagines getting to wrap his arms around Steve’s muscled chest.
Tony would kill him if he knew.
Correction, Tony will kill him
when
he finds out, because he’s Tony Stark and there’s no doubt in Peter’s mind that he
will
find out about this.
Peter makes a split second decision, and decides that he really doesn’t care. “Uh, hell yeah I wanna go on a motorcycle with yo--, um, I mean, yeah, bikes. Cool,” He wasn’t sure before if it was scientifically possible to blush any harder but, it turns out, it is. Steve doesn’t seem to mind though; he’s watching him with a slightly amused expression as though Peter’s dorkiness is something endearing.
“Let me guess, you’ve never been on one of these before?” Steve picks up a spare helmet hanging from his handlebars and, with a single finger under the strap, holds it out to Peter. He has a smirk on his face like this may be the one thing he’s certain about, and whilst that threatens to have Peter’s dick pressing into Steve’s back the whole journey home it also makes him feel a lot safer about getting on a motorbike with the man.
“Is it that obvious?” Peter grins self deprecatingly, struggling with the buckle of the helmet as Steve seems to fix his in place no problem. Steve must see him struggling, and he rolls his eyes good naturedly as he takes the helmet from Peter’s hands. Peter’s breath catches in his throat as Steve steps closer to him— and they’re so close now that Peter can smell Steve’s cologne, and the musky smell underneath that and, yep, it’s going to be really awkward to hide his boner now.
“Don’t worry about it,” Steve murmurs in a low voice, fingers pressing gently under Peter’s chin and tilting his head up. He fiddles with the straps of the helmet, fingers brushing Peter’s cheek every so often, until there’s a clicking noise and the helmet seems to stay in place.
“There,” Steve hums, eyes flitting momentarily - so briefly that Peter thinks he must have imagined it - to Peter’s lips. “All done,” he smiles, and Peter feels a little wobbly on his feet all of a sudden.
Then he’s stepping away so suddenly and unexpectedly that Peter whimpers a little and is left blinking in the familiar highschool parking lot.
Peters not sure if anything will ever compare to the feeling of wrapping his arms around Steve, and the vibrations of the bike travelling through their bodies as Steve starts the engine, which subsequently sends a jolt of pleasure straight to his crotch.
No, no, please no, please don’t get a boner while you’re pressed up against Steve’s back,
Peter pleads internally.
“This is gonna be scary at first,” Steve turns his head to face Peter more, “But trust me, you’ll be fine. All you have to do is keep your arms around me and lean when I lean. Don’t let go, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” Peter nods breathlessly. Plaster himself across Steve’s back? Yeah, Peter doesn’t think he’ll have a problem with that.
Steve swings a leg over the seat and balances elegantly, watching as Peter hops around for a second. Eventually, when Peter has managed to settle down without falling over or sliding off the back of the bike, Steve revs the engine. Peter yelps, instinctively flinging his arms over Steve’s shoulders. He feels Steve’s laugh vibrating through his chest where their bodies are touching.
“Like this,” Steve instructs, gently taking Peter’s wrists and lowering his arms so that he’s clinging onto Steve’s waist instead of his neck.
Peter’s front is fully pressed up against Steve’s back, and his legs are definitely going to ache if they’re on the bike for very long from how wide they are stretched to be able to fit around Steve. That realisation does things to Peter that it really shouldn’t, considering their close proximity - which certainly isn’t helping - but he closes his eyes and tries not to scream when Steve suddenly puts the bike into gear and accelerates away from the pavement.
It’s an incredible sensation: Peter can feel the wind on his face and the loud rumbling of the bike’s engine is almost overwhelming, but he can also feel Steve’s body heat through the man’s clothes. He’s too scared, at first, to open his eyes, choosing instead to keep his head firmly pressed against Steve’s back. If Steve mentions anything about it later on he’ll just claim he was scared, and that it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that Steve actually smells really nice.
It seems like they’re driving for all of five minutes before Steve is cutting the engine and the roaring in Peter’s ears dies down. Either Steve just broke the laws of physics or the laws of man, because Peter knows for a fact that it takes twenty minutes to get from school to the diner that they’re now sitting outside.
“Get whatever you want, Pete. It’s on me.” Steve undoes the straps of his helmet and slots it under his arm, which Peter definitely does not stare at as the muscles shift under the leather. Peter also doesn’t flush and trip over his own feet a little and have to subtly look around to make sure nobody saw that.
(Nobody did.)
“Are you sure?” Peter asks, tugging at his sleeves. “I can pay, really, it’s no trouble—”
“Peter,” Steve interrupts, holding the door open for him. “Seriously, my treat.”
***
It takes Peter a while to realise that that strange noise he keeps hearing is actually the vibrating of his phone which he shoved at the bottom of his rucksack before getting on the bike earlier. He manages to pull it out from underneath all his books and sees that he has twelve missed calls from Tony.
“Shit! Shit, shit, shit,” he yells quietly, fumbling his phone and consequently dropping it when it suddenly starts to ring again, “oh bloody fuck, um, Tony? Hello?”
“Hey Pete, care to explain why I’ve been desperately trying to get hold of you for the past 50 minutes, because you weren’t there when I arrived to pick you up?” replies a scarily composed Tony on the other end of the phone.
Oh, shit.
“I, uh, I, didn’t realise that you were picking me up? I’m with Steve? He said it was cool?”
“You’re with
Steve
? Where the hell are you guys?”
“Pizza. We, um, we’re eating pizza,” he mumbles, smiling nervously at Steve’s confused look.
“Steve’s car is still in the garage, how’d you guys get to the pizza place, hm?”
“On the bike?” he whispers, regretting his entire life.
“What was that Pete? I didn’t quite catch that, I thought that maybe you said something about you going on Steve’s
motorbike
,”
“Um, yes?” he responds nervously, fingers worrying at his trouser seam.
A strange noise comes through the phone and then 30 seconds of silence before Tony responds, “Don’t. Move. A muscle. I’m coming to pick you up, right now,” and then hangs up abruptly.
I am going to die a slow and painful death.
“Peter? Is everything okay?” Asks Steve, a concerned frown covering his face.
“I think that Tony might actually kill me?”
|
As soon as they get back from the store, Foggy leads Matt to his bed and falls onto it, pulling Matt on top of him so Matt grins and shifts until he’s straddling him more comfortably.
“Did you want something?” he asks.
“Take my pants off,” Foggy says, and Matt laughs, leaning down to kiss Foggy softly.
“What do you say?” he asks.
“Oh,” Foggy says, shifting underneath him. “Please.”
“Good,” Matt says, sounding proud and making Foggy ache.
He presses a really charming kiss to Foggy’s nose before he moves down his body to unbutton Foggy’s jeans, pulling the zipper down slowly and going still when his fingers slide in to run over hot smooth silk.
“The pink ones?” he asks, raising his head towards Foggy, mouth open.
“I might’ve committed a crime today,” Foggy says. “Don’t tell God.”
“He’s got bigger things to worry about,” Matt says, distractedly, tugging Foggy’s jeans down to his knees and leaning down to press his mouth to Foggy’s erection, licking over the fabric. Foggy moans completely without shame, rocking his hips up only to have Matt pin them down, slotting his teeth over him instead.
“Matt,” Foggy breathes.
Matt drags his teeth down lightly before he says, low, “Tell me how pretty you look in them.”
Foggy struggles for words, making an involuntary upset noise when Matt sits up and stops touching him altogether. He looks down at where his dick is straining against the soft pink fabric, pushing the waistband out, wiry hair and flushed red skin.
“I don’t—” he starts, then sighs. “I don’t think I’m pretty?"
Matt’s got a conflicted look on his face before it settles into a sweet smile; he presses a kiss to the skin above Foggy’s waistband before he moves back up his body to undress Foggy down to the panties, gently, encouraging him to move and pressing kisses all over him. When he’s done, he climbs back on top of him to pin Foggy down by his shoulders, grinning like a wolf. Since they started this, Matt’s started slipping neatly into this role that lets him coddle Foggy and wreck him all at once, some power dynamic that Foggy’s a little afraid to name even though it makes him feel hot and fucked up and loved.
“You’re so pretty, baby,” Matt says, holding Foggy down with one hand and working the other between where their bodies are pressed closer together, stroking fingers slowly over Foggy’s dick so it twitches against the silk. “Soft and curvy, always blushing when I touch you—everything about your body is so—giving.”
The hand that was giving attention to Foggy’s dick moves down to dig fingers into his thigh.
“Love the way your thighs spread out on the sheets when you open your legs for me,” Matt says, voice dropping low, resting their foreheads together as his hand moves to squeeze Foggy’s hip instead. “The way your hips give under my fingers when I fuck you.”
“Matt,” Foggy whispers, as he feels a blush spreading over his whole body, squirming underneath.
“Shh,” Matt says, squeezing Foggy’s shoulder enough that it hurts. “You can talk when I’m done.”
He runs his palm from Foggy’s hips to his stomach, smoothing it over the curve of it before digging each finger in, one at a time.
“Can’t get enough of your sweet stomach,” he says, pressing a kiss to Foggy’s mouth, rocking down so Foggy can feel Matt’s erection through his jeans as it rubs against him. “It feels so good when I’m on top of you, the way it moves when you come for me.”
“You like that?” Foggy asks, quietly.
“What did I say about talking?” Matt asks, and Foggy shuts his mouth immediately and is rewarded with another kiss, on his neck this time, and a soft murmur of, “I love it.”
Matt’s hand slides up to pinch and gently twist both of Foggy’s nipples, mumbling something about how sensitive they are while his mouth is distracted, busy sucking a bruise onto Foggy’s neck. After he’s apparently satisfied with it, he lets go of Foggy’s shoulder and runs both of his hands down the length of Foggy’s body until he can slip them around to grip Foggy’s ass hard, leveraging him up so their hips slide together and Foggy moans.
Matt sits up just enough that he can train his eyes near Foggy’s face, probably listening to his harsh breathing, and it makes Foggy want to turn away and hide and, also, he’s so hard that he thinks he might die. It’s a combination of feelings he’s been getting used to, recently.
Matt digs his fingers in more.
“And your perfect little ass,” he says, low and obscene, “is maybe the prettiest thing about you—just—the noises you make when I touch you, the way you feel around my cock? I never want to let you out of bed.”
Foggy makes a desperate noise, wanting Matt to touch him again or shove his dick in Foggy’s mouth or fuck him just like this, their bodies sweaty and pressed together. He feels ridiculous, slutty, but—
Pretty.
Matt lets go of his ass so Foggy falls back on the bed, spreading his legs wider so they press against Matt’s legs where he’s straddling him.
“Now—tell me how pretty you look in your panties,” Matt says, smirking, sitting up so he’s barely touching Foggy at all. Foggy squirms underneath him, embarrassed, distracted by the damp patch on his panties that’s starting to get cold where’s he’s no longer held down by Matt’s body.
His panties.
“They’re—they’re so tight, Matt, wrapped around me—pretty and pink. . .” he mumbles, making a face, loving it and hating it at the same time. “L—like me.”
“Like you?” Matt asks, sounding amused. “Are you pink, Fog?”
“Yeah,” Foggy breathes. It’s probably more like red, but the sweaty blush has almost settled now to a full body heat, low and burning. “I feel so pretty—I am pretty, I want to be pretty for you, Matty.”
If Matt lets him keep going, he’s going to babble and say something even more embarrassing, probably start begging, but luckily Matt is gracious and leans down to kiss Foggy again.
“Good boy,” he says, indulgently, like he’s talking to a particularly obedient dog but a little bit like an inside joke, friendly. Foggy has to bite back a whine, even though he’s sure that Matt would like it, would stroke his hair and call him good again. There’s not much time to consider it, though, because Matt’s nudging their noses together and saying, close to Foggy’s mouth, “Do you want me to pull your pretty panties to the side and fill you up?”
Foggy goes ahead and lets himself whine for that.
*
Later, after they shower and change their sheets—which has become a frequent necessity, lately—Matt pulls Foggy into a tight hug and says, laughing softly, “So, uhm, that was—the hottest thing that I’ve ever done.”
“Yeah, yeah, same,” Foggy says, laughing. “Where did you learn to talk like that, dude? I can’t believe I ever thought you were a good Catholic boy.”
“I might have listened to a—just unholy amount of porn,” Matt says, letting Foggy go and looking kind of shy.
“Did you pray afterwards?” Foggy asks.
“Of course,” Matt says, with just a hint of a smile. “So, you liked it?”
“Was all the embarrassing moaning not enough to prove that?” Foggy asks, smiling when Matt reaches up to cup his cheek, pressing his palm against it.
“You’re still blushing,” he says.
“I think it’s a my mouth saying no, my body saying yes kind of situation,” Foggy says. “Except my mouth is saying yes, and my brain’s conflicted and my body’s just—on fire.”
“Why are you conflicted?” Matt asks.
“Because I feel like I should be ashamed to be completely panting for my best friend’s dick,” Foggy says, lightly, “especially while he tells me how pretty I look in the lingerie I’m wearing.”
“Oh,” Matt says, grinning, like he gets it. “But you’re not ashamed.”
“Not really,” Foggy says. “Or if I am, then I’m totally getting off on it, so I think we’re good here.”
Matt laughs and leans in to kiss him.
“Yeah,” he says, warmly. “I think we are.”
|
Mark had always had a fascination with fairies. He had read many different legends about them and mostly they appeared to be very peaceful creatures.
One night he was up late on his computer and he stumbled across a website that had a way to summon a fairy. He didn't take it too seriously as he read it. It didn't give him much detail about what they did or what they wanted it simply had a small incantation you were supposed to say if you wanted to summon a fairy and to leave your window open.
Mark read it over and over again. The lack of information he thought was a bit odd but he really didn't believe it would actually work anyway. He read the incantation out loud in more of a "Why the hell not" kind of tone. It was not in English and was a little difficult but he made do. His window was already open as it was a warm night.
After he spoke the words he went on to look at other things online almost forgetting about the fairy site. As he searched he found himself getting horny. He hadn't found anything to stimulate him yet but he was definitely getting hard all of a sudden. He found himself on a porn site watching a few videos. He hadn't reached in to his pants yet as he was still looking for something better when he heard a voice.
"Typical man!"
Mark jumped when he heard it as he thought he was alone. He looked around his room and didn't see anyone. After a few minutes he sat back down thinking maybe it was a pop up ad on his computer in the background.
"Really you're just going to ignore me?"
Mark heard the voice again still wondering where it was coming from. He checked his desk top seeing if there was a hidden pop up with some chat for a porn site or something but he found nothing.
"Down here stupid!"
Mark glanced over and standing on his window sill was this tiny woman about 6 inches tall wearing a green leafy dress with transparent wings, her hair was red and shoulder length and she was staring at him with her arms crossed tapping her foot with a smirk on her face.
"Well you summoned me, are you just going to ignore me?"
Mark's mouth was wide open as he stared at this tiny creature in his room. He thought maybe he was going crazy and rubbed his eyes a few times. The fairy seemed to be losing her patience as Mark tried to wrap his head around what he was happening. She flew over and landed on his computer desk.
"So yeah I'm a fairy, you summoned me so where is the confusion coming from?
Mark cleared his throat, "I uh... I wasn't sure if it...uh... would actually work?"
"Most of you guys never do, but here I am, you summoned me and now I have to claim my prize!"
"Prize? what are you talking about?"
"Wow you really are stupid aren't you? don't you study up on something before you summon it?"
"Well yeah but like I said I didn't think fairies were real! what do you need?"
"I need you to take off your pants!"
"Wait what? why do I need to take my pants off?"
"So I can collect!"
"Collect?"
"You really think you were just looking up porn because you were just horny? That incantation you spoke starts a spell, I'm here to finish"
"Spell? What spell!
"Your penis! The words you spoke started to process making your dick ready for me, you have given up Control of your penis to me!"
"WHAT? No, no I didn't! I never said that!"
"You should really watch what you read, but yeah you don't really have a choice now, it's too late!"
"Too late? What are you going to do to me?"
She smiled at him without answering. He could feel his cock pulsing with anticipation for her. Mark stood up and tried to leave the room but his door slammed shut and would not open as if some magic was keeping it shut. The window then did the same thing, he was trapped.
The fairy just stood there on his desk watching him run around like an idiot but did nothing as she knew he could not escape. After a few minutes she raised her hand and sent out this green flash that knocked him down on his bed. Mark shook his head unsure of what just happened as she flew over and landed on his stomach. She shot another bit of green energy in to his wooden headboard causing vines to start to grow out of it wrapping around his wrists and holding his arms up.
"There that should keep you still!"
"Please don't do this to me!"
"It too late for that! besides you should relax the transformation process feels amazing!"
"Transformation? what are you doing to me?
Mark watched as she put her hands out zapping his jeans with the same green energy she had used before. His belt began to unbuckled followed by his button and zipper coming undone. He saw his bulge under his underwear as she grabbed his boxers and pulled them down revealing his cock, she was strong for her size. She landed in front of his cock and ran her fingers across it sending chills through him.
"Oh yes this one is perfect!"
"Perfect? for what?
She ignored him as she took off her leafy coverings letting them fall to her feet. She had an amazing looking body, her ass was perfect and her skin was milky, her breast were plump for her size. As he stared at her it only made him harder!
"There you go! I need you fully erect for this! I need you so horny you will beg me for release!" She said taunting him.
Mark was getting more and more worried as she climbed up on his member and laid down on it stretching her body out before she started rubbing herself against it. Mark couldn't help but enjoy the sensation at the same time knowing the more he enjoyed himself the more she controlled his cock.
She began to grind against him more and more, rubbing her tiny tits on his shaft. She slid down and began to tickle his balls with her feet making him squirm even more to her touch.
As she tormented his cock with pleasure he began to dribble a little pre-cum from his shaft which made her stop. She got off his shaft and walked around to his tip which was pointing up towards him and ran her fingers in to the little glob of goo before licking hand after.
"Oh that is perfect!" She said as she ran over to her fallen dress and pulled out what looked like a small cup made of leaves. She filled the cup with as much of the cum she could that had dribbled out. She then sat down in front of his cock and began to sprinkle some sort of powder in to the cup his cum was in and after a few seconds the contents of the cup began to glow bright green. She stood up and with another green flash his cock was now standing straight up. She flew up to the top with the cup in hand.
"Now this is where it gets fun!" She said with a devilish grin before she grabbed his cock and began to poor the contents of her cup in to his urethra.
Marks body jerked as the contents poorest deep inside his cock. It felt warm and tingly as it worked it's way down his shaft and in to his balls making his whole dick feel very strange. He could feel a warm almost pleasurable sensation moving around inside his cock making him squirm. His cock began to glow the same green color as the cup ingredients. He felt like he needed to cum. He had never needed to cum so bad in his whole life. He tried to get his hand free so he could jerk himself off as the Fairy just hovered there watching his cock Transform!
"What are you doing to me!?"
"I'm changing you cock in to a fairy feeding station, you will produce enough food to feed my entire tribe!"
"I need to cum! please let me cum it's too much!"
"You'll cum, when the transformation is complete. We can't have you coming too early or you'll ruin everything!"
Mark struggle to get free with all his might! He thought maybe if he could make himself cum before it finished he could save his cock! He pulled on the vines as hard as he could. His wrists had begun to bleed as the vines tightened until he finally felt a pop as one of the vines broke! After a second of being surprised of his freedom he wrapped his hand around his glowing cock and started jerking himself off as quickly as he could.
"No what are you doing? You cant! Not yet! It's almost done!" She tried to zap his hand but he slapped her away before she could. Within seconds his over stimulated cock started to spazm uncontrollably and he came shooting green goo up in to the air and all over the place. The orgasm was so intense and his cock wouldn't stop coming and coming as it emptied out all the magic goo she had poured in to him.
"What have you done!" She screamed watching his cock spazm.
After a few minutes of continuous Orgasm and watching his cock paint the room green Mark passed out from the intensity.
--------
The next morning Mark awoke as the sun came up. He looked around the room and saw the vines from his headboard were gone and there was no sign of the green goo he had sprayed from his cock. His pants were down but his cock seemed normal. He jumped out of bed and felt relieved thinking maybe it was all a dream. He pulled his pants up and headed to the bathroom to jump in the shower.
As Mark cleaned himself off he suddenly felt horny again. He looked down and saw himself getting hard again. The whole experience whether a dream or not was a real turn on so he grabbed his cock in his hand and began to jerk himself off. It didn't take long for him to get off as the sensation felt amazing. He jerked his head back as the feeling got more intense. When he finally came he felt a lot of cum shooting out of him as it filled his palm. His whole body shuddered as his cock squirted all over his hand and all over the shower wall. The orgasm was incredible.
Once the sensation subsided he lowered his head to rinse himself off. He looked down in horror as he saw green goo all over his hand and the wall. He wasn't sure what to make of it, did he stop the spell in time?
He heard something, it almost sounded like a fluttering of bugs wings when he peaked out of the shower curtain and saw the fairy standing on the sink looking at him with a smile on her face. He was so shocked he couldn't speak and then he noticed his cock begin to harden again!
|
Kageyama wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, panting hard. His legs feel like jello, his shoulders are aching, and he jammed one of his fingers when he dove to receive one of Suga’s dumps. His finger throbs in time with his racing heartbeat, and he hunches over to catch his breath.
“Arms up! Arms up!” Daichi scolds from where he’s trying to catch his own breath. “It opens your lungs!”
Kageyama rolls his eyes, but straightens up and folds his hands over his head. It does get a little easier to catch his breath, but he’d never admit that to his captain, who’s already looking a bit too smug. He glances over at Hinata and sees him lying on his back on the gym floor, chest heaving. It had been a particularly grueling Monday morning practice. Coach Ukai has been working them to the bone preparing for the All Japan Intercollegiate Championship. Kageyama had been working with Asahi, Tanaka, and Daichi to get more familiar with tossing to them and Suga worked with Hinata so he could learn to adjust to another setter’s tosses. The rest of the team had practiced receiving their spikes. Then they had all moved on to serving practice, more receiving practice for the team as a whole, more hitting practice, blocking, and then a scrimmage. And after all of that, Ukai still had them run two kilometers as a cool down.
Kageyama glances at the clock on the gym wall: eight in the morning. He swears under his breath. His first class is at nine, and he shares it with Hinata. They’ll have to rush through their showers in order to get to class on time. Kageyama sinks down to the ground and starts untying the laces on his court shoes. He pushes his knee pads down to his ankles and rubs the indents the pads left behind on the back of his knees, hissing when it irritates the raw skin.
“Alright, everyone, gather ‘round,” Coach Ukai announces, and the team groans in unison. “Oi! I’ll make it quick! I know some of you have class soon. As you all know, each club at the university is required to do some sort of fundraiser.”
Takeda nods alongside him and continues, “This year, the volleyball club will be doing a calendar.”
“Calendar?” Tanaka asks, head tilting to the side.
“A sports calendar,” Ukai emphasizes.
Everyone’s faces light up in understanding, but Kageyama frowns. He looks over at Hinata, hoping for some sort of explanation, but sees that he’s now staring blankly down at the floor. Kageyama’s frown deepens. “How will a sports calendar raise money?” he asks.
“A… sports calendar,” Suga repeats slowly.
“I heard that part! I’m not deaf!”
“Just stupid, apparently,” Tsukishima mutters, and Yamaguchi hides his laugh behind his hand.
Kageyama glares at his roommate. “I’ll piss in your shoes.”
Tsukishima’s face falls, and Noya snickers.
“No pissing in shoes!” Daichi orders and slaps Kageyama on the back of his head.
“I was kidding.” He pauses. “Mostly.”
“It’s a thirst trap!” Tanaka tells him. There are tears in his eyes as he looks towards the ceiling and gleams, “Finally, an excuse to show off my beautiful body!”
“Thirst trap?” Kageyama echoes.
“Oh, Tanaka! You might end up owing me 500 yen,” Noya sings.
“That doesn’t prove anything! Kageyama is always this stupid!” Tanaka protests.
“Oi!” he snaps. “Coming from you?” The team always accuses him of being stupid, but really, how is he supposed to follow what they’re saying when nothing they say ever makes sense?
“Hey!” Tanaka grabs his head and pulls Kageyama into a headlock. “You should respect your senpai!”
“Why would Tanaka owe you 500 yen?” Asahi asks Noya. He’s watching Tanaka strangle Kageyama with some trepidation.
Noya says, “We have a bet that Kageyama is actually a mannequin.”
Kageyama pinches Tanaka under his armpit and manages to squirm out of his hold. “Huh?”
“Could you say that again, but in Japanese?” Ennoshita sighs.
“We’re not convinced Kageyama has a dick,” Noya says, and Suga laughs. Even Tsukishima hides his smirk behind his hand.
Kageyama feels his face go bright red. “I do have a dick!” he shouts. “I’ve showered in front of you guys!”
“HEY!” Ukai yells, and the team falls silent. “I’ve been trying to get you guys to focus for five minutes! We’re doing a sports calendar and it will be sold in the university bookstore, online, and at All Japan.”
“A photography studio in Tokyo has graciously offered to take the photos for us, at no extra cost, so all the proceeds can go to underfunded high school volleyball teams,” Takeda explains. “The photoshoot will be this upcoming Sunday. The only thing you guys are required to bring are your uniforms as well as an extra change of clothes. You’re more than welcome to bring homework or some quiet activity because there will be a lot of downtime while everyone is being photographed.”
Ukai crosses his arms over his chest and surveys the team. “If you have any other questions, bother your captains. I’ll be giving most of the information to them. You guys are free to go.”
Kageyama rises to his feet and twists his back so that it pops. He lets out a sigh when he notices Hinata still staring down at the ground. He prods him with his foot. “Hinata.”
He’s slow to react and blinks up at Kageyama, his eyes comically large. “Huh?”
“Did you get hit in the face or something? What’s your deal?”
“Nothing!” Hinata says quickly.
He squints his eyes at him. “Hurry up and shower, or we’ll be late.”
“Right.” He pushes himself up off the ground and kicks off his court shoes. He grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder, then shuffles to the exit.
“Hinata, just shower here! You don’t have time to walk back to your dorm!”
He’s already halfway out the door when he calls back, “I’ll meet you at the lecture! I won’t be late!”
“Idiot!” Kageyama shouts after him, fists clenched. He stomps off to the locker room and peels off his sweaty practice jersey.
“Where’s Hinata?” Daichi asks, a towel slung low over his hips. “Don’t you guys have class in like, thirty minutes?”
“Yes,” he growls. “He went back to his dorm to shower.” He shoves his athletic shorts into his bag and kicks off his underwear. He steps into a shower stall and cranks the nozzle to the hottest setting.
“How come he never showers here?” Noya asks from one shower stall over.
“Yeah, he always goes back to his dorm where the private showers are,” Tanaka points out from his place in the bath with Ennoshita, Narita, and Yamaguchi.
Kageyama, of course, knows this. He noticed it the first week of practices when the term started. Hinata never showers at the gym, even though it’s easier and quicker. He always rushes out of the gym to head back to his dorm, which he shares with Yamaguchi. At first, Hinata said he preferred to take long showers, and he feels bad taking up a stall for so long. Kageyama, however, has waited on Hinata while he’s been in the shower at his dorm before, and Hinata takes lightning quick showers.
Maybe he has an embarrassing scar, Kageyama thinks, but that can’t be right either. He’s seen Hinata in varying states of undress and has never noticed a funny scar or birthmark. He has no qualms changing in front of the team before afternoon practices and games. Apparently the issue lies in showering with the team. Kageyama turns his face to the water and wipes away the sweat. He doesn’t understand the big deal. They’re all guys, and even though kageyama is gay, it’s not like he’s looking at his teammates like that , especially in the locker room. Plus, Hinata doesn’t seem like the type to care if any of his teammates are gay. He squeezes body wash into his palm and quickly scrubs his body.
The Thought, capital T, lands solidly in his brain.
Maybe he has a small dick.
It would make sense. Hinata is a small guy, and his dick must be proportional to his body, like most guys are. Or at least, the guys kageyama has fooled around with had dicks that seemed to match their builds. It would only be natural if Hinata had a smaller penis. Most likely not a micropenis, but maybe below average.
It would explain a lot; Kageyama has never stared at Hinata’s crotch to confirm it, but he should be able to at practice this evening. Just a quick glance when he’s changing and he’ll know. And that’ll be that mystery solved.
He shuts off the water and pulls on a clean pair of sweats and a crew neck. He checks the time on his phone and swears under his breath. He only has ten minutes to get to class. Kageyama shouts goodbye to his teammates and begins the jog to his lecture hall. (Hinata is late).
“You think Kiyoko will come to the photoshoot?” Tanaka asks, a dreamy look in his eyes.
Kageyama rolls his eyes and doesn’t reply. After his nine o’clock psychology lecture, he has a Japanese lit lecture designed for athletes attending the university on scholarship. Tanaka, Noya, and Ennoshita are in the class with him. Normally the four of them head to the East dining hall for lunch before they go their separate ways. Hinata usually joins them after getting out of his English class, but today he’s absent. Kageyama tries hard not to notice.
“What’s it matter if she does? You think your micropenis will impress her?” Ennoshita says dryly. Kageyama snorts.
Tanaka chokes on his noodles, and Noya thumps him on his back. “Ennoshita!” Tanaka whines. “That’s mean!”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying.”
“Well, don’t!”
“Kiyoko-san is out of your league anyway,” Kageyama mumbles, just to rub salt in the wound. He gets stabbed in the arm with a chopstick.
“She’s out of your league, too!” Tanaka shouts.
Kageyama just shoves more food into his mouth, keeping eye contact with Tanaka.
“What do you have to be so scary for, Kageyama-kun?” Tanaka grumbles, breaking eye contact and digging into his food morosely. “Where’s Hinata? You’re less scary around him, because you just direct all your bad vibes on him.”
“Bad vibes?” Kageyama asks.
“Yeah, you know, your oooooo vibes!” Noya tacks on.
Kageyama glares.
“Yeah, those!”
“I don’t know where Hinata is. Maybe he’s meeting with a professor.”
“He seemed quiet today after Ukai told us about the calendar,” Ennoshita points out.
“I guess.”
“Is he alright?”
“The fuck am I? Hinata’s keeper?”
The three upperclassmen stare at him.
“I don’t know what his problem is, and I don’t care.” He stabs at his food, and the conversation turns to the essay they have to write for their lit class. He’s glad the attention is no longer on him. Kageyama’s not like Hinata; he doesn’t like being talked about or stared at or being the center of attention. He’d rather keep to the shadows and just do his job as a setter. If people recognize him, fine. If they don’t, they will at least remember him after watching him play.
Kageyama thinks Hinata likes being the center of attention so much because he wants people to recognize how good he is. He wants people to ooh and aah at his jumps and his spikes. He has some weird desire to prove himself to people he doesn’t even know. Kageyama has already proven time and time again that he’s a great volleyball player, and he keeps getting better. Hinata has done the same, and yet he still craves more. It’s exhilarating, setting to a player that is always striving to improve.
In high school, Kageyama didn’t start as his team’s setter until his second year. His captain, Oikawa, was the starting setter for Kageyama’s first year, and Kageyama spent every game observing Oikawa and how he brought out the best in every player on his side of the net. There was a grace to his captain, in the steadiness of his hands, in the surety of every ball he tossed to his teammates, like he knew they would score when he tossed to them, because he tossed to them. Oikawa was such a good player, everyone else wanted to be better too.
Kageyama did everything he could to emulate that after Oikawa graduated and he was put on the starting line up. The one thing Kageyama did not factor in was the fact that Oikawa is very charismatic and very good with others, and Kageyama is… not. Oikawa’s boyish charm was adored by everyone, teammate or not. The only exception Kageyama saw was Iwaizumi-san, and even he seemed enraptured by Oikawa in his own way. When Oikawa told his teammates they could do better, they believed him. When Kageyama told his teammates they could do better, they called him a tyrant, a king. Kunimi constantly complained about his quick sets. Kindaichi would scowl at Kageyama anytime he told him he could have blocked a ball he missed, if only he had tried a little harder.
“No one can hit your freakish sets,” Kindaichi snapped one day at practice.
“Yes, you can!” Kageyama protested. “Just move a little faster!”
“Just move a little faster, he says,” Kindaichi mimics. “Nobody on this team is Superman, Kageyama-kun!”
“I’m not asking you guys to be Superman! I’m asking you to hit the damn sets!”
“Kageyama,” Coach Irihata interrupted. “Take a lap. You need to calm down.”
“I am calm! They just aren’t listening!”
“No one will listen when you act like a dictator! Now go! Tsunoda, take Kageyama’s spot while he takes his break.”
“But-” Kageyama started.
“Go,” his coach snapped.
Things are different now. Kageyama has gotten better at communicating with his teammates. He’s learned to adjust his sets based on his hitters. Setting to Hinata is a challenge, but a welcome one nonetheless. He has more fun setting to Hinata than he does to anyone else. It’s exhilarating; tossing pinpoint sets and watching Hinata slam the ball onto the ground on the opposite side of the court. He gets a rush of excitement just thinking about it. He never knew finding someone to keep up with him could be so awe inspiring.
That evening at practice, however, Kageyama is about two seconds away from breaking his favorite spiker’s kneecaps. Hinata just can’t seem to sync up with him. “Oi, dumbass!” Kageyama scolds, grabbing Hinata by his head and squeezing. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing!” he shouts, squirming under Kageyama’s hold.
“So hit the fucking tosses then!”
“I’m trying!” he whines. “I can’t get the timing right!”
“You were fine this morning! Who pissed in your rice and made you all tense?”
“Maybe your tosses aren’t as great as you think!”
“I’m not the problem here!” he bellows.
“Hey!” Daichi yells. “Cut it out!”
“It was Kageyama!” Hinata protests, stomping his foot like a child.
“Don’t blame me! This is clearly your fault!”
They’re nose to nose now, Kageyama leaning down and Hinata up on his toes. They’re so close Kageyama can smell Hinata’s sweat and the fruity sports drink he’s been sipping from on breaks. They’re both red in the face and panting, chests heaving.
“Both of you!” Ukai snarls, pushing them away from each other by their foreheads. He points to the gym doors. “Take a walk! You can come back when you’ve calmed down enough to play!”
Kageyama growls low in his throat, but kicks off his court shoes and stomps outside barefoot. Hinata trails after him, oddly quiet. “Seriously, what is your deal?” Kageyama snaps, turning on him.
Hinata flinches back. “Nothing!” he says too quickly. “I’m… having an off day.”
“Please,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You don’t have off days.”
“Apparently I do!” Hinata huffs. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks over Kageyama’s shoulder at something in the distance.
Kageyama has never been good with emotions, but he can tell something is bothering Hinata. He’s more twitchy than usual, and there’s a divot between his eyebrows, which Kageyama has only seen when Hinata is worrying about something, like a test or a late assignment. He’s not sure how to bring it up, though, or if Hinata would even want to tell Kageyama what’s troubling him. He sighs, wraps his hand around Hinata’s surprisingly thick bicep, and drags him towards the vending machines. The pebbles on the ground dig into the soles of his feet, but he can’t find it in himself to care, not when something is bothering Hinata to the point that he can’t hit Kageyama’s sets.
“Hey!” Hinata protests and tries to rip his arm out of Kageyama’s grip.
Kageyama holds tight and only lets go once they’re next to the vending machines. “I want milk,” he says simply. He squints at the machine and frowns.
“You don’t even have any money on you,” Hinata mutters, rubbing his arm where Kageyama had grabbed him.
“I don’t need any.” He places one hand on the glass near the top of the machine and pushes it back so that it’s balancing precariously on one side. The metal groans, but Kageyama ignores it. He punches the button for the milk he wants, and then the button for strawberry milk for Hinata.
“What’re you doing?” Hinata whispers, glancing around like they’ll get caught.
“Shut up.” Kageyama drops the vending machine back down with a bang, and the cartons fall out. He hands the strawberry milk to Hinata and stuffs the straw in his own.
“You just stole those!”
Kageyama sighs. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll stop by after practice and shove the money in the slot.”
Hinata considers that for a minute, and then pops his straw into his carton. “How’d you know to do that?”
“It works on most vending machines,” he says easily. “Now you wanna tell me what’s wrong?”
Hinata tenses up again. “Nothing’s wrong!”
“Bullshit! You’re missing tosses left and right. Something’s up, and it’s affecting how you play, so now it’s my problem too. We’re teammates. Your issues are my issues.”
Kageyama watches Hinata’s cheeks turn pink. “That’s sweet,” he muses, lips wrapped around his straw.
He feels his ears go red. “Shut up!” He takes a sip from his milk and pointedly does not look at Hinata. “So, what’s your problem?”
“I…” He frowns and wiggles the straw in his carton. He’s already finished his drink, so the straw rattles against the cardboard carton. “I don’t wanna do the photoshoot.”
Kageyama pauses and squints down at him. “What? Why not? It seems like something you would love, the attention and all that.”
“I’m not some- some attention whore, you know!”
“Could have fooled me. You literally showed up to try outs declaring yourself the ace. You even told Asahi-san, our actual ace.”
“That’s different! I don’t like attention on my- on my body,” he grumbles.
“It’s not like we haven’t seen you change before.” Kageyama tilts his head to the side. “And Noya accidentally tea-bagged you once too, so I don’t see how your body could be more embarrassing than that.”
“Don’t bring that up!”
He shrugs. “I was just saying. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about, unless you’ve got a micropenis or something.”
Hinata turns bright red, the color contrasting unflatteringly with his orange hair. “It’s just… I don’t know, alright? I’m just not looking forward to it.”
“Well, it’s happening, whether you like it or not. So stop worrying about something you can’t change.”
“Gee, Yama-yama, that makes me feel so much better.”
“Really?” Kageyama perks up. Maybe he’s okay with the whole emotions thing after all.
“No!”
He huffs. “Well, I don’t know what else you want me to say. I don’t wanna do this stupid photoshoot either. I don’t want people rubbing ones out to my face, but here we are.”
“You think people will do that?”
Kageyama thinks of the sports magazines he has stuffed under his mattress back home, some more… used than others. He’d never thought to buy calendars for that same purpose, but he supposes some people might do that. “Yes.”
“I don’t think it’d be your face, though. It doesn’t look like very much to stare at, especially when you’re doing… that.” Hinata makes a broad gesture to Kageyama’s face, which is twisted into a scowl.
Kageyama chases him back to the gym, and luckily, the rest of practice goes smoothly. (He forgets to stare at Hinata’s crotch, which is probably for the best.)
Later that night, however, the thought that Hinata could have a small dick pops back into his head. He turns on his side in his bed and squints over at Tsukishima’s bed. He looks like he could still be awake. “Do you think Hinata has a micropenis?”
“Oh my fucking god,” Tsukishima mutters, throws the blankets off his body, and walks out the door.
Hinata slams his textbook closed, startling Kageyama so much that he drags his pencil across his math homework. “Oi! What was that?”
“I can’t focus, ‘Yama,” Hinata whines, flipping over so he’s laying on his back in Kageyama and Tsukishima’s dorm. Kageyama looks down at him from his seat at his desk. “Let’s go to the gym.”
“I have to finish my stats homework.” He looks at the dark pencil mark scratching through half his work. “Which you ruined.”
“I’m all the way down here! How could I have ruined it?”
“You closed your book.”
Hinata grabs a stuffed dinosaur from Tsukishima’s bed and chucks it at Kageyama’s head. “Kageyaaaaaaama,” he drawls. “Please? I’m bored and can’t sit still.”
“You never sit still.” He gives up on his math homework and closes his textbook. He turns around in his seat to straddle it backwards and rests his chin on his arms. “You’re more… twitchy than usual.” He throws the plushie back at him and grins when it hits Hinata right in the forehead.
“I’m not twitchy!” he pouts, twitching. He sighs and hides his face in the dinosaur. “I’m still just freaked over the photoshoot this weekend.”
“Still? I didn’t know you had the brain capacity for that.”
Hinata chucks the dinosaur back at Kageyama, but it sails past his head and collides with the picture frame Kageyama has sitting on his desk. “Watch it!” He picks up the frame and inspects it for cracks.
“Sorry,” Hinata says. “I didn’t mean to.” He gets up off the floor and walks over to the desk, taking the picture from Kageyama’s hands. “Who is this?”
“My sister, Miwa,” he answers. “She’s eight years older.” The picture is of them at a beach when Kageyama was two. His sister is ten and balancing him on her shoulders. Miwa is grinning wide to show off her missing teeth, hands wrapped loosely around Kageyama’s ankles to keep him from teetering backwards. There’s a smear of chocolate across her face and her nose is pink from sunburn. Above her, Kageyama has one sticky hand fisted in her hair to keep his balance and the other is clutching a chocolate popsicle, dripping the ice cream into his sister’s dark hair. Unlike his sister, Kageyama is looking away from the camera, eyes trained on a beach volleyball game in the background. His face is focused, determined, and he has the same set to his jaw that he gets now when he’s really into a game.
“She looks a lot like you,” Hinata says. “She’s pretty.”
Kageyama glances back at the photo. It’s one of his favorites of him and his sister. Despite the age gap, they had been close growing up. She was always willing to watch volleyball games on the TV with Kageyama and their grandfather. She would walk him home from practices and attend his games when she could. He would let her do his hair and even try out makeup on him as long as she let him have some yogurt while she worked. She let him cry on her shoulder when their grandfather died. Miwa always knew the right thing to say. She was good with emotions; unlike Kageyama.
“She would know what to say,” Kageyama mumbles as he takes the photo back from Hinata. He sets it back on his desk and pulls the dinosaur plushie into his lap.
“Say about what?” Hinata asks. His eyes are still trained on the photograph.
“To you. To make you feel better.” He feels his cheeks heat up. There haven’t been many times in Kageyama’s life where he’s been jealous of someone else’s skill. If he sees someone do something in volleyball that he can’t do, he learns to, to the best of his ability. That’s what he did with Oikawa, with his grandfather, with the professionals he watches on TV. But he never managed to learn how to talk to people like his sister can. Everything comes out too harsh and he never knows what the right thing to say is. He feels a little helpless.
“Oh,” Hinata breathes. “That’s- That’s alright. It’s kind of silly to be so stressed over a stupid photoshoot.”
Kageyama racks his brain. His grandfather had said something to Miwa once, if he could just recall the words… “People get to tell you what you think is stupid or not!” he tells Hinata.
His head tilts almost to a ninety degree angle. “Hah?”
Okay, that wasn’t it. “I- Wait. That wasn’t right. People… People don’t get to tell you what you think is stupid or not.” He nods. “That’s what my grandfather told my sister once.”
“What does it mean?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure. I guess maybe, you shouldn’t be worried about what people think of what you think? If you think something is stupid or scary, who’s to say it isn’t?”
“I think I kind of get it. Like, no one can tell me what I’m feeling isn’t right.” He punches Kageyama in the arm. “See? You did know what to say!”
“My grandfather said that, not me,” he mutters.
“Still.” He flops back down on the floor and gazes up at Kageyama. “Will you do my essay for me?”
Kageyama whips the dinosaur back at Hinata and that’s how Tsukishima finds them five minutes later, beating each other senseless with his stuffed animal.
“Hinata, I swear, if you throw up-” Tanaka starts.
“I’m not going to!” Hinata protests, but Kageyama isn’t too sure of that. It looks like Kageyama’s little pep talk from earlier in the week hadn’t done much for Hinata’s nerves. Just because he told Hinata he’s allowed to feel nervous, doesn’t mean he’ll stop being nervous. Stupid, really. Kageyama hasn’t gotten any better at comforting people. Hinata looks very pale, which is an improvement from the sickly green color his skin had been when the team had left for the photo studio in Tokyo.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Noya prods, poking Hinata as he hands over the back of his seat.
“Ew, don’t say that word,” Asahi grumbles. He’s got dark rings under his eyes from lack of sleep; he must be just as nervous about the photoshoot as Hinata is. Kageyama wonders what his reason is.
“Panties!” Noya sings. He throws his arms out as he shouts, knocking Kageyama on his head. He slaps his arm away with a huff.
“My panties are not twisted!” Hinata yells.
Tsukishima smirks and removes his headphones, leaning across the aisle to tease, “Hinata wears panties.”
Asahi hides his face in his hands. “Stop it with that word!” Ennoshita rubs his back comfortingly.
“Are they lace panties?” Yamaguchi asks, his face the picture of innocence.
“I want to imagine they’re leather,” Tanaka offers.
“I don’t wear leather panties!”
“Lace it is,” Suga confirms, grin stretching his face wide.
“Suga!” Asahi chastises, blushing a deeper pink.
“Well Hinata doesn’t look sick anymore,” Ennoshita observes. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the window.
Kageyama stops glaring at Tsukishima long enough to look at Hinata, who now looks more enraged than anything else. However, at Ennoshita’s words, he pales again.
Kinoshita smacks Ennoshita on the back of his head. “Nice going, shithead!”
“Well I don’t see you doing anything to help him!” he starts.
“What am I supposed to do? Wax poetic about Hinata’s pink lace panties?”
“They have to be red,” Tanaka says.
“No, that would clash with his hair,” Suga points out.
“Does the carpet match the drapes, Hinata?” Yamaguchi asks. Tsukishima snickers.
Hinata blinks. “Huh?”
“Black lace panties then!” Noya declares.
“Oh, those would look nice. That would provide a very nice contrast to his pale skin,” Suga notes.
“Suga!” Asahi moans. “Why?”
“No, he has a point,” Tanaka says. “Let him talk.”
“Maybe white ones,” Daichi offers, making himself known in the conversation, then shakes his head. “No, too easily stained.”
“Well, what kind of stains are we talking about?” Suga asks. “Shit stains? Yeah, that’s gross. Lipstick stains, though…”
“Guys, have we considered,” Narita begins, “crotchless panties?”
“I don’t wear panties!” Hinata screams, and Kageyama notes that he doesn’t look sick anymore. He’s been thoroughly distracted again.
“He goes commando!” Tanaka cheers.
“Boys,” Ukai grits out from the front of the bus. Takeda looks like he’s either about to cry or laugh; Kageyama can’t tell.
The conversation dies down a little bit after that, with Hinata bright red in embarrassment. Kageyama settles back down in his seat and watches Hinata continue to argue with Tanaka and Noya. He hopes his senpai can keep Hinata distracted until they get to the photography studio. He doesn’t want to be caught in an enclosed space if or when Hinata’s breakfast decides to make a reappearance.
Kageyama glares out the window. Hinata hadn’t been anymore forthcoming with his reservations about the photoshoot on their run that morning. He had tried to pry it out of him, but got nowhere. Anytime he opened his mouth to ask Hinata what was wrong, Hinata would speed up, and he had to follow. It was frustrating. They ended up running two kilometers more than usual because Hinata kept picking up his pace. Kageyama’s thighs burned a little from the extra exertion, but he couldn’t find it in himself to get too upset about it.
The countryside slowly starts to transition into cityscape. His frown deepens as he stares at the scenery whizzing by. In the short few months that he has known Hinata, they haven’t hidden anything from each other. Mainly because Hinata is an open book, and even Kageyama, who is constantly emotionally constipated, is able to know what’s going through his head. And Hinata is just annoying and tenacious enough to get Kageyama to actually talk about the three emotions he’s able to feel. Kageyama is surprisingly… frustrated that Hinata doesn’t trust him with this. Huh. New emotion unlocked.
Before, he never cared what anyone around him was feeling as long as it didn’t affect how they played volleyball. If it did, he would just yell at them. Now that he thinks about it, that wasn’t very effective. But he finds that he cares what Hinata is thinking, and even stranger, he wants to help. It makes his stomach churn that Hinata is feeling so nervous, and Kageyama doesn’t know how to fix it. He’s the control tower; he should be able to aid Hinata in feeling better, but he can’t. And what does that say about his skills as a setter, or as a team player?
Hinata flops aggressively back into his seat and crosses his arms over his chest, jolting Kageyama out of his thoughts. There’s a stubborn set to his jaw, the kind he only gets when he loses. “You could have at least defended me, Bakageyama,” he huffs.
“Don’t call me that,” he bites back automatically. “And how would I defend you?”
“Tell them I don’t wear panties!”
“How the fuck would I know that?” He feels a blush crawl up his chest and neck, threatening to encroach on his cheeks. Hinata’s mouth makes a perfect ‘o’ shape. “Idiot. They’re only teasing you anyway.”
“How would you feel if someone accused you of wearing panties?”
He shrugs. “Where’s their proof?”
Hinata punches him in the shoulder.
“Oi!” Kageyama grunts and wraps his arm around Hinata’s neck to pull him into a headlock. They wrestle for a few minutes, pulling at each other’s hair and clothes, and they only stop when the bus pulls up in front of the photography studio.
Hinata pokes his head over the seat, hair sticking up all over the place. “Oh,” he whispers, “we’re here.”
Kageyama watches the color drain from his face again, so he pinches his hip. “Stop worrying. It’s not like we’ll be completely naked. I mean, I don’t think the university could justify selling actual porn for charity.”
“I’m not worried!”
“Scared, then?” he asks.
“I’m not scared of anything!” He puffs out his chest, but his face still hasn’t regained any color.
“Hey, listen up!” Ukai calls from the front of the bus. He’s standing in the center aisle, hands on his hips, blocking their exit. “I expect you all to be on your best behavior while we are in the studio.” He levels a glare at Tanaka, Noya, Kageyama, and Hinata. “We will be provided with lunch and dinner, should the shoot take that long. You are more than welcome to work on homework or take a nap or play video games as long as you don’t disturb the photographer.”
Kageyama slides his eyes back over to Hinata, and scrambles away in his seat at the look on his face. “Are you gonna throw up?” he hisses.
“No!” Hinata snaps, but he gulps loudly.
Kageyama, in a desperate plea to avoid having a puddle of vomit in his lap, does the only thing he can think of doing: he slaps Hinata. The bus is deadly silent. Kageyama grabs Hinata by his shirt collar and holds him up so they’re eye to eye. “Pull yourself together. It’s just a photoshoot,” he growls.
Hinata pulls his head back and slams it forward, cracking their skulls together. Kageyama’s ears ring with the impact and he can already feel a bruise blossoming on his forehead. But Hinata no longer looks like he’s going to be sick, so Kageyama will count it as a win.
“He’s fine now,” he tells the still silent bus.
“I don’t understand you two,” Asahi mumbles, staring at them open mouthed.
Ukai sighs, gets them settled, and the team walks into the building with mild trepidation. The small two-storey building has many large windows, giving the whole space a very bright and airy look. The first floor appears to be mostly offices and the reception area. A set of floating stairs leads up to the second floor, which has been customized into a half loft, giving anybody up there an overhead view of the entrance and the wall of windows facing the street. Most of the loft is taken up by the set which sits to the right of the staircase, directly across from the floor to ceiling windows on the front of the building. It’s just a long sheet of sturdy white paper with tape markings on the floor. Beyond the set is a short hallway, which then branches off to the left and right. There are tons of chairs scattered about, as well as some comfortable looking couches. There are bins full of props and set pieces, and light stands that aren’t in use loom in the corners. A rolling cart has been converted into a small workspace for the photographer’s tablet and camera accessories. The photographer- a man in his mid-fifties wearing thick, horn-rimmed glasses- smiles at the team as they spill out into the studio from the stairs.
“Good morning,” he greets, setting his camera down on the rolling cart. “My name is Hayashi. These are my assistants, Seki and Ito.” He gestures to the two people moving the lights around on the set. Seki is a woman in her early twenties with brunette hair; Ito is a man a couple years older with dyed blonde hair. “Seki is going to be helping me with lighting, and Ito will help you guys with hair and makeup. From what Ukai-kun and Takeda-sensei have told me, you boys have never done a photoshoot like this before.”
A ripple goes through the team. Kageyama can feel Tanaka and Noya getting defensive. “We’ve done shoots for promotional stuff at the university, Hayashi-san,” Tanaka tells him.
“Yeah! We’re familiar with cameras!” Noya adds. Daichi kicks him in the back. “Hayashi-san,” he continues, flushing.
Hayashi just laughs. “This isn’t going to be quite like that. This shoot is going to be a bit more… revealing. I trust you all brought your uniforms?”
The team nods collectively.
“Good.” Hayashi looks around at the team, eyes appraising. He points to Asahi, Tanaka, Ennoshita, Hinata, and Yamaguchi. “You five will be completely naked.”
Kageyama glances at the five guys the photographer just singled out. Asahi looks like he might pass out; Tanaka has already ripped off his shirt; Ennoshita and Yamaguchi look surprisingly unbothered; and Hinata looks like he’s going to be sick again. Kageyama scoots away from him.
Hayashi continues, paying the varied reactions no mind. He calls out Daichi, Noya, Kinoshita, Kageyama, and Tsukishima. “You five will be shirtless, so just wear your uniform shorts. You last two,” he points at Suga and Narita, “will not be wearing pants, only shirts. This is not up for discussion,” he adds when it looks like Asahi might protest weakly. “You are welcome to remain fully dressed while you wait for your turn to be photographed.” He frowns at Hinata and Kageyama. “You two. What happened to your faces?”
Kageyama looks down at Hinata. There’s still an outline of Kageyama’s hand on his cheek and a bruise is blooming on his forehead from where he had headbutted Kageyama. He figures there’s a matching bruise on his own forehead. “Uh,” Kageyama says helpfully.
Hayashi sighs. “Ito-kun will cover the marks with makeup. You two will have to be photographed last so Ito has time to fix you. Your dressing room is down the hall on the left. It’s the second door. You can change there when it’s your turn.” He picks up a notebook on his cart and squints down at it. “Nishinoya-kun? I’ll be taking your picture first. Narita-kun, you’ll be second.”
“Boys, go leave your bags in the dressing room so you don’t take up too much space out here,” Takeda says, and the team scurries off down the hall.
In the dressing room, Daichi and Suga tease Asahi, who has turned green to match Hinata. “Naked! I can’t- That’s indecent! Suga, do you think if I talk to Hayashi-san he’ll change his mind?” Asahi asks.
Daichi laughs as he drops his bag on the floor in the corner. He pulls out his laptop, charger, and a book. “I doubt it. He said it wasn’t up for discussion. Plus, we signed that contract, remember?” He spares a glance at Hinata, who seems to be having a similar dilemma. “Hinata, are you okay?”
“Fine,” Hinata mumbles. His hands are balled into fists at his side, and Kageyama is sure his jaw is clenched so tight his teeth could crack.
“You look very… not fine,” Suga points out. He’s stripped out of his ratty practice t-shirt and has pulled on his jersey, smoothing it over his chest. He kicks off his sweatpants, but leaves his boxers on.
“I look fine!” Hinata says, but it’s very unconvincing.
Kageyama pulls his laptop out so he can watch a match video of a team they’ll be playing soon. “We’ll be the last ones to be photographed. You don’t have to be completely naked for a few hours still.”
“It’s gonna be a long day,” Daichi says. “Odds are most of us will be passed out by the time your pictures are taken. We won’t even see you, Hinata.”
That releases some of the tension in Hinata’s shoulders.
“Plus,” Suga adds, “the university splurged on getting catering for us. So we’re guaranteed a free lunch, if not dinner as well.”
Noya and Tanaka high five at this, and more tension leaks out of Hinata’s body. “See,” Kageyama says to him, “it won’t be so bad.” Hinata doesn’t look at him, so Kageyama shoves his laptop and the DVD with the game footage into his hands. “We can review this together while we wait for our turns.”
The team slowly trickles out of the dressing room and back into the set area. Noya and Narita each take a seat at Ito’s makeup counter and the rest of the team spreads out to take over the scattered tables and chairs. Kageyama sends Hinata off to find a place where they can watch the footage and stays behind at the makeup counter with Tsukishima and Kinoshita, who seem to be just as curious about what kind of makeup they’ll be getting.
“Am I gonna get fake eyelashes?” Noya asks, bouncing in his seat. He’s dressed in just his uniform shorts, elbow pad, and orange mid-rise athletic socks.
“You want those?” Tsukishima sneers.
“Yeah! Who doesn’t?”
Tsukishima scoffs.
“No, I’m not doing anything dramatic to you guys. I’m just going to be styling your hair a little bit and accentuating some muscle, maybe hiding some blemishes,” Ito explains. “Hold still,” he scolds when Noya doesn’t stop vibrating in his chair. Ito styles Noya’s hair into something resembling his normal look, but neater. He curls the streak of blonde hair so that it falls artfully over his forehead. Next, he applies minimal makeup to his face, covering some minor acne and evening out his skin tone. He adds some highlights and shadows to Noya’s stomach, making the muscle he has there more prominent.
“Whoa!” Noya exclaims at the final product. “It looks like I’m a bodybuilder!”
“Impressive, making something of nothing,” Tsukishima remarks from where he;s leaning against the makeup counter.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Noya shouts, lunging for Tsukishima. He manages to get him in a headlock and tugs on his hair.
“Oi!” Ukai yells. “Quint fucking around and get over here! Kageyama, come hit some balls to him. Hayashi-san wants some action shots for Noya-kun!”
“Yes!” Noya whoops as he and Kageyama move towards the set. Kageyama looks around for Hinata and finds him messing around on his phone on a loveseat tucked into a corner. The laptop rests on the cushion beside him. It looks like he can wait, so Kageyama glances around the set. There are tape markings on the plain white sheet, and Hayashi directs Noya to stand on the red cross in the middle. Seki stands nearby adjusting the lights to Hayashi’s liking. Hayashi glances at the laptop his camera is plugged into and instructs Seki to move some of the lights.
Kageyama spots a few volleyballs in a basket behind the camera and grabs one. He looks at Noya, who grins wolfishly at him. They start with simple passes, just bumping the ball back and forth on the set in front of the camera while Hayashi and Seki continue to mess with the lights. Kageyama can feel the blood beginning to pump faster in his veins, hot in his fingertips and forearms. He watches the ball closely, as seriously as he would in an actual match. Kageyama barely registers the flashing lights around them, the sound of the camera shutter. Noya sends the ball up in a high arc and Kageyama approaches to hit. It veers to the right, and Noya lunges out to connect with it. He returns the ball to Kageyama, who tosses it back. Every once in a while, Noya will send the ball up in a gorgeous parabola and Kageyama will spike it. On one particular hit, Kageyama sends the ball careening towards the ground at a steep angle. Noya flies across the set to receive it, his right arm outstretched, and screams, “ROLLING THUNDER!” The ball bounces off his forearms with a smack, and Noya rolls directly into Kageyama’s legs, knocking him right to the ground.
“Oi! Noya!” Kageyama groans. His head had hit the ground pretty hard, but nothing worse than Daichi or Tanaka cuffing him upside the head.
Takeda waves at the boys. “Come here, look at this!”
Noya and Kageyama walk over to the laptop on Hayashi’s cart and lean in to look at the last photo. Noya looks like he’s flying, his arm straight in front of him and the ball just a few centimeters away from hitting his arm. There’s a wild grin on his face, and a slight sheen of sweat on his body. He looks long and lean, and the arch of his back in midair could almost be considered lewd. Kageyama thinks he resembles a cheetah, sleek, slim, and dangerous. “Whoa,” Noya breathes, “that’s…”
“That’s fucking cool,” Kageyama finishes.
“Kageyama-kun!” Takeda chastises.
“Is everyone gonna look that awesome?” Noya asks.
“That’s the plan,” Hayashi chuckles. “Let’s get a few more shots. Keep doing what you were doing.”
Kageyama and Noya pass back and forth for about ten more minutes, lights flashing in their eyes, before Hayashi tells them they can stop. They’re both out of breath and sweaty. Daichi and Suga high five them as they pass them studying at a low table, and Narita replaces Noya on the set. He’s a little pink in the cheeks, what with his ass hanging out in front of the whole team, Coach Ukai, Takeda, and three strangers. Kageyama spots Asahi and Yamaguchi at Ito’s makeup counter. He walks towards Hinata and picks up the laptop to take it’s spot on the couch.
“You ready?” he asks as he types the password into his laptop and slides the DVD into the slot on the side.
“Yeah,” Hinata mumbles, thumbs flying over the screen of his phone. He sends one last message before he locks his phone and drops it on the cushion. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Kageyama watches him from the corner of his eye as the software on his laptop loads. He still looks tense and his leg bounces on the ground. He’s got that divot between his eyebrows that Kageyama longs to smooth out with his thumb. If there’s one thing that always successfully distracts Hinata, it’s… “Oi, boke. I’ve already seen some footage of one of their second-year middle blockers. He might give us some trouble with our quick. I think he’ll catch onto us fast.”
“You might have to use Tanaka-senpai’s crazy line shots a bit more then,” Hinata suggests.
“Mmm,” he hums as the program struggles to read the DVD and load the video. “I think we should use the super quick as soon as we can and as often as we can until they’re able to block it or receive it successfully, and then you’ll be used as the decoy.”
“That could work.” He bumps Kageyama with his shoulder. “Play the video. I wanna see this middle blocker you’re in love with.”
“I’m not-” he starts, “I’m not in love with him! I just think he’ll catch up to us fast.”
“I was just teasing, ‘Yama-yama. Now come on, press play.”
Kageyama looks at his laptop screen to confirm that, yes, his ancient laptop has finally loaded the footage and he’s good to start the video. As he taps the space bar with his thumb, he notes that Hinata isn’t as tense and the divot between his eyebrows is gone. Kageyama keeps part of his mind focused on reviewing the game footage and the other half monitoring Hinata’s condition. Occasionally he’ll glance up at the set to see who’s up, or over to the makeup counter to watch Ito work his way through his teammates.
Some shoots take longer than others, so Kageyama and Hinata watch through the game footage twice before heading down to the lobby to get some food from the catering the university provided. They work on their psych homework together until they can’t stare at the boring powerpoint slides any longer. Noya ropes them into a card game with Suga and Kinoshita, which results in Ukai threatening to make them walk back to the university if they don’t quiet down. Hinata convinces Kageyama to start a new anime that he won’t finish. They watch the game footage one more time while they eat dinner, and before they know it, Kageyama and Hinata are sitting in Ito’s chairs while Tanaka is being photographed.
Hinata is still fully dressed while Kageyama has stripped to his uniform shorts and black ankle socks. The tension and anxiety has started rolling off Hinata again, so Kageyama fishes for something to distract him with as Ito works hair putty through Kageyama’s hair. “Looks like Noya-san and Asahi-san are asleep,” he comments. Asahi is hunched at nearly a ninety degree angle on the loveseat, head resting on Noya’s shoulder. Noya’s head is leaning against the headrest behind him, jaw open and snoring quietly. On a pair of bean bags near the hallway to the dressing room, Yamaguchi is focused on his DS game and Tsukishima has his headphones on, but his eyes are glued to Yamaguchi’s game. Daichi and Ennoshita are having a quiet conversation with Ukai and Takeda in a corner opposite the set. Narita is asleep on top of one of his textbooks and Tanaka is doodling in a notebook absentmindedly nearby. Only Suga, Kinoshita, Hinata, and Kageyama have yet to be photographed.
Kageyama turns his head to look at Hinata, but Ito grabs his chin and forces his head forward. “Hold still,” he chastises.
Hinata snorts. “Kageyama doesn’t know how to listen.”
“Hey!” he protests, turning his head again.
Ito sighs. “Why don’t you take a walk? Get some of your jitters out.”
“I’m not jittery!” Kageyama contradicts, but he’s grateful for the opportunity to stand up and wander for a bit. He’s been sitting for most of the day and he can feel his legs twitching with the need to run.
Ito slides his eyes over to Hinata. “Why don’t both of you take some time to calm down? I’ll need you both back here in ten minutes.”
Kageyama nods, and Hinata is quick to grab his wrist and drag him back to the dressing rooms which have been mostly abandoned since the shoot started. Hinata needs to calm down; Kageyama feels like he could cut the tension he’s emitting with a knife. “Hinata?” he says, mindful of Hinata’s hand still wrapped tightly around his wrist.
“What?” he snaps, uncharacteristically angry.
“You’re still nervous,” Kageyama observes. Hinata’s hand tightens around his wrist.
“Of course I am! I’m going to be naked in front of like, twenty people!” He runs his fingers over the knuckles on Kageyama’s hand, still holding onto his wrist. “And then people are going to be able to buy pictures of me naked! Does that not make you even a little uncomfortable?” He flips his hand over and starts to trace the creases in his palm.
Hinata’s touch is as soothing as it is distracting. It takes Kageyama a few extra moments to process what Hinata even said. “It’s for charity,” he says hoarsely, then clears his throat and repeats, “It’s for charity. And Asahi was able to handle it, and he’s one of the most nervous people I know!”
“Still,” he says stubbornly, pressing his thumb into the center of Kageyama’s palm.
The pressure on his palm makes his fingers curl in slightly, so he closes his hand over Hinata’s thumb and slides his hand back to grip his wrist. He traces his own fingers over Hinata’s knuckles, noting the small scar on the back of his hand. “I don’t understand why you’re so nervous about this.” His hands are smaller than Kageyama’s, but his fingers are slightly wider. It fascinates him. “It’s not like we haven’t seen your body before.”
Hinata absentmindedly slots their fingers together, behind his fingers over the back of Kageyama’s hand. He doesn’t seem to notice that Kageyama has stopped breathing. “But none of you have seen me naked,” he mumbles.
“It’s not like you’re bad to look at,” Kageyama tells him without thinking, and quickly drops Hinata’s hand and steps back.
Hinata deflates when Kageyama lets go of his hand, but perks up as his words register in his brain. “What?”
“Nothing,” Kageyama mutters, crossing his arms and looking away. “But whatever your issue is, you gotta get over it. It’s gonna be your turn soon. Come on, before Ito-san comes looking for us.”
When they emerge from the dressing room, Suga is being photographed, grinning wide as he shakes his ass for the camera. “Suga! This isn’t goddamn Playboy!” Daichi growls. Suga winks at him, and Daichi rolls his eyes before he turns away.
Kageyama sits still through the rest of Ito’s ministrations, and all too soon it’s his turn to have his picture taken. Hayashi loses patience with Kageyama very quickly. “Could you look any less murder-y?” he grumbles.
“He always looks like that,” Ennoshita deadpans. He stands behind Hayashi, watching the laptop as the photos transfer from the camera. Kageyama glares at him. He shrugs and wanders over towards Tanaka.
Hayashi sighs. “What position do you play?”
Kageyama stands up straighter, his head held high. “Setter.”
The photographer turns around, eyes scanning the room. He points at Suga who has just emerged from the dressing room in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. “You, can you pass with him?”
“Sure!” Suga agrees. He grabs a ball from the cart and tosses it perfectly to Kageyama, who passes it back just as easily. It’s not often that he and Suga pass like this, just tossing the ball back and forth with no intention to slam it back into the ground. It’s relaxing and monotonous and reminds Kageyama of hours spent in his backyard passing with his grandfather and sister. He can feel the glare slipping off his face as Suga sets the ball higher each time he returns the ball. Kageyama jumps to connect with one particularly high set, sending it floating back to Suga. “Nice, Kageyama!” Suga cheers, grinning brightly.
“Alright,” Hayashi says after they’ve been passing together for ten minutes, “can you try looking less constipated for a few more?”
Kageyama screws his face up at Hayashi’s comment, but smooths it out when the photographer glowers at him. “Yes.”
He manages to follow Hayashi’s instructions on how to pose and where to put his hands and feet. Soon enough, Hayashi tells them that they’re finished. “Send the last boy over,” he says tiredly. Kageyama feels a twinge of pity for the man who has had to put up with the team’s antics for the majority of the day.
“Hinata,” he calls as he passes the makeup counter, “you’re up.” Hinata swallows loudly before walking on unsteady feet over to the set. He’s still wearing his boxers. Kageyama is quick to change out of his uniform shorts and back into a t-shirt and athletic pants. He sits down next to Kinoshita and Narita, who are now both asleep at a table. He can’t imagine Hinata’s shoot is going to go smoothly. Luckily, the rest of the team has already settled down and started to fall asleep. Asahi looks like he’s in a much more comfortable position on the loveseat, curled into the fetal position with his head pillowed in Noya’s lap. Even Tanaka has settled down and has his head resting on Ennoshita’s stomach where they’re both sprawled out on the floor.
Kageyama watches with keen eyes as Hinata shuffles over to the set. He fidgets under Hayashi’s attention. The photographer tilts his head to the side. “Go get your uniform shirt,” he instructs, and Hinata is running towards the dressing room before he can change his mind. He is pulling on his shirt as he walks back to the set when Hayashi clicks his tongue. “Nope. Shirt off, underwear, too.”
“But-” Hinata begins.
“You’re going to use your shirt to cover your penis.”
Hinata flushes dark red. “I-”
“Please, I’m as tired as you are,” Hayashi tells him. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”
Surprisingly, Hinata doesn’t argue. He normally doesn’t have any problems challenging authority, but the combined wrath of Daichi, Ukai, and Takeda must be enough to make him comply. He turns his back to the camera and the rest of the room to shuck off his boxers. He quickly wraps his uniform shirt around his waist in some semblance of decency and turns back around. Kageyama can see that his blush has spread all the way down to his chest.
Hinata looks good; there’s really no other way to put it. Ito has styled his hair into loose waves, the ends curling above his eyebrows and brushing the tips of his ears as well as the nape of his neck. It looks soft and shiny; Kageyama wonders if he would be able to card his fingers through his hair with ease, or if his fingers would get caught in knots. Hinata’s torso is longer than his legs, and Ito has added contouring to highlight the musculature. His stomach is toned, but not overly so, and his shoulders are surprisingly broad. His thighs are thick and muscular from jumping, crouching, and all the racing he and Kageyama do. His small hands look nearly white where they clutch his uniform shirt over his dick, the only thing giving him any semblance of decency. His face is set into an abnormal scowl, but the divot between his eyebrows is there, so Kageyama knows he’s much more anxious than he’s letting on. He looks over at Kageyama and the scowl drops for a moment, replaced by something softer.
Seki walks over to place a ball besides Hinata’s feet, and the frown returns. “Relax!” Hayashi barks. “And bunch up that shirt more! I don’t want it wrapped around your hips like a towel!” Hinata does as he’s told and slowly bunches his shirt up, revealing more of his strong thighs. One wrong move and everything would be on display. “And smile!” Hayashi demands, then snaps a photo.
At the same instant, Tanaka screams, “ENNOSHITA! GROSS!” It startles everyone in the studio, including Hinata, who drops his uniform shirt.
Underneath a thatch of orange pubic hair (apparently the carpet does match the drapes) is Hinata’s dick. And he’s huge. He’s flaccid, but his dick is still about four and a half inches long. Kageyama feels his mouth drop open in shock.
Kageyama has known since his second year of middle school that he’s attracted to guys. It wasn’t until his third year of high school, though, that he realized he was especially attracted to guys with big dicks. He blames it on the middle blocker from another school he had hooked up with the summer before his last year. Aone’s thighs were glorious, and his dick had been huge. Kageyama had never felt so full in his life and he loved it. Some guys called him a size queen, but he didn’t care that much. He knows what he likes, and he likes big dicks.
Hinata’s dick is perhaps the biggest Kageyama has seen; and he’s hooked up with more than a few big guys. He feels a blush start on his chest and creep up to his neck and face. Hinata is staring at him in wide-eyed horror. Kageyama quickly gets up from his seat and bolts to the dressing room.
He’s breathing hard, and it seems impossible to catch his breath. It hits him like a truck, the realization that he now finds Hinata attractive . Of course, he had known objectively that Hinata wasn’t ugly, but now he knows. Hinata has a massive cock, and Kageyama finds him attractive. Of course, of course, seeing his friend’s dick is what makes him realize he is hopelessly attracted to him. And then he notices he’s half-hard.
Hinata was right about this photoshoot being awful.
When they get back to campus, Tsukishima and Kageyama walk back to their shared dorm in relative silence. At the beginning of the school year, when the two of them had just met, things between them had been incredibly tense and awkward. They didn’t get along, and they still kind of don’t, but they’ve reached an understanding. And Kageyama likes to think it is thanks to this understanding, that Tsukishima starts to walk in the direction of the library.
“Where are you going?” Kageyama asks.
“I need to finish an essay.”
“Oh. Alright.”
“What? Do you need me to hold your hand all the way to our dorm? You gonna get lost or something?”
“Fuck you.”
“Your eloquence astounds me.”
“Your face astounds me,” Kageyama bites back.
“Why thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment!”
“Whatever. I hope you choke while I’m gone.”
“I hope the library catches on fire and you burn to death.”
“That’s my dream.”
They part ways at last, Tsukishima heading to the heart of campus and Kageyama continuing down the winding path to the athletic dorms. He uses his student ID to swipe into the building and opts to take the elevator up to the fourth floor where his room is. He leans heavily against the wall while he waits for the elevator doors to open, duffle bag hanging off his shoulder. He’s so tired, but anytime he closes his eyes all he can see is Hinata’s dick, as weird as that is.
And when he pictures Hinata’s dick, he pictures it splitting him open, making him claw at the bedsheets and arch his back and scream Hinata’s name. His own dick twitches in his loose sweatpants and he glares down at it. “Traitor,” he mutters. The elevator dings and the doors slide open, allowing Kageyama to step inside and jam his thumb into the button for his floor.
He wonders if Hinata is into dirty talk. He doesn’t quite swear as much as Kageyama, but maybe he’s different in the bedroom. Maybe he just makes a bunch of noise. He would be vocal, Kageyama thinks, since he never shuts up anyway. He’s always liked people who talked a lot in bed. He scratches his balls lazily, debating whether he’s fucked enough in the head to masturbate to his friend’s dick.
Kageyama unlocks his dorm room door and kicks it shut behind him. It’s just like masturbating to a porn star or actor, he decides. He’s just going to be masturbating to Hinata’s dick anyway, not all of him. Plus, it’s not like he’d be able to sleep, as worked up as he is. He drops his duffle bag on his desk chair and shimmies out of his sweats. He’s quick to grab the lube in the top drawer of his dresser, dropping it on his bed. As an afterthought, he drags his desk chair over to the door and wedges it under the doorknob. He’d rather not deal with Tsukishima coming back early and finding Kageyama fucking himself with his fingers.
He gets himself settled on his bed, towel laid out underneath him because there’s no way he’s going to want to change his sheets afterwards. He yanks off his shirt and tosses it to the ground, then grabs a pillow and shoves it under his hips. His dick is already filling up against his thigh in anticipation, so he licks his palm and gives it a few slow strokes to get it fully hard. He thumbs at the slit, grunting as a little bit of precum dribbles out and makes the slide easier. He keeps his movements slowing, wanting to drag out the sensations.
Kageyama lets his mind wander. His eyes slide shut as he relaxes further, wrist twisting when he reaches the head of his dick. He imagines it’s Hinata’s hand wrapped around his cock instead of his own. He thinks of rough, spiker’s callouses, warm hands and slick palms. Hinata’s voice would be rough and low, like he had just woken up. Maybe a little breathy as he strokes Kageyama’s dick. He groans and flips over onto his stomach, pushing his ass into the air.
He grabs the bottle of lube he’d been ignoring and drizzles some over his fingers. His cock hangs heavy between his legs and he aches for friction, but he opts to push one finger into his hole, gasping at the intrusion. Hinata’s fingers are shorter than his, but thicker. Despite not being ready for it, Kageyama forces in a second finger alongside the first. He grunts at the stretch and takes a minute to adjust. Fuck, it feels good. Hinata’s fingers would feel even better, he thinks, as he starts to slowly thrust his own in and out. Those callouses dragging against his walls would be fucking heavenly.
Kageyama jerks his hips forward, causing his cock to drag against his towel. God, he wants to be fucked senseless, absolutely split apart. He wants to drool all over his pillow, tongue lolling out, eyes rolling back in his head. He wants to be reduced to a stuttering mess, his only concern cumming all over himself and making a mess.
He scissors his fingers, then curls them right over his prostate. He moans long and low and starts a bruising assault on that spot. Hinata wouldn’t let up; he’d abuse the fuck out of Kageyama’s prostate, milking him dry, until he’s sobbing with oversensitivity, breath hot in Kageyama’s ear as he whispers praises. He’d grab his cock, hand hot and slick and perfect.
Kageyama presses his face deeper into his mattress and wraps his hand around his dick, stroking fast and hard. “Please,” he groans, “please, fuck.” He rubs over his prostate, hips twitching, and comes all over his fist. He collapses, pulling his fingers out of his ass and wiping them on the towel. He’s breathing heavily, heart racing. He feels hot all over, but satisfied.
He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. Hinata would be a cuddler. Kageyama can picture him curling up on Kageyama’s chest, head tucked under the other’s chin, content and warm and safe. Kageyama wants to run his fingers through Hinata’s hair, scratch his back, hug him tight. It wouldn’t matter that they were covered in sweat and cum and lube; he’d want Hinata in his arms. He sighs at the thought, a smile tugging at his lips. Post-orgasm bliss, he decides, is probably second best only to volleyball.
He lets himself imagine just laying with Hinata for a little longer, imagines pillow talk and soft kisses. Soon, he’ll have to clean everything up and remove the chair from under the doorknob; but for now he lets himself wonder what it would be like to be with Hinata.
When Kageyama had been a third year, Ukai-san and Takeda-sensei had scouted him out for Karasuno’s team. Kageyama hadn’t noticed them at the tournament. He’s never been one to notice the crowd at games. It was the captain of his team, Kindaichi, who had pointed out Ukai and Takeda, directing his gaze towards the black quarter-zip jackets emblazoned with Karasuno’s logo. “Kageyama-kun,” Kindaichi had said, nuding Kageyama in the ribs, “I think you’re being scouted.”
Kageyama had spared a glance towards Uaki and Takeda and then looked back at his captain. “Okay.”
“Don’t you care at all?” Kindaichi sputtered.
“Well, duh, but they’ve already seen the game. There’s no point in being nervous now.”
Kindaichi huffed. “You could at least act a little excited.”
He lifted his fists slightly above his head. “Whoo.”
His captain rolled his eyes and dropped the conversation.
Later, as Kageyama and his high school team were heading back to the bus that would take them to the hotel they were staying at, Ukai and Takeda approached him. “Kageyama? Kageyama Tobio?” Takeda called out.
Kageyama turned, gym bag slung over his shoulder, and stared at them. Kindaichi kicked him in the ass. “Don’t just stare, you moron! Go talk to them! And be respectful!”
He stumbled forward, shot a glare at his captain, and walked towards Ukai and Takeda. “Hello,” he said.
“Hi!” Takeda said brightly. “My name is Takeda Ittetsu, and this is Ukai Keishin.” Ukai nodded. “We’re from the University of Karasuno.”
“Oh. Cool. Uh, nice to meet you,” he said, dropping into a belated bow.
“None of that,” Ukai said, waving his hand. “I’m the coach for the men’s volleyball team. Takeda-sensei is an adjunct professor there who helps with managing the team. Are you interested in playing volleyball beyond high school?”
“I want to play professionally, Ukai-san.”
“I think you have what it takes,” Ukai said, grinning. Kageyama felt hope bloom in his chest and flushed at the praise. “But your teamwork is shit.”
Kageyama balked.
“What Ukai-kun meant,” Takeda hurried to add, “Is that you have matched raw potential, but your teamwork skills are a little lacking.”
“I work just fine with my team,” he mumbled. He had at least gotten better since he was a first year.
Ukai snorted. “I saw that little spat on the court between you and that wing spiker, number six.”
Kageyama frowned. Konishi was a second year student and they had been playing together for about two years at that point. And yet, Konishi still had trouble keeping up with Kageyama’s tosses, and Kageyama refused to hold back. “Konishi needs to work harder.”
“It’s not Konishi that we’re interested in. It’s you. I’m ready to offer you a spot as the starting setter on our team, one one condition,” Ukai told him.
He gripped the strap on his gym bag tighter. “What’s the condition?”
“You refine your teamwork. Takeda-sensei and I will come to a few more of your games this season to check on your progress. No matter what, we’ll still offer you a place on our team. I see great potential in you. But if your teamwork improves, you’ll be in the starting line up.
“How can I do that? I mean, how can I show that I’ve been working on my teamwork?”
“That’s up to you to decide,” Takeda said. “We’ll know if you’ve been working on it when we see you play. I hope to see you at Karasuno in a few months, Kageyama-kun.”
“Uh, you, too. I mean, I hope I’ll see you both soon, too,” he said awkwardly.
He had tried to improve his teamwork. He really did, but in the end Ukai and Takeda didn’t see any real development. Kageyama was still offered a full athletic scholarship to Karasuno as promised, but he had to work to get put on the starting line up. Hinata had made it easy.
Hinata was not attending Karasuno on scholarship like Kageyama was. He had taken the entrance exam and passed by the skin of his teeth, just so he could try out for the volleyball team. Kageyama had been training with the team since he graduated high school. He and Tsukishima were the only first years on the team attending the university on a sports scholarship. Hinata and Yamaguchi had arrived on the first day of tryouts, and Kageyama had underestimated them.
“His name is Hinata Shouyou,” Tsukishima told him as he and Kageyama passed a ball together. “He’s Yamaguchi’s roommate.”
“Your friend Yamaguchi?” Kageyama asked.
“Do you know any other?”
Kageyama sent him an outrageous toss, just for his comment. “He’s so small. Maybe he’s here to be a manager.”
“Yamaguchi said he hasn’t shut up about being the ace of Karasuno.”
Kageyama snorted. “He’ll have to fight Asahi for that title.”
“I don’t think Asahi would put up much of a fight.”
They looked over at their senpai, who was hunched over to look smaller while Noya comforted him. Apparently Asahi had hit a ball right to Noya’s face.
Kageyama and Tsukishima snickered, looked at each other, and then sneered. “Big talk for a tiny guy,” Kageyama muttered and redirected his attention back to warming up with Tsukishima. Then Kageyama set for Hinata, and the world exploded into color.
Hinata and Kageyama hadn’t spoken a single word to each other. Ukai was just having Suga and Kageyama toss to the guys so that he could get a feel for their hitting power. Kageyama had sent Hinata an impossibly quick pass, just to wipe the stupid annoying grin off his face. Hinata had connected with the ball, a perfect line shot.
“That’s gotta be a fluke!” Tanaka yelled. “Do it again!”
So they did. Kageyama sent toss after toss to Hinata, and he connected with every single one. Only about a quarter of the balls landed inbounds, but it was better than anyone else had been able to manage up until that point. Soon it felt like Hinata wasn’t even keeping up with Kageyama; Kageyama was trying to keep up with him.
Ukai stopped them after fifteen minutes. “You, chibi-chan, what’s your name?”
Hinata appeared to bristle under the nickname, but dropped into a bow nonetheless. “Hinata Shouyou, Ukai-san!”
“Kageyama-kun, do you know him?” Ukai asked, arms crossed over his chest.
“No, sir.”
“This is your first time tossing to him?”
“Yes.”
Ukai pursed his lips. “Interesting. Alright, we’re switching to serves!”
Kageyama was impressed with Yamaguchi’s jump float serve. Daichi struggled to receive it, as did Noya, and they were the best receivers on the team. Tsukishima just grinned predatorily every time someone fumbled Yamaguchi’s serve. Hinata’s serve left much to be desired; it was a basic overhand serve with a top spin. It was easy to receive, and he didn’t appear to have any control over it. It also wasn’t very consistent getting over the net.
Kageyama found himself watching Hinata for the rest of tryouts. It seemed he was only a monster when it came to hitting. His receives were sloppy; his tosses were even worse. His blocks were normally late and too low, and he couldn’t read block very well. He focused too much on the ball, and not on the other players. What he lacked in practical experience he made up for in raw talent and enthusiasm. If it were up to Kageyama, he probably would have told Hinata to work on everything else and try out for the team again next year, but it wasn’t up to him, and Ukai brought Yamaguchi and Hinata onto the team.
“Gwah, really?” Hinata beamed when Kiyoko offered the Karasuno jackets to him and Yamaguchi. “We really made it?”
“Yes, welcome to the team,” Daichi said, clapping Hinata on the shoulder.
Hinata’s eyes shone and his face lit up in a too-bright grin. Kageyama scowled and looked away. “You need to work on your serves and your receives. They suck. Your blocking, too.”
Hinata whirled around to glare at him.
“What?” Kageyama asked, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. “Am I wrong?”
Noya laughed, loud and boisterous. “Lighten up, ‘Yama! You guys are our new freak duo!”
“Don’t call me that,” Kageyama sneered at the same time Hinata asked, “Freak what?”
“Freak duo! With your super quick attack, we can rack up a lot of points. No one will be expecting it from you, shorty!”
“Hey!” Hinata snapped. “I’m taller than you!”
“And I’m better at receiving than you,” Noya quipped, sticking out his tongue.
“Enough,” Daichi interrupted before things could escalate. Kageyama saw Suga close his mouth; he probably wanted to instigate Noya and Hinata. “Come on, new team outing.” At Tsukishima’s look of disgust, Daichi added, “I’ll buy everyone meat buns.” No one argued with their captain after that.
Evening practice does not go any better than morning practice had. Rather than fucking up every set he sends to Hinata, Kageyama hardly tosses to him at all. He can sense Hinata getting frustrated as he sends toss after toss to Asahi, Tanaka, Tsukishima, or Ennoshita. During a scrimmage at the end of practice, Ukai puts Kageyama, Hinata, Noya, Tanaka, Narita, and Ennoshita on the same team.
Hinata calls for every toss, but Kageyama refuses to even look at him. He keeps setting to Tanaka, Narita, and Ennoshita. He can feel the looks he’s getting from all his teammates as he continues to ignore Hinata. When they’re at match point, with the score 24-21 in favor of the other team, Hinata screams, “Kageyama, left!” when Noya sends the ball in a beautiful arc to Kageyama’s position.
Without thinking, Kageyama sends the ball to Hinata, acting purely on instinct. Hinata flies through the air, back arched beautifully, right arm pulled back like a bow. The bottom of his shirt lifts just enough to reveal the soft skin on his lower back and the trail of light orange hair leading down into his athletic shorts. His tongue pokes out between his teeth and his eyes are squeezed shut. Kageyama watches Hinata’s eyes open as he reaches the apex of his jump, and his palm connects with the ball with a satisfying thump . The ball rockets to the ground on the other side of the net, landing just within the lines near the back of the court.
“Yes!” Hinata cheers, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. He pumps his fists in the air and graciously accepts the double high-fives from Noya and Tanaka. He turns to Kageyama, that wide grin still on his face, and says, “Why haven’t you been tossing to me like that? That was perfect!”
Kageyama scowls. “It’s not always about you.”
Tanaka slings his arm over Kageyama’s shoulders and ruffles his hair. “Well, it’s not always about you either, Kageyama. We work as a team, and you haven’t been tossing to Hinata at all. You need to utilize every weapon in your arsenal.”
He shrugs Tanaka’s arm off his shoulder. “I know that.”
Tanaka grins. “Good!” He jogs back to his place on the court and turns to Narita, giving him a thumbs up. “Nice serve!” he yells as Narita draws his arm back.
Kageyama shakes his head and tries to focus on the game, but his mind wanders to the bit of skin that showed when Hinata jumped, the swell of his biceps as he drew back to hit, his pink tongue sticking out between sharp white teeth. When Ennoshita sends the ball back to him after receiving Tsukishima’s spike, Kageyama fumbles the ball just a bit as he sends it to Tanaka. Tanaka’s hand swings through empty air, but his left arm flails out and sends a high ball back over the net.
“Chance ball!” Daichi yells, easily passing the ball to Suga. Suga sets the ball to Asahi, who hits the ball into the ground, ending the scrimmage with a score of 25-22.
Kageyama balls his hands into fists and turns his back on the winning team.
“Don’t mind, don’t mind,” Ennoshita says to Kageyama.
“Nice recovery, Ryu,” Noya says, eyes sliding over to Kageyama. “You okay, ‘Yama-yama?”
“Fine,” Kageyama grits out. “And don’t call me that.”
“Eh, it was just a practice game anyway, no actual consequences.” Noya looks over at Ukai and flinches. “Well, none that affect our standing in the championship. You may get chewed out by Ukai-san, though.”
Kageyama looks at his coach and sees the barely hidden anger there. He sighs. Ukai had let his poor playing slide this morning, but it looks like he won’t continue to allow it this evening. After a quick debriefing of the scrimmage and what everyone needs to work on, Ukai sends them to the showers, but holds Kageyama back.
“Kageyama-kun,” Ukai starts.
“I know,” Kageyama mutters. “I haven’t played well today, and I wasn’t making the best plays”
His coach rubs his eyes tiredly. “At least you know that you’ve been playing off. What’s causing it? Are you injured?” Ukai’s eyes dart to his hands and shoulders, checking for any obvious bruises or marks. “Did you pull a muscle? You know it’s not safe to play when you’re injured.”
“I’m not hurt!” he rushes to say, afraid of being swapped out of the starting line up. “I just… I’ve been having an off day.”
A pained look crosses Ukai’s face. “Do you… Do you need to like, talk about anything?”
“No!” Kageyama nearly interrupts. Talking to his coach about plays and strategies, sure, but talking to Ukai about how Kageyama can’t stop thinking about Hinata’s cock? Absolutely not.
“Oh, thank god,” Ukai mutters. “I guess we all have off days. Take some time to relax, alright?”
“I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Now get outta here. Eat some dinner and replenish the calories you burned.”
“Yes, sir,” Kageyama says, bending into a bow before making his way to the locker room.
Hinata is absent, as he usually is when it comes to showering in the locker room (although Kageyama now knows why), but the rest of the team is still there, either in the showers or in the process of getting dressed. “Kageyama!” Tanaka yells.
“What,” he says as he pulls his shirt off over his head.
“You have any plans for this weekend?”
“Sulking in the dorm like he usually does,” Tsukishima answers blandly.
Kageyama throws his sweaty socks at him. “No, but whatever you’re planning, no.”
“‘Yama!” Noya whines.
Kageyama interrupts, “Don’t call me that.”
“Ryu and I are gonna throw a party. Suga said he’d invite the girl’s volleyball team,” Noya adds, wiggling his eyebrows.
“I said I’d mention it to the team’s libero, Mori,” Suga corrects.
“Same difference,” Noya says as he flaps his hand dismissively.
“The basketball teams will be there, too. I already texted Okumura,” Tanaka tells him.
“I don’t know any of those names. Is this supposed to make me go? Because it’s not working,” Kageyama says, searching his gym bag for his soap.
“This is your opportunity to meet new people, then!” Tanaka says.
“No, thanks.”
“It’s your opportunity to get laid,” Ennoshita comments, not even looking up from his phone.
Kageyama nearly breaks his neck with how fast he whips around to look at Ennoshita. Asahi seems to be experiencing a similar situation. “What?” Kageyama asks.
“Why you’ve been playing so weird, it’s been a while since you last got laid, hasn’t it?”
“Ennoshita!” Asahi whines. “You can’t just ask that!”
“No, he has a point,” Suga says.
“Suga!” Daichi reprimands.
Suga holds his hands up. “What?”
“It has been a while since he’s spent a night outside the dorm,” Tsukishima points out.
“Oh, Tsukki! Are you keeping track of Kageyama’s sexual activities?” Noya teases.
“Shut up.”
“Is that really why you didn’t play well today?” Kinoshita asks.
Kageyama flushes red.
“Told you,” Ennoshita says and accepts some yen from Narita, Kinoshita, Tanaka, Suga, and Noya. Even Yamaguchi slides him some bills.
“You placed bets on that?” Asahi asks.
“I bet it was because Tsukishima caught him masturbating,” Suga says brightly and grins wide.
“Why would that make me play poorly?” Kageyama snaps.
“Please, never let me catch you doing that,” Tsukishima says, lip curled in disgust.
“You mean you haven’t caught him yet? My roommate my first year caught me during, like, the second week,” Tanaka says.
“That’s because you’re stupid and masturbated at two o’clock in the afternoon,” Noya points out.
“Kageyama is stupid, too!”
“Hey!” Kageyama barks. “I’m not stupid enough to masturbate in my bed at two in the afternoon. I’d use the shower, like any other normal person.”
“Oh my god,” Tsukishima groans. “We share a shower!”
“Are you saying you don’t masturbate in the shower?” Suga asks. “It’s more convenient. Clean yourself and your mess at the same time.”
“Suga!” Daichi shouts and slaps his hand over Suga’s mouth. “You’re supposed to be a good example for the underclassmen!”
“I was just saying,” he says as he pries Daichi’s hand off from over his mouth. “I thought Tsukishima would be all about efficiency. Masturbating in the shower is efficient!”
“We are not discussing my masturbation habits,” Tsukishima mumbles, face turning pink.
“But it’s okay to discuss mine?” Kageyama mutters.
“You’re the only one still talking about them!” Tsukishima says as he rolls his eyes.
“Anyway!” Noya interrupts. “Party, Saturday night, are you gonna come?”
“So you can come,” Tanaka teases lewdly.
“Come on, man, gross,” Kinoshita says, shoving Tanaka’s face.
Kageyama ignores them all and just gets in the shower. Noya rips back the curtain, and Kageyama absolutely does not scream. “You’re gonna come, right?”
“If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”
“For now, yes.”
“Then yes!” he growls and yanks the curtain closed again.
He can hear Tanaka exclaim, “Noya! We can help Kageyama choose someone to hook up with so he can play well again!”
He considers beating his head against the wall until he’s dead.
On Wednesday, when Ennoshita, Tanaka, Noya, and Kageyama are getting lunch after their Japanese lit class, Tanaka slams a notebook and a pencil down on the table. “Alright, ‘Yama,” he begins.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Alright, Kageyama-kun,” he starts again. “This is Operation: Get Kageyama Laid So We Can Win All Japan.” He writes that in bold kanji at the top of the notebook page.
“We are not doing this,” Kageyama says darkly.
“Doing what?” Hinata asks, pushing Kageyama over so he can sit at the table with his own tray of food. Kageyama is very aware of Hinata’s body right next to his. If he spread his legs a little more, their thighs would touch, and they’re already knocking elbows as they shovel food into their mouths.
“How was algebra?” Ennoshita asks Hinata.
Hinata drops his head on the table.
“We’re not talking about math right now, Enno-kun,” Noya declares as he waves his hand. “We’re talking about getting Kageyama laid.”
Hinata tenses and then appears to force himself to relax. He tilts his head to the side and Kageyama has to tear his eyes away from his Adam’s apple. “Weren’t you guys convinced Kageyama didn’t even have a dick until, like, last week?”
“Well, now we know better, and we figured out that he hasn’t been playing well because he hasn’t had sex in a while.”
“You missed some things after practice on Monday,” Ennoshita tells Hinata.
“Noya and I are throwing a party and our mission is to get ‘Yama laid so he can play well again.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“He played alright today,” Hinata comments. Kageyama pretends he doesn’t preen a little under the praise.
“See? You don’t need to help me get laid,” Kageyama says. “I’ve been playing fine.”
“Ah-ah. But you could be playing better,” Noya explains.
“So,” Tanaka says, picking up his pencil, “what’s your type?”
“My type?”
“Yeah, what kind of girls do you like?”
Kageyama makes a face. “You think I’m into girls?”
Noya laughs. “That’s fair. Alright, what type of guy do you like?”
Kageyama can feel the blush climbing up his cheeks and chest. He crosses his arms and ducks his head down. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Do it for the team!” Tanaka urges. “I wanna win All Japan this year! And we can’t do that unless you get laid!”
“So the team’s success lies on my dick getting wet?”
“Yes!”
“And what if you can’t get me laid?”
“We’ll just have Hinata take one for the team,” Noya says seriously.
Hinata chokes on his water. “What?”
Kageyama holds very still.
“If we can’t get Kageyama laid, I’m electing you to be Kageyama’s sexual outlet. You’ll have to let him fuck you,” Noya clarifies.
Ennoshita snorts. “You think Kageyama is a top?”
“How do you know what Kageyama is?” Tanaka asks.
“I’m perceptive.” He turns to Kageyama. “Am I wrong?”
Kageyama bares his teeth at him and then turns back to Noya. “Hinata doesn’t even like men.”
“That’s your only issue with his plan?” Ennoshita asks, and Kageyama kicks him under the table.
“I like both,” Hinata says quietly while Ennoshita and Kageyama argue.
“What?” Kageyama asks, chopsticks paused over Ennoshita’s hand from where he was going to stab him.
“I like guys and girls,” he repeats.
Kageyama’s brain short circuits. Hinata likes men. Hinata likes men. Hinata likes men. Part of him had figured that Hinata was straight and that’s why he would never have a chance to sleep with him; but now he knows Hinata is not straight. He likes men, too, which means he could- in theory- be attracted to Kageyama. Even just that thought has his dick twitching in interest, and he digs his fingers into his legs, nails scratching over denim.
His thought process is interrupted by Ennoshita. “You can’t whore out our kouhai, Noya-kun. Find a different plan B.”
Noya huffs out a breath, his blond bangs fluttering with the force of it. “Fine. Plan A is get Kageyama laid at the party this weekend. Plan B is send him some porn. Plan C is have Hinata fuck Kageyama.”
“I like those plans,” Tanaka says, dutifully writing them down in his notebook. “Back to Plan A. What’s your type, Kageyama? I already have a few guys in mind. There’s this guy in my math class-”
“I think he’d prefer someone on the basketball team. Those guys are pretty tall,” Noya comments.
“No, no, hear me out. This guy- his name’s Osamu- he’s nice! He’s got a good ass. I’ll have to text him and invite my math class.”
“Will this many people fit in your dinky little apartment?” Ennoshita asks.
“We’ll make it work,” Tanaka and Noya answer at the same time.
“Average height,” Kageyama says gruffly.
“Huh?” Noya grunts.
“I like it when they’re a little shorter than me, so average height.”
“Osamu is about an inch shorter than you, I think,” Tanaka says. “What else?”
“Uh, strong. I like… strong guys.” He thinks of the swell of Hinata’s biceps, the curve of his waist up into a muscled back, strong traps and shoulders, thick thighs. He swallows. “Brown eyes. Athletic.”
“Osamu checks all those boxes. I think you’ll like him,” Tanaka says nodding. He pulls out his phone and his thumbs start flying over the keyboard, presumably texting his math class. “If we can get you laid, we can win All Japan.”
“I still think your logic is flawed,” Ennoshita adds.
“If Plan A and Plan B fail, at least Hinata also fits your type,” Noya observes offhandedly.
Both Hinata and Kageyama choke on their food.
As Kageyama and Tsukishima are walking back to their dorm after Wednesday evening’s practice, long after Hinata and Yamaguchi had left the roommates behind to work on their serves, Kageyama’s phone buzzes with a text.
19:26
tangerine: wanna get dinner at that hotpot place off campus?
Kageyama frowns at his phone, causing Tsukishima to glance over at him. “You forget how to read or something?”
He glowers at him and taps out a response to Hinata.
milk slut: I thought you were working on homework
tangerine: yama!!
tangerine: if i work on homework any longer i will literally die
milk slut: I’ll meet you at your dorm
He slides his phone back into his pocket. “I’m getting dinner with Hinata. I’ll see you later.”
Tsukishima gives him an odd look, but says, “Whatever.”
Kageyama splits off towards Hinata and Yamaguchi’s dorm. The evening air is cool, and the streetlamps are just starting to flicker on, casting yellow light across the sidewalks. The walk to Hinata’s dorm from the gym is much longer than Kageyama’s walk to his own place in the athletic residence hall. He wonders how Hinata manages to get back to his room to shower after morning practice and still make it to their psych lecture on time. He must run the whole way. No wonder his stamina is impressive. Kageyama wonders if that translates to the bedroom. He shakes his head, physically dispelling the thought. His playing has gotten better since Monday, but he’s still not at the same caliber as he was before becoming obsessed with Hinata’s cock.
Kageyama scuffs his feet on the pavement as he walks. He’s never let sex interfere with volleyball. Sex has always been an additional outlet for his pent up frustrations. He doesn’t like the gooey, emotional stuff he’s seen in movies that his older sister forced him to watch with her. He’s been attracted to people on his team before. When he was a first year in high school, Kageyama had a crush on his captain, Oikawa; but he was still able to play to the best of his ability. Then his third year he had that weird thing with one of the wing spikers on his team, Konishi. They had messed around for a little bit towards the end of Kageyama’s third year, but it had never distracted Kageyama on the court. He wonders what it is about Hinata that has him flubbing tosses.
Miwa would say it’s because he and Hinata have history. Kageyama thinks it’s because everything with Hinata has always been different, so of course this would be, too. Maybe if they fuck Kageyama can get it out of his system and he can focus again. Just a one and done thing. Something tells him Hinata isn’t a one and done type of guy, though. He probably has sex for the emotions. Ugh. Gross.
None of it matters, though. Even though Hinata may be Kageyama’s type (small, built, huge fucking cock) doesn’t mean Kageyama is his. He didn’t even know Hinata was into men until today. That makes it worse, almost. There’s a difference between wanting someone he can’t have because they aren’t attracted to his gender and wanting someone who is attracted to his gender, just not to him. Kageyama is usually good at getting what he wants, sex-wise. He’s good at getting guys to take him home, he’s good at sex, he’s good at making people feel good. Or at least he’s decent. None of his past partners have complained. Kageyama is sure he could seduce Hinata. In fact, he already has at least seven well-thought out plans in order to do so; but he won’t act on any of them.
It all boils down to this: Hinata is different. Kageyama doesn’t want to trick him into bed with him. He wants Hinata to come to him; to want this as much as he does. He wants Hinata to make the first move; to prove he aches for this, too.
But he won’t. Kageyama knows he won’t.
Because while Hinata may be into men, he is not into Kageyama. How could he be? Hinata probably likes boys who are bright and happy, who exude joy and optimism. Kageyama… does not fit that type. He gives off scary vibes, according to Noya. He scares children. His glare can curdle milk. His torso is too long; his hair too straight to do anything fun with. His eyes are a flat navy blue, and while that may get other guys going, it certainly doesn’t get Hinata all hot and bothered. Not the way Kageyama gets all hot thinking about Hinata.
Kageyama squints past the light from the streetlamps, hoping to catch a glimpse of the stars, but there’s too much light pollution. He focuses back on the sidewalk in front of him, on Hinata’s dorm building looming up in front of him. He uses his student ID to swipe into the building and takes the stairs two at a time up to the third floor. He walks down the hall until he comes to room 329 and knocks three times.
Hinata opens the door before he can even drop his hand. He grabs Kageyama’s wrist and drags him back to the stairwell. “Come on! I’m starving!”
“How far is this place?” Kageyama asks, entirely too focused on Hinata’s fingers right over his pulse point.
“About ten minutes on bike.”
“I don’t have a bike.”
They burst through the doors and out onto the sidewalk. Hinata leads them over to the bike rack as he says, “I do. You can just ride on the back.”
Kageyama blanches and pulls his hand out of Hinata’s grip. “What? No!”
“Why not? We won’t fall. Natsu used to ride on the back of my bike all the time.”
“I’m heavier than your baby sister.”
“I can adjust.”
“Hinata-”
Hinata looks up from unlocking the chain looped around his bike. “It’s faster and it’s already late. I’m literally about to die from starvation.” As if to prove his point, his stomach growls loudly.
Kageyama sighs. “Fine, but I’m not sitting on your handlebars like some damsel in distress or whatever.”
“I said the back. And besides, no one could mistake you for a damsel in distress.”
“Hey!” he grumbles, grabbing Hinata by the back of his neck. His skin is warm and the baby hairs at the nape of his neck are soft to the touch. He yanks his hand away like it burned him.
“There are some footholds there on the back wheel,” Hinata says, swinging his leg over the bike.
Kageyama looks at the wheel and sure enough, there are two silver tubes poking out from the center. He can stand on those and hold onto Hinata’s shoulders for balance. It shouldn’t be too bad.
Except it is. It’s so bad.
Hinata takes his turns too sharply, and Kageyama struggles to stay balanced on the bike, nails digging into Hinata’s shoulders. “Ow! Kageyama!”
“Slow down!” he yells as Hinata takes another turn too quickly.
Kageyama ducks down and buries his head in Hinata’s hair. It smells like strawberries and Hinata. He jerks back just as quickly, and his movements cause the two of them to topple over into the grass.
Kageyama lands on his back, his bag between him and the ground. Hinata has landed between his legs, their pelvises pressed together. Hinata’s hands bracket Kageyama’s head, and their faces are so close Kageyama can feel Hinata’s breath across his lips. He squeezes his eyes shut tight. “I told you that you were going too fast,” he mumbles.
“Sorry,” Hinata says just as quietly. “I guess you are just a bit heavier than Natsu.”
Kageyama can feel Hinata’s chest against his with each inhale. “You guess?” Hinata shifts against him, his hips pushing down more firmly against Kageyama’s. Kageyama feels like he might burst into flames. “Hinata.”
“Yeah?” His breath fans over Kageyama’s lips and cheeks. It’s warm and smells like caramel, probably from the candy he always keeps in his bag.
Kageyama finally opens his eyes and finds Hinata staring right at him. His brown eyes are wide, pupils slightly dilated. He’s close enough that Kageyama can see the flecks of green and gold in his irises and the faint freckles across his nose and cheekbones. If he were to move his head forward even a centimeter, their lips would brush. He holds so still his left leg cramps up. “Um, hot pot?” he says, and his voice comes out hoarse.
“Right,” Hinata whispers, but he still doesn’t move. He brushes Kageyama’s bangs out of his face and tucks them behind his ear. Hinata’s hand lingers behind his ear; cupping the back of his neck, nails scratching over his scalp. “Hot pot.” He finally sits back on his haunches and then climbs to his feet. He brushes the grass off his jeans and reaches his hand out to Kageyama.
Kageyama takes it and Hinata holds onto his hand for just a moment too long once he’s stood up. They walk the rest of the way to the restaurant.
Once they have settled into their seats and placed their drink orders, an awkward silence falls. But Hinata, ever the genius, decides to blurt out, “So, are you gonna, uh, date that guy Tanaka-san was talking about at lunch today?”
Kageyama looks up from where he was glaring at his glass of water. “Osamu?”
“Was that his name?” Hinata asks just a bit too airily. He’s crumpling and uncrumpling his straw wrapper and pointedly not looking at Kageyama.
“Yeah, I dunno. I’m not gonna date him, but I might- you know.”
Hinata tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t you date him?”
“I’ve never dated anybody. Why would I start now?”
“What do you mean you’ve never dated anyone?”
“I mean I’ve never dated anyone!”
“But you aren’t- wait, are you?”
“Am I what?” Kageyama snaps, growing tired of the conversation.
Hinata’s voice drops to a whisper and he leans across the table. “A virgin.”
Kageyama jerks back, elbows connecting with the bench behind him. “No! What does that- Idiot!”
“But, if you weren’t in a relationship, how did you-”
“It was just some random guy from a different school when I was a first year in high school,” Kageyama explains quickly. He doesn’t like thinking about his first time, or the guy who took his virginity. “We never dated.”
“What was his name?”
Kageyama shrugs. “I dunno.”
“You can’t remember his name?”
He remembers everything. “Why do you care?”
Hinata looks down at his hands. “I realized today that we don’t talk about this kind of stuff.”
“Why does it matter if we do?”
“Best friends talk about this kind of stuff.”
Kageyama opens his mouth to reply, but then snaps it shut. He frowns. “Best friends?”
“I mean, we are, aren’t we?”
“I’ve- I’ve never had a best friend before.”
“Really?”
Kageyama looks down at his hands. “I don’t get along with people.”
“We get along!”
“You’re different,” Kageyama says too quickly. “Who was your first?” he adds, hoping the question will distract Hinata from the blush creeping up his cheeks.
“First what?”
“You know.”
“Oh! Um. Well, the first girl was my girlfriend when I was a second year. Her name is Ono. We only dated for three months.”
“And the guy?” Kageyama asks. When Hinata pauses for too long, he says, “Have you never-”
“I have,” Hinata interrupts. “It was… It was Kenma. We, uh, dated for a little bit after Ono and I broke up.”
“Kenma? The setter from your high school team?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“And you guys still talk?”
“Well, yeah! He’s my best friend from back home. I wouldn’t stop talking to him just because things didn’t end well for us as a couple.”
“That’s…” Kageyama thinks of Konishi, the wing spiker from his high school team. The friends with benefits arrangement they had had ended with a black eye for Kageyama and a bloody nose for Konishi; and Kageyama hasn’t spoken to him since. He remembers the random hookup from the beginning of the year who had gotten angry when Kageyama had said he didn’t want a relationship. He remembers Terushima. Kageyama doesn’t speak to anybody he has slept with before, even if things didn’t necessarily end poorly for them. “Do you still talk to all your ex’s?”
“I mean, I keep tabs on them. I obviously still talk to Kenma. Ono is going to university in Hokkaido, and Atsumu is playing volleyball at a university in Kyoto.”
“Atsumu?”
“He went to a high school near mine. We dated for a few weeks before I moved to come here, when he was back for the summer after his first year of college. He actually has a twin named Osamu.” Hinata makes a face that Kageyama can’t interpret.
“Miya Atsumu?” Kageyama asks.
Hinata looks up from the table. “You know him?”
“Yeah. We went to a volleyball camp together when we were in high school. He’s a setter, too, right?”
“Yep.”
“Do you have a thing for setters or something?”
Hinata’s face turns pink. “Shut up!”
Kageyama smirks. “You totally do,” he teases, and then stops short. Apparently he was wrong about Hinata’s type. From what he’s heard about Kenma and from what he knows about Atsumu, they are not all sunshine and rainbows. Atsumu was annoying at the training camp and according to Hinata, Kenma is not the biggest fan of people. This isn’t good. This is giving Kageyama hope. Hope he cannot afford to have if he wants to stay focused during games and practices.
“So what if I do?” Hinata mutters, face still rosy.
Kageyama is saved from stuttering through a reply by the waitress coming to take their orders. Once she’s gone, Hinata steers the conversation away from the talk of ex’s, and for once, Kageyama is grateful for his evasion skills.
All too soon, Kageyama finds himself fidgeting with his fingers while he sits on his bed with Hinata and Yamaguchi, waiting for Tsukishima to finish getting dressed. Surprisingly, when it comes to getting ready to go out, Kageyama and Tsukishima take the longest. Hinata simply doesn’t care if he looks good or not; he just throws on something comfortable and is ready to go. Even tonight, he’s wearing block joggers, stained with bleach from a laundry mishap, with a wrinkled highlighter yellow hoodie. His socks, which Kageyama can see poking out above his abused high tops, don’t even match. Perhaps the only saving grace of the outfit is the black beanie he’s shoved over his obnoxiously orange head. It at least tones down the offensive contrast between Hinata’s hair and hoodie.
Kageyama suspects the beanie is being worn at Yamaguchi’s suggestion, because while Hinata gets dressed quickly because he doesn’t care, Yamaguchi gets dressed quickly because he knows what he’s doing. He’s wearing straight, black jeans that end just above his ankle; there’s a silver chain linking two of his belt loops together. He’s got a vertically striped, colorful shirt tucked into the front of his pants and a blue denim jacket over top of that. His hair is pulled back from his face in a messy bun on the crown of his head. Chunky white shoes with white mid-rise socks finish off the whole outfit. He looks effortlessly casual, and Kageyama is truthfully a little jealous.
If Kageyama had Yamaguchi’s fashion sense, he’d probably be able to get ready just as fast. He doesn’t, however, so whenever he goes out, he struggles with getting dressed for at least forty-five minutes. It’s a horrible combination of wanting to look good but having no idea how to achieve that. He blames it on his older sister, who would rib him constantly about his outfits when he was in high school; to the point that he started putting in an effort, if only to avoid Miwa’s comments. Luckily, he can tell what looks good and what looks bad once he’s wearing it, so getting dressed is just a matter of cycling through outfits until he finds one that looks okay. Tonight, he’s settled on slim straight black jeans ending loosely above his white converse. The grey hoodie he’s wearing has definitely seen better days; the cuffs at his wrists are torn and chewed on, but it’s comfortable and the navy blue flannel he’s got on over the hoodie covers the frayed fabric. It’s one of his safe outfits, one his sister hadn’t scolded nor applauded when he wore it.
Tsukishima takes the longest to get dressed because he cares too much and his fashion sense is that of an eight-year-old boy with an unhealthy obsession with bugs. He tries on outfit after outfit, each time believing it’s perfect, only to be shot down by Yamaguchi and then Kageyama once he’s finished getting dressed as well. After about an hour of Tsukishima trying on terrifying outfits, Yamaguchi steps in and makes miracles happen in the depths of Tsukishima’s wardrobe. Yamaguchi has styled Tsukishima in some straight khakis and grey high-top Vans. He found a white collared polo and shoved a forest green crewneck over that. It takes him ten minutes.
“That’s the quickest yet, Yamaguchi!” Hinata chirps as he stops the timer he had going on his phone. Kageyama watches as he dutifully adds the time to his notes app along with the date. “You just beat out the athlete dinner we had to attend two months ago.”
“Nice job,” Kageyama tells him. Tsukishima shoots him a glare that Kageyama ignores.
“Are we ready?” Hinata asks, pushing himself off Kageyama’s bed. He pats down his pockets to make sure he has everything and then turns to grin brightly at the three of them. “Let’s go!”
The walk to Tanaka and Noya’s apartment takes twenty minutes, most of which is spent with Hinata and Yamaguchi talking enough for the four of them. Kageyama occasionally grunts to show he’s listening and Tsukishima never seems like he’s listening until he chimes in to either call Hinata an idiot or to tell Yamaguchi to shut up. The minute the four of them walk into the already crowded apartment, Suga shoves a dark brown glass bottle into each of their hands.
“Suga!” Daichi bellows from across the room. “Stop giving drinks to the underclassmen!”
“Eat my ass!” Suga calls back happily and offers a bottle opener to them. Kageyama watches as Daichi begins to push his way towards them and decides that’s his time to bail. He hooks his fingers into Hinata’s hood and pulls him towards the kitchen. As they pass the main room, he can see that it’s already packed full of bodies. He recognizes a few people on the basketball and baseball teams from his Japanese lit class. He spots Asahi and Narita tucked away in a corner, talking quietly to each other. Out on the tiny balcony he sees Tanaka lighting a bowl with Ennoshita and a few others.
From behind him, Hinata leans up to shout into his ear, “Wanna come with me to the kitchen for a drink?”
Neither of them are the biggest fans of beer, at least not to start the night out with, so Kageyama nods his assent and continues to weave his way towards the kitchen. He’s positive there will be a bucket full of jungle juice there. If Noya is known for anything, it’s his lethal jungle juice, which he learned about from his cousin who attends school in America. Just as he thought, there’s a storage bin full of red juice right behind a few cheerleaders, who are abusing Noya and Tanaka’s blender to make milkshakes with a concerning amount of vodka in them. They pay no mind to Hinata and Kageyama squeezing past them to get their drinks.
Hinata hands two cups to Kageyama and says, “Try to get some pineapple in my cup!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. Hinata likes to have some of the fruit that’s floating in the juice, but Kageyama doesn’t. He fills both of their cups to the top, making sure there’s a sufficient amount of pineapple in Hinata’s. He follows Hinata back out to the living room. Knowing Tanaka, once he’s finished smoking his bowl, he’ll want to play some drinking games, and he’ll rope all the first years into it. At the last party he and Noya threw, he sat on Tsukishima to make sure he played Never Have I Ever. Kageyama decided then it was probably best to just go along with whatever Tanaka wanted at parties, lest he be sat on as well.
“Kageyama!” someone yells, and he looks around for the speaker. Kinoshita is waving at him from the sliding doors that lead to the balcony. “Over here!” Kageyama pushes his way towards the balcony, Hinata now following in his wake. “Tanaka wanted to talk to you,” Kinoshita says when Kageyama reaches him.
Tanaka grins broadly at Kageyama when he sees him. “Yama-yama!” he shouts, throwing his arms in the air.
“Shit, Ryu! Be careful, you’ll dump the bud!” Ennoshita snaps, jerking forward to take the bowl out of his hands.
Tanaka waves him off and hands him the lighter. “This is Osamu!” he says and steps aside to gesture to the guy next to him.
Osamu is about an inch shorter than Kageyama, with dyed gray hair and gray eyes. He’s broad across the shoulders with a slimmer waist and muscular thighs. He’s attractive in a subtle way. He smiles rakishly at Kageyama as he lifts his own red solo cup to his lips.
“Osamu, this is Kageyama! He’s the setter on our team I was telling you about,” Tanaka introduces. “Oh, and that’s Hinata behind him, one of our middle blockers.”
Kageyama inclines his head in a nod towards Osamu, who’s jaw had dropped open when Tanaka introduced Hinata. “Sho-chan?”
“Wait, what?” Kageyama looks back at Hinata and finds he’s staring at Osamu with wide eyes. “You guys- You guys know each other?”
“I dated his brother, remember?” Hinata mumbles, his cheeks flushing.
Kageyama turns back to Osamu. “Atsumu is your brother?”
Osamu makes a face. “Unfortunately.”
“I’ll leave you two at it then!” Tanaka tells them, and grabs Ennoshita by the wrist and Hinata by the collar to pull them back into the apartment. As they leave, Kageyama can hear Ennoshita complaining about not finishing the bowl. “You can finish it in the apartment,” Tanaka says, and then Osamu and Kageyama are alone.
“So yer a setter, right?” Osamu asks. It seems he’s willing to brush right past his acknowledgement of Hinata, and Kageyama is more than happy to follow his lead.
“Yeah. I’m the starting setter for the volleyball team.” It’s quieter out on the balcony, but Kageyama can still hear and feel the music from inside the apartment, a constant buzz in the background. He takes a sip from his drink and is happy that he can barely taste the metric fuckton of alcohol he knows is in his cup.
Osamu’s eyebrows lift. “Yer a first year starter?”
“Yes.”
“Impressive. Even ‘Tsumu didn’t start his first year.”
“Maybe he should have worked harder then.”
Osamu grins at him, bright and playful. “Don’t ever let my brother hear ya say that. He’ll lose his shit.”
“You played in high school too, right?” Kageyama can remember Atsumu mentioning a brother at the training camp.
“Yep. Opposite hitter.”
“Do you still play?”
“Nah. Listen, I don’t wanna spend the whole night beating ‘round the bush. Tanaka told me you needa get laid, and I’m more than happy to oblige.” He gives Kageyama an approving onceover, mouth quirking up at the corners. “I don’t wanna relationship, though, so if that’s what yer after, we can end this here.”
Kageyama scrunches up his nose. “That’s not what I want.”
“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.” Osamu takes a step closer and sets his cup down on the ground. He peers up at Kageyama, fingers finding their way to his belt loops. “Alright if I kiss ya?”
Kageyama nods, and then Osamu is grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him down to meet his lips. On principle, Kageyama hates first kisses. He can never tell what type of kisser a person is; how they feel about tongue or teeth, if they’re sloppy with it or slow and methodical. It usually takes him a couple of seconds to sync up with the other person. Osamu’s lips are soft and wet. He tastes a little like beer and mint gum. He wastes no time running his tongue along Kageyama’s bottom lip, and Kageyama drops his jaw open to let him in. Okay, so Osamu likes to take charge. Luckily, Kageyama likes to relinquish control in these kinds of situations. He sighs as Osamu traces his tongue over the back of his teeth, and raises the hand not holding his cup to settle it on Osamu’s hip. Osamu makes a soft noise in the back of his throat when Kageyama sneaks his thumb under his thin t-shirt to massage over the skin on his side.
As far as first kisses go, this one isn’t bad. Kageyama latches his teeth onto Osamu’s bottom lip and pulls back, dragging his teeth over the plump flesh as he retreats.
Osamu licks his lips and looks at Kageyama with his pupils blown wide. “Not bad,” he comments.
“Um, thanks?” Kageyama says, still rubbing his thumb over Osamu’s hip. He drains half his cup in one go, eyes flickering over Osamu’s face
“I would love nothin’ more than to take ya home right now,” Osamu begins, and Kageyama is ready to agree until he continues, “but I think we should stay for just a little bit longer, for appearances sake.”
Kageyama frowns, but upon further consideration realizes that Noya and Tanaka would probably crucify him if he left this early, dick appointment notwithstanding. “Okay.”
He leans in close again, lips right against Kageyama’s ear. “But believe me, as soon as I can, I’m taking you home and fucking you into the mattress.” Kageyama shudders and nods. Osamu nips as his earlobe before he steps back. “Wanna head back inside, drink for a little bit?”
“Yeah,” Kageyama answers, voice a little hoarse. He’s never been this easy to rile up. It must be his recent dry spell combined with his pining for Hinata’s dick. He takes another sip from his drink. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Osamu grins, trails his hand down Kageyama’s arm, and then leads him inside. The party is just getting into full swing now. Kageyama knows the entire men’s volleyball team is there and he can see the majority of the girls team. He recognizes some hockey players, some more basketball players, and even some rugby players. Suga is setting up a table for beer pong and he looks up as soon as Kageyama and Osamu come back from the balcony.
“Kageyama!” he shouts, voice loud and clear despite the volume of the music. “Come play with Noya and I!”
“Teammate of yours?” Osamu asks.
“Yeah, he’s the other setter. Wanna be my partner?”
“‘Course. We’ll crush ‘em. Want another drink first?”
“Yeah. Um, surprise me.”
“Sure,” he says, and heads toward the kitchen.
Kageyama walks over to Suga and Noya, who have just finished setting up all the cups. Hinata appears beside him. “Need a partner?” he asks, mouth slightly red from the jungle juice. His eyes look a little glassy; he’s never held his alcohol well.
“Osamu is playing with me. He’s getting me a drink now,” Kageyama says.
“Oh.” Hinata taps his fingers against his plastic cup. “What do you think of him?”
“He’s nice.”
“Just nice?”
Kageyama shrugs. “Yeah.”
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic about it,” Hinata presses.
“What does it matter to you?”
Hinata frowns. “Shouldn’t you have to more to say about someone you’re gonna have sex with?”
“Dumbass!”
“How am I the dumbass?” he bites.
“Kageyama!” Osamu calls, waving two cans of Kirin lager in the air. He hands one to Kageyama and keeps the other for himself, and then smiles at Hinata. “Hello again, Sho-chan.”
Hinata looks up at Kageyama with a hard glint in his eyes. “I’ll talk to you later, Tobio-chan.”
Kageyama watches him walk away, a frown on his face. Hinata has never called him that before. He’s not sure what to make of it.
Osamu, apparently, doesn’t either. “I’ve never heard Shouyou talk like that.”
Kageyama is about to respond, but Noya yells, “Oi! You ready? Suga and I get the first turn!”
“What?” Kageyama says, his competitive streak making him forget about Hinata’s behavior. He pops the tab on his beer can. “How is that fair?”
“We’re your senpai,” Suga answers.
“Why don’t we arm wrestle for it?” Osamu suggests.
“Oh, you’re on!” Noya exclaims and rolls up his sleeves. Osmau hands his beer to Kageyama and positions himself across the table from Noya.
“Hey, Ennoshita!” Suga shouts. “Come referee this match!”
Ennoshita looks up slowly from his seat on the couch. His eyes are red and almost completely closed. Kageyama doesn’t think he has the brain capacity currently to fairly judge the match, but Ennoshita stands up, albeit a bit wobbly. Tanaka falls off from his half-perch on Ennoshita’s lap. He shuffles over to the pong table and steadies himself with a hand on Suga’s shoulder. “Okay,” he says once Noya and Osamu have grabbed each other’s hands. “On my- On my count. Three, two, one!”
At first, neither of their arms budge. Kageyama watches their muscles flex. Osamu’s bicep bulges out, stretching his shirt sleeve. A tendon pops out in his neck, and Kageyama has the urge to bite it. Later, he tells himself. Osamu gives about an inch to Noya, and Noya grins toothily. Osamu looks up at Kageyama, gives him a wink, and then slams Noya’s hand onto the table. The cups rattle in their places and Noya makes a noise of surprise.
“Noya loses,” Ennoshita declares and walks back to the couch to fall on top of Tanaka.
“God damn it, Noya,” Suga moans.
“Don’t tell Ryu!” Noya hisses when he gets back up. Suga grins, and Kageyama knows he will absolutely tell Tanaka. Nonetheless, he hands the ping pong balls to Osamu.
Osamu takes them and smiles at Kageyama. “Ready to crush ‘em?”
“Absolutely.”
Kageyama is significantly drunker than he had been an hour and a half ago. He’s unsteady on his feet and his words are slurring slightly. After beating Suga and Noya at beer pong and finishing the beer Osamu had gotten him, Yamaguchi had roped him into doing some shots with him and Tsukishima. There had been another two beers after that, and he’s nursing his fourth with Osamu just outside the kitchen when Tanaka bellows, “HEY!” He’s climbed onto his coffee table, red solo cup held high over his head. “Truth or dare! Let’s go!”
Noya launches himself at Asahi before he can make a speedy escape, and Suga forces Daichi to the ground around the already loosely formed circle. Tanaka grabs Hinata’s wrist, who in turn latches himself onto Yamaguchi, who snags the back of Tsukishima’s shirt. They all go tumbling down outside the circle, but people scoot out to make room for them. Ennoshita shoves Kageayama from behind, causing him and Osamu to stumble into the center of the circle.
“Over here!” Suga waves as he and Daichi move backwards to make room for Osamu and Kageyama. Kageyama sits between Osamu and Suga, and consequently directly across from Hinata. Hinata won’t look at him. Ennoshita flops down next to Hinata and loops his arm around his shoulders, leaning down to whisper in his ear. Hinata nods and takes a sip of his drink, glancing over at Kageyama. Kageyama narrows his eyes.
Four more people from other teams join the circle, bringing the total to fifteen.
Tanaka places an empty vodka bottle in the center of the circle. “I’ll start!” he announces, and spins the bottle. It lands on Asahi. “Asahi-san!” he cheers.
Asahi pales. “Please, no.”
“Truth or dare?”
“Tanaka-kun, please-”
“Truth or dare,” he repeats, grinning ferally.
Asahi gulps. “Truth.”
“What’s the most rounds you’ve gone?”
Asahi turns bright red and buries his face in his hands. Suga laughs, throwing his head back and clutching his stomach. “Our faint hearted ace!” Suga sings, lifting his cup up.
“Do I have to?” Asahi asks, hands still covering his face.
“Those are the rules,” Daichi says.
“You’re supposed to be on my side!” Asahi moans.
“Just answer the question, Asahi-san,” Noya whines, jabbing him with his elbow.
He takes a deep breath and mutters, “Five.”
Noya and Suga cheer while Daichi leans over to pat Asahi on the back. “There, there, big guy,” he soothes. “It’s so embarrassing to have the stamina of a college athlete and the refractory period of a sixteen-year-old boy. Your lovers must be so disappointed.”
“Daichi!”
“Spin the bottle!” Suga demands.
Asahi does, and it lands on Tsukishima, who sighs. “Truth,” he says before Asahi can even ask the question.
“Oh. Um.” He looks down at his hands. “Uh, what’s your most embarrassing sex story?”
Yamaguchi bursts out laughing, falling backwards. Tsukishima growls. “Shut up, Yamaguchi.”
“Give us all the details, Tsukki!” Yoshida, a hockey player, ribs. Kageyama isn’t sure how he knows Tsukishima. He didn’t think Tsukishima was capable of making friends without Yamaguchi’s help.
Tsukishima looks like he swallowed a lemon. “I didn’t leave the voice channel in my Discord chat when I had someone over.”
“And?” Yamaguchi pokes.
He scowls. “My group for my programming class heard everything.”
“Keep going,” Yamaguchi laughs.
“Yamaguchi, I swear to God-”
“Come on, Tsukki!” Noya yells.
“They heard me finish when the girl called me ‘a stupid fucking slut’ and said I was nothing more than a toy to fuck herself with.”
Over the roar of laughter coming from the group, Hinata asks, “Does that mean you get hard when people call you an asshole?”
Tsukishima lunges at him. While Daichi and Yamaguchi attempt to separate Hinata and Tsukishima, Osamu casually drapes his arm over Kageyama’s shoulders, pulling him closer. His thumb traces idle patterns over Kageyama’s collarbone as he leans in to whisper, “Your teammates are quite aggressive, aren’t they?”
“One time Noya teabagged Hinata,” Kageyama tells him.
Osamu huffs out a laugh just below Kageyama’s ear. He presses a light kiss to the point where his jaw meets his ear, lips trailing down over his jaw. Kageyama’s eyes flutter closed and he rests his head on top of Osamu’s. He wonders if Hinata would be this gentle. He’s always loud and brash with everything he does, but maybe he’s soft and sweet. He would take Kageyama apart nice and slow, spreading him open with slick fingers and peppering kisses down his chest. He’d be so reassuring and full of praise. It’d be leisurely, like he wants to spend all day breaking Kageyama down. God, he can almost feel it-
A sharp bite on his jaw drags him out of his fantasy. He feels like he’s been doused in cold water. “Huh?” he mumbles.
“Truth or dare?” Noya asks him. He must have missed a few turns when he was zoned out.
“Uh, truth,” he says, opting for the safer route.
Noya’s face lights up in a wide grin. “Oh, perfect! I’ve been wanting to ask you this since we found out you’re not a mannequin!”
“What?” Osamu laughs.
“Long story,” Suga says with a wave of his hand. “What’s your question, Noya?”
“Body count! Tell us your body count!”
“That’s it?” Kageyama asks. He was expecting something worse and more personal, maybe something about his biggest regret or the worst thing he’s ever done to another person. This is pretty tame by comparison. “Seven.”
“Seven?” Noya repeats, face falling.
“What? What’s so bad about that?” Suga starts laughing so hard no sound comes out. Daichi and Ennoshita both look like they’re about to lose it, too. “What?” he demands, anger crawling up his spine. “Go ahead, call me a whore, you guys are assholes-”
“It’s not that!” Daichi wheezes, finally succumbing to giggles. “You beat out both Noya and Tanaka, the self-proclaimed playboys!”
“Why does it matter?” he asks, blood starting to cool.
“Because you’re so scary looking!” Tanaka whines. “How do you do it?
“Well, it’s different with gay sex-” he starts.
“NO!” Tanaka interrupts. “That’s not what I meant! How do you get people to sleep with you?”
Kageyama’s eyes find Hinata across the circle, who’s staring at him with wide eyes. “Um, I… don’t? It’s not like I trick people into bed.”
“That’s not what I’m saying!”
“He’s cute, that’s how,” Osamu answers casually.
“I’m cute!” Tanaka protests.
“And if ya liked men I’m sure you’d pull lotsa people,” Osamu laughs. “Ya got that whole edgy boy thing goin’ on.”
“Are you saying you’d fuck me?”
“Oh, my god, Ryu,” Suga says.
“It’s just a question!”
“Would you fuck me?” Noya asks, leaning into Osamu’s space.
Osamu tightens his hold on Kageyama.
“Just fuck each other,” Ennoshita sighs. “Stop pestering, Miya.”
Tanaka and Noya look at each, considering.
“I was fucking joking!” Ennoshita growls, bodily pushing them away from each other. “Kageyama, spin the damn bottle.”
“No fun, Ennoshita,” Suga pouts, lower lip jutting out.
Daichi cuffs him upside the head.
The game continues without much fanfare. Daichi gets dared to give Tsukishima a lap dance and neither of them look too happy about it. Suga gets dared to streak, which Asahi shoots down so he won’t get arrested. Yamaguchi has to show the last five photos in his camera roll, one of which is a screenshot of a snapchat Tsukishima had sent him, declaring that his coffee had almost made him shit himself.
When Yoshida, the hockey player, spins the bottle and it lands on Hinata, Hinata chooses truth. “Do you have a crush on anyone right now?”
Kageyama watches as Hinata’s face turns the exact color of a tomato. “Um, uh,” he stutters.
“Oh! Who is it?” Yoshida prods.
Kageyama likes to consider himself an expert on all things Hinata. He knows what face he makes when he’s angry (brows together, eyes squinted, corners of his lips turned down) and when he’s anxious (that divot between the eyebrows, sometimes his teeth on his bottom lip). His eyes go wide and bright when he’s happy, and when he’s really excited, he’ll start making weird noises. When he’s disgusted his nose will scrunch up and his top lip will curl. And when Hinata is embarrassed, he makes the face he’s making now: teeth gnawing on his bottom lip, eyes downcast, eyebrows drawn in. Normally, he loves to see Hinata embarrassed; it’s great for taking him down a few pegs. But maybe the alcohol has made him sympathetic, because he says, “He doesn’t have to tell us if he doesn’t want to.”
Osamu shifts next to him, eyes flickering between Hinata and Kageyama.
“Yes the fuck he does,” Tsukishima growls. “I had to tell you all about my Discord disaster. Hinata can tell us who he likes.”
“No one forced you to, Tsukki,” Kageyama hisses back. “You’re just such a fucking masochist that you get off on people demeaning you.”
“I bet you’re into some weird shit, you fucking freak. What’s your weirdest kink, huh?”
“I get off on beating your brains out of your head,” he snarls, already standing up to lunge at Tsukishima.
“Whoa, hey now,” Daichi intercedes, pressing a hand to Kageyama’s chest. “Let’s calm down. Kageyama is right; if you don’t feel comfortable answering a question or doing a dare, you don’t have to.”
“I’m done with this stupid game,” Tsukishima announces, and not even Yamaguchi is able to keep him from leaving. After that, the game breaks up pretty quickly, the tension too thick for anyone to have any more fun.
“Are you okay?” Osamu asks Kageyama, head tilting to the right.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Hinata is my best friend. I’m not gonna let some idiots force him to do something he obviously doesn’t want to.”
“Right.” Osamu looks around for a moment and then asks, “Wanna get out of here?”
“Yes, please,” Kageyama sighs. A good fucking will do wonders for his mood, he’s sure of it. He looks around for Hinata to say goodbye, but he isn’t anywhere that Kageyama can see. He frowns, but pulls on his shoes and follows Osamu out into the street.
Kageyama wakes up sore the next morning. There’s a dull pain in his lower back, his knees ache, and his thighs are burning. He groans and rolls over onto his side and bumps into Osamu, who’s sound asleep next to him. Kageyama slips out of Osamu’s bed as quietly as possible and searches the ground for his boxers. He yanks them on, only stumbling a little bit, and makes his way out into the hall in search of the bathroom.
When he flicks on the bathroom light, his headache hits him like a bus. He has to lean against the sink to fight back the urge to vomit. The room spins around him, the world tilting on its axis. He grips the counter to steady himself and takes deep breaths. The nausea passes and he’s finally able to hold himself up enough to pee. As he washes his hands, he examines his torso in the mirror. Osamu really did a number on him. There are dark purple bruises all along his collarbones and down his chest. The bruises continue down his torso until they disappear beyond the band of his boxers. At least Osamu stayed below his neckline so he won’t have to deal with the teasing from his teammates during Monday morning’s practice. He twists his body to look at his back and finds thin red lines criss-crossing all down his shoulder blades and middle back. They sting when he touches them and knows the hot shower he’ll take when he gets back to his dorm is going to hurt like a bitch.
Osamu is just waking up when Kageyama walks back into his room. He stretches and moans as his back pops loudly. “Fuck, that felt good,” he muses, voice rough from sleep. He has his own share of purple bruises scattered over his chest and hips, and his hair is still in complete disarray from both sleep and Kageyama pulling at it last night. “Mornin’.”
“Morning. I was just heading out,” Kageyama says as he tugs on his pants.
“Mhmm, okay.” Osamu yawns and leans over to his side table to grab his phone. “Here, put yer number in here.”
Kageyama stills, one arm still in his t-shirt. “Um, I thought you just wanted to hook up.”
“Yeah. So put yer number in here so we can fuck again.”
“Oh, right. Okay.” He finishes dressing and looks around for his phone, finding it on the floor near the closet.
“Unless you don’t want to,” Osamu says, looking unconcerned about what Kageyama’s answer may be.
“I’d like to. It’s a good release of energy and saves me a lot of trouble,” he explains and takes the phone from him to put in his number. He gives Osamu his own phone, open to his contacts.
“Cool,” Osamu says. “Can ya show yerself out?”
“Yeah.”
“‘Kay,” he mumbles and rolls back over to fall asleep.
Kageyama leaves the apartment once he’s dressed, making sure he has his wallet, keys, and phone. He passes a guy with silver hair and dark tips who’s sitting on the couch, a bowl of cereal in his lap. He barely spares Kageyama a glance as he makes his way through the living room. He really hopes he wasn’t in the apartment last night, because Kageyama had been loud. He blushes a little as he shuts the door behind him. He stops at a convenience store to get a Vitamin Water and some food so he can avoid the dining halls for a little while longer. If he’s lucky, Tsukishima will have already left to go to the library where he always studies on Sundays. Kageyama is extremely jealous of his ability to never wake up hungover no matter how much he drinks.
He thinks he’ll leave his dirty socks on Tsukishima’s pillow just because.
13:02
delinquent to big titty goth gfs: who the FUCK left a half eaten banana in our shower???
delinquent to big titty goth gfs: noya and i don’t even have bananas in our apartment
delinquent to big titty goth gfs: so my question is: WHO THE HELL BRINGS A BANANA TO A PARTY??????
sugar cube to big titty goth gfs: someone who wanted some potassium obvs
thighs to big titty goth gfs: Who changed the group chat name again?
delinquent to big titty goth gfs: that’s beside the point
delinquent to big titty goth gfs: focus, daichi
thighs changed the group name to Karasuno Men’s Volleyball Club.
sugar cube changed the group name to small titty goth gfs.
pornographer to small titty goth gfs: kinda homophobic there, suga
sugar cube to small titty goth gfs: right hold on
sugar cube changed the group name to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys.
thighs to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: Ennoshita, please don’t encourage him
thighs to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: Also, has anyone seen or heard from Asahi? He didn’t come back with Suga and I last night.
elementary schooler to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: [attached image: photo of Asahi shirtless under the beer pong table, face down, ass up]
delinquent to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: lmaoo i bet kags was in a similar position last night too
milk slut to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: Don’t call me that
elementary schooler to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: how was last night, yama-yama? tell us everything!!!
milk slut to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: Don’t call me that
pillar of salt to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: For the love of god, do NOT answer that or I swear I’ll deflate all your volleyballs
milk slut to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: You wouldn’t
pillar of salt to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: I would
gucci gang to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: he will
serve me daddy to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: Oh lol i brought the banana
delinquent to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: kinoshita, WHY THE FUCK
serve me daddy to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: I crave bananas when i drink
elementary schooler to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: right okay, but why was it in the shower
serve me daddy to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: Why not
delinquent to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: okay, that’s fair
thighs to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: Did Narita and Hinata make it home okay?
original baldy to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: no i’m dead
sugar cube to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: i’m alive but i’m dead
pornographer to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: i’m alive but i’m dead :p
gucci gang to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: hinata didn’t come back to the dorm last night and i haven’t heard from him
thighs to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: Has anyone heard from Hinata??
elementary schooler to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: i haven’t
delinquent to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: neither have i
sugar cube to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: so no one’s heard from him
pillar of salt to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: Good riddance.
gucci gang to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: tsukki.
gucci gang to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: he hasn’t heard from either, daichi-san
thighs to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: Kageyama, have you?
milk slut to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: I haven’t
delinquent to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: well fuck
Kageyama frowns at his phone. He didn’t see Hinata when he and Osamu left the party last night, he recalls. With a sigh, he gets up from his bed. Hinata is in one of two places: the gym or the lake in the park. He goes to the gym to practice his serves when he’s angry and he goes to the lake when he’s feeling introspective. Based on how aggravated Hinata seemed last night, Kageyama jogs to the gym first.
The gym is dark and empty when Kageyama gets there, but he checks the locker room and the storage closet just in case Hinata has just finished up. He even goes as far as to check Ukai’s office, but the door is locked and the lights are off. He huffs out a sigh. If Hinata is at the lake, that means he’s upset about something.
Before he heads towards the park, he stops at the vending machine by the gym and gets a carton of strawberry milk for Hinata and a carton of regular milk for himself. He pays for them this time.
As he walks to the park, he sends a quick message to the group chat to tell them that he’s looking for Hinata and will let them know when he finds him. The park is mostly empty when Kageyama gets there, most people opting to stay inside as the weather is starting to cool with the upcoming autumn. He walks along the perimeter of the lake, searching for Hinata’s orange hair, but can’t find him. He lets out a groan of frustration and throws himself on the ground underneath an oak tree. He’s still sore from last night, his headache hasn’t completely receded, and he has yet to have an actual meal. He’d rather not be out scouring the campus for Hinata, but he’s worried that he could be dead in a ditch somewhere.
He pulls his phone back out of his pocket and dials Hinata’s number. What he’s not expecting is to hear a squawk in the tree branches above him and for a phone to drop on his head, followed by Hinata crashing to the ground right beside him.
“Ow,” Hinata says, rubbing the back of his head.
“Were you hiding in the fucking tree?” Kageyama asks incredulously.
“No. Maybe.”
“What the fuck. Didn’t you see the text messages in the group chat?”
“Yeah.”
“So why didn’t you reply?”
“Didn’t wanna.”
Kageyama kicks him in the ribs. “You’re fucking stupid.”
“Ow! What the fuck? What’re you doing here anyway?” Hinata asks, sitting up and scooting backwards so he can lean against the trunk of the tree.
“Looking for you. The team was worried.” He pulls the strawberry milk out of his hoodie pocket and holds it out to him. “What’re you doing here?”
Hinata stares at the carton. “You got me milk?”
“Yeah. I looked for you in the gym first. Are you gonna take it or not?”
“Oh. Yeah.” He takes the milk from him and pokes the straw through the hole. “Thanks.”
“Can you answer my question now?” Kageyama asks, looking out over the still lake water.
“Hmm?”
“What’re you doing here?”
“Oh.” He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Kageyama notices that he’s still wearing the clothes he wore to the party last night. “I dunno. Just thinking.”
“Did you go back to your dorm last night?”
Hinata shakes his head.
Kageyama picks at the grass by his feet. “Thinking ‘bout what?”
He shrugs. “Just stuff.”
Kageyama isn’t good with emotions, and he’s even worse at reading other people, but this is Hinata. He knows Hinata as well as he knows volleyball, and he knows volleyball better than anything. He can tell Hinata is upset about something and whatever it is, he can’t talk to Kageyama about it. Or he doesn’t want to. He knows pushing him to open up will just make him clam up more, so instead he stands up and brushes off his pants.
He holds his hand out to Hinata to help him up. “Come on. Let’s get some food.”
“Can I finish my milk first?”
“Sure,” Kageyama says. He pulls out his phone and sends a quick message to the group chat to confirm that Hinata is alive.
14:57
pillar of salt to small titty goth gfs & big dick e-boys: Unfortunate.
Kageyama rolls his eyes and locks his phone. He pokes Hinata with his foot. “Oi. Dumbass.”
“What?” Hinata asks, finishing his milk and crushing the carton.
“Will you tell me what’s wrong when you’re ready?” he requests, cheeks coloring at the words.
“Huh?” he sputters.
“I can tell you’re upset about something. Will you tell me?”
“Uh-”
“Not right now. Just… whenever you feel ready to.”
“Oh.” Hinata rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, sure.” He seems to think about it for a minute. “Yeah, I’ll tell you when I’m ready, Yama-yama.”
“Good,” Kageyama says gruffly. “Now, come on. I’m starving.”
Hinata grins at him, blindingly bright. Kageyama offers a small smile in return.
The dining hall is mostly abandoned at three-thirty on a Sunday afternoon. The hungover late morning crowd has already left, and the early dinner rush hasn’t started yet. They pile their trays high with food and find a booth tucked away in a corner, far away from the few stragglers in the dining hall. They don’t speak for a while, content just digging into their food to try to cure their lingering hangovers. When Kageyama is halfway through his meal, he looks up to find Hinata already looking at him. Hinata’s face flushes and he drops his eyes back down to his plate.
“I lied to you,” Kageyama blurts out.
“Huh?” Hinata looks back up from his plate with his cheeks stuffed full of food. “What?”
“When you- When I told you about the guy who took my virginity. I told I didn’t remember his name.” Kageyama isn’t sure where he’s going with this. He’s never been good at being emotionally vulnerable, but maybe if he opens himself up to Hinata, Hinata will do the same in return. It’s a small price to pay to try to help his best friend.
“So you do remember?” Hinata asks, swallowing thickly around his mouthful of food.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Kageyama suddenly isn’t very hungry.
“You don’t have to talk-”
“I want to. You said- You said best friends talk about this kind of stuff,” he mumbles, feeling his cheeks flame.
“I didn’t say that to force you to tell me anything.”
“You’re not forcing me. I’ve never… told anyone about this. I kind of want to, I guess.”
“And you’re choosing to tell me?”
“Dumbass! If you don’t wanna hear it just say so,” Kageyama snaps. He curls his shoulders in, forcing himself to appear smaller. He suddenly feels very tired and his headache comes back with a vengeance.
“No! I wanna hear it! Tell me now!” Hinata demands, leaning forward with his hands pressed flat on the table.
“You’re so demanding,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. He pauses and pushes his food around on his plate. “He- He was a second year at a different school. Um, Terushima Yuji?” His voice lilts up at the end on a question and he hates that he sounds so small when he says it. “He, um.” Kageyama isn’t sure how to continue, but he looks up at Hinata and finds him watching with wide eyes, all his attention trained on Kageyama. “We never dated. Terushima-san, he- I don’t know. He was always telling me how pretty I was. And like, no one ever called me that, I guess because of my face, or whatever, so I think maybe the wires got crossed in my brain or something. And I had this stupid crush on my team’s captain, and Oikawa-san was never very nice to me. No one- No one on my high school team really was. So when Terushima-san called me pretty and invited me to hang out, I thought maybe he wanted to be friends. And I had never had friends before, so.” He shrugs and has to look away. His hands feel hot and sweaty and his leg is bouncing underneath the table, rattling their cups. “So when he started kissing me and touching me and stuff, I thought- I thought that was normal friend stuff. I mean, you have to learn how to do all that somehow, right?”
“Kageyama-” Hinata starts, but Kageyama talks over him.
“When I- When I told him I didn’t want to- want to have sex with him anymore, he, uh, he stopped talking to me. Just like that. I’d been letting him fuck me for months . I thought we were friends, but I was wrong. So, that’s why I lied. Because- Because it’s stupid. I was stupid and I should have known better, but-”
“Kageyama-” Hinata tries again.
“But I didn’t know! And I let him use me and-”
“Tobio.”
Kageyama teeth clack together when he snaps his mouth shut.
“I’m sorry,” Hinata says, voice soft. “You didn’t deserve that. And you weren’t stupid. You aren’t stupid.”
“I’m failing statistics,” he tells him.
“Okay, you’re dumb, but you aren’t stupid.” His head tilts to the side, eyes appraising. “Is he the reason why you’ve never been in a relationship?”
“Who would want to be in a relationship with me? No one even wants to be friends with me.”
“I want to be friends with you. I am friends with you!”
“You’re different,” Kageyama protests.
“You always say that. Why?”
“I dunno. You just are. Don’t ask embarrassing questions,” he says roughly.
“Don’t say embarrassing things!” Hinata counters. “I’m your friend- your best friend. I get to ask embarrassing questions. It’s my right!”
“Doesn’t mean I’ll answer them.”
“I don’t expect you to. I’m still gonna ask them, though. Are you done being all gross and emotional?”
“Oi! You were being all gross and emotional first by the lake!”
“This isn’t a competition, ‘Yama,” he says, a smirk on his face.
“Whatever. Go get me more milk.” He can feel his face heating up again, and he needs at least a minute to get himself together.
Hinata rolls his eyes, but grabs both their glasses and heads over to the drink station. Kageyama watches him go. There’s a bleach stain on the seat of his pants in the rough shape of a flamingo. His left shoe is coming untied, laces dragging over the linoleum. He has grass stains on his elbows and there’s a twig caught in the hair that’s sticking out from his hat.
Watching Hinata make animated conversation with a stranger at the drink station makes warmth bloom in Kageyama’s chest, suffusing down to his fingers and toes. His heart skips a beat against his ribs. He hates this feeling. He knows it will only lead to heartbreak. Hinata could never see Kageyama as anything other than a friend, and that’s enough. Kageyama knows pushing for more will drive him away. So he takes his feelings and he bottles them up; shoving them down deep. Because if Hinata doesn’t even trust him enough to tell Kageyama what’s bothering him, how could he ever trust him enough to be in a relationship with him?
When Hinata comes back with their glasses filled to the brim with milk, Kageyama pretends he doesn’t find it endearing how carefully he walks to avoid spilling them. He pretends that he doesn’t find it cute when he does spill some milk and he pouts. Kageyama pretends; because that’s what he’s always done best when it comes to his own feelings.
Kageyama leans back in his chair so the front two legs lift off the ground. It’s Monday, and he’s been studying in the library with Hinata and Yamaguchi for the last two hours; his back hurts from hunching over his stats textbook for so long. He decides he deserves a short break and unlocks his phone to check his messages.
17:42
Osamu: hey, you free tonight?
Kageyama considers it. What better way to forget the fact that he likes Hinata than getting fucked half to death by someone else?
milk slut: Practice ends at 9
Osamu: wanna come over when ur done?
milk slut: Sure
Osamu: bet, see u then ;)
“Who’re you texting, ‘Yama?” Hinata asks, leaning over to try to catch a glimpse of his screen.
“No one,” Kageyama says and locks his phone.
“It was Osamu,” Tsukishima answers from behind Kageyama, scaring him so badly he sends his phone flying across the table.
“Tsukki, it’s not nice to read over people’s shoulders,” Yamaguchi chastises and hands Kageyama his phone back. “But since you’ve already told us… Kageyama, how is Osamu?” he asks innocuously.
Kageyama scowls at him.
“Come on, I’m just curious,” he teases.
“Don’t you dare say anything,” Tsukishima warns.
“He’s fine,” Kageyama says.
“Fine, or fine?” Yamaguchi asks, grinning wide.
“Why do you care?” Hinata snaps, cheeks red.
“Who pissed in your cereal?” Tsukishima mumbles.
“No one! I just don’t think we should be discussing Kageyama’s… whatever, while we’re trying to study!”
“You mean his fuck buddy?”
“Don’t be so vulgar!”
“Didn’t take you for a prude.”
“Guys,” Yamaguchi interrupts. “Forget I asked then.”
“No, what’s the big deal, Hinata? Why don’t you want all the details on your friend getting railed?” Tsukishima pushes.
“I-” Hinata stutters. “Well, you don’t wanna hear them either!”
“I do now if it’ll make you turn even redder. Please, Kageyama, tell us everything. What was his dick size?” Tsukishima drawls.
“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi cautions.
“Did he leave all those marks I saw on you in the locker room this morning before practice?”
“Tsukishima.”
“Is that what he was texting you about? Making plans to abuse you all over again.”
“Kei,” Yamaguchi bites. “That’s enough.”
Tsukishima huffs, but doesn’t say anything else.
“What the fuck was that?” Kageyama demands.
“What was what?” Tsukishima asks, eyes never leaving his textbook.
“That whole show you just put on.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kageyama narrows his eyes at him, but drops it. “Whatever.” He closes his stats textbook and opens his psych one. “Hinata, have you started on that paper for psych yet?”
“Huh?” Hinata asks, looking up from his phone. His cheeks have faded to a light pink, but he’s frowning.
“The paper for psych, have you started it yet?”
“Oh, uh. No, not yet.”
“Do you wanna work on the outline together?”
“Um, actually, I told a classmate I would meet up with them to work on an assignment, so I have to go.”
“Oh.” Kageyama tries to catch Hinata’s eyes, but he won’t look up from packing his bag. “Do you wanna work on it together later, then?”
“Sure. Yeah, okay,” Hinata agrees. He doesn’t appear to be listening at all. “I’ll see you guys at practice tonight.”
Kageyama watches him leave. “He didn’t mention meeting a classmate earlier.”
“That’s because he was lying, you idiot,” Tsukishima states.
“What?”
“He was lying. He’s not meeting a classmate. He just wanted to leave.”
“Why would he lie about that? Why did he want to leave?”
“Fuck, you are both so oblivious,” Tsukishima mumbles.
“What’re you talking about?”
He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
Kageyama looks over at Yamaguchi. “What’s he talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
Kageyama glares at him.
“Look, it’s just- You’ve noticed Hinata has been acting weird.”
“Of course I have. He told me he would tell me what’s bothering him when he’s ready.”
That seems to surprise Yamaguchi. “He did?”
“Yeah, when I found him yesterday. He was by the lake at the park. He only goes there when he’s upset.”
“You sure know Hinata well,” Tsukishima points out.
“He’s my best friend.”
“Mhmm. And nothing more?”
“What more could we be?” Kageyama does not picture a relationship with Hinata. He doesn’t do relationships. He can’t. No one wants him that much.
“Fuck buddies,” Tsukishima answers.
“Hinata doesn’t do that kind of thing.”
“So that’s the only issue you have with that?”
“I-”
“If Hinata did do ‘that kind of thing’, would you do it with him?”
“Are you asking me if I’d have sex with Hinata?” Kageyama says.
Tsukishima shrugs.
“Why do you care so much about my sex life?”
“I’m tired of watching you two pine after each other.”
“I’m not-”
“You’re not pretty enough to be this stupid, too,” Tsukishima interrupts.
“Hinata doesn’t like me like that.”
Tsukishima opens his mouth to say something else, but Yamaguchi says, “Just drop it, Kei,” and he snaps his mouth closed.
Kageyama frowns and rubs his thumb absently over a hickey just under his collarbone. Even when Osamu was fucking him through the mattress, Kageyama found parts of himself wondering how it would be different with Hinata. Hinata is smaller in stature, for one, so would he also seem small in the bedroom, or would he be more commanding, more dominant, like the way he is on the court? Would he be rough or gentle? Would he spend hours taking Kageyama apart and then putting him back together, or would he make him cum in record time, leaving Kageyama out of breath and begging for more?
Osamu had been teasing, alternating between slow strokes and hard thrusts, leaving Kageyama lightheaded and unsure of what was going to happen next. He had been rough, too, his grip bruising and tight. Kageyama shudders just thinking about it, the relinquishment of control he gave over to Osamu, trusting him to make him feel good. He thinks he could trust Hinata to do the same.
“Stop that,” Tsukishima says.
Kageyama looks up from his psych textbook which he absolutely was not reading. “Stop what?”
“Thinking about whatever it is you’re thinking about. You’re turning red.”
“I was just embarrassed for your family, since they have to be related to you.”
Tsukishima scowls. “I will cut holes in all of your pants.”
“I’ll fart on your glasses.”
“I’ll cancel your Volleyball Monthly subscription.”
“I’ll download furry porn onto your laptop.”
“Oh, so you know where to get good furry porn, then?”
“Is any furry porn good? Are you into that, Tsukki?”
Tsukishima bares his teeth at him.
“What’re you gonna do? Yiff at me?”
“I feel like I’m interrupting something here,” Noya says, grinning. He, Tanaka, and Ennoshita have walked up to their table in the library, unnoticed, bags hanging off their shoulders.
“How do you know furry terminology?” Tanaka asks Kageyama as he takes the seat Hinata had vacated. Noya hops up onto the table next to them, legs swinging in the air.
“How did you know he used furry terminology?” Yamaguchi counters.
“What the fuck is this,” Ennoshita groans, dragging a chair from another table over to theirs.
“I’m… not sure what’s going on anymore,” Tanaka admits, confusion furrowing his brow.
Ennoshita sighs. “I would rather be waterboarded than ever have to live in any of your heads.”
“Kageyama is being stupid, as usual,” Tsukishima explains.
“No, I’m not. He’s being dumb,” Kageyama snaps. “He thinks Hinata likes me.”
“Well, you’re friends, aren’t you?” Tanaka asks, blinking at Kageyama.
“Likes me, likes me!”
“Oh! I didn’t think you would be Hinata’s type.”
Kageyama looks smugly at Tsukishima. “See?”
Yamaguchi snorts. “Please, Kageyama is exactly his type.”
Noya frowns. “All brooding and emo?”
“I’m not emo!” Kageyama protests.
“You have to have emotions to be emo,” Tsukishima gibes. “All Kageyama knows is ‘volleyball’ and ‘be a twink’.”
“Is he a twink?” Noya wonders. “I think Yamaguchi is more twink-y.”
“That’s an American snack, dumbass,” Tanaka says, throwing Kageyama’s pen at Noya.
“I’m not a twink,” Yamaguchi and Kageyama say at the same time.
“Yamaguchi is more of an otter. Kageyama is a jock,” Ennoshita explains.
“Why do you know so much about gay culture?” Tanaka asks.
“Wait, I found an article about gay subcultures!” Noya shouts. A few other patrons on the library shush him, but as Kageyama looks around, their section of the library has been mostly abandoned. Noya shows his phone screen to Tanaka. “Kageyama is definitely a jock, although Yamaguchi could be a twunk.”
“We have gotten so far off topic,” Tsukishima points out.
“Tsukki is a geek!” Tanaka yells, eyes squinting closed as he laughs.
“This is bullying.”
“No, look!” Tanaka hands Noya’s phone to Tsukishima, who glares at the screen.
“This is bullying,” he repeats. Yamaguchi snickers.
"Wait,” Tanaka says, “I texted Osamu to see what kind of gay ‘Yama-yama is and-”
“Don’t call me that.”
“And he said he’s a size queen.”
Kageyama chokes.
“A what?” Tsukishima sputters. “Nevermind, I don’t want to-”
“He’s obsessed with huge dicks!” Tanaka announces joyfully. “Oh, wow, ‘Yama-yama, I never could have guessed.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Hinata is exactly your type then,” Yamaguchi giggles.
The conversation comes to a screeching halt.
“What?” Noya says.
Yamaguchi blinks. “Hinata is hung.”
Tsukishima snorts. “No, he’s not.”
“You guys don’t know?”
“How could we? He never showers in the- Holy shit! Hinata is hung!” Tanaka gasps.
“How do you know?” Tsukishima asks, turning squinted eyes to Yamaguchi.
“I share a room with him.”
“Aw, is Tsukki jealous?” Noya teases, making kissy noises. Tsukishima sends him a glare that shuts him up immediately.
“How big are we talking?” Tanaka asks. “Tell me when to stop.” He starts with his hands about an inch from each other and slowly spreads them apart. When he reaches ten inches, he whines, “That’s impossible! I’m starting over!”
“I’m not doing this,” Yamaguchi mumbles.
“Why are you so invested in this?” Ennoshita asks Tanaka.
Kageyama sighs and opens his phone to send a text to Osamu.
18:21
milk slut: Fuck you
Osamu: that’s not very size queen of you :p
Osamu: see u tonight ;)
“We are not discussing Hinata’s dick size,” Tsukishima declares.
Tanaka crosses his arms. “Fine, but can we talk about why you think Hinata likes Kageyama?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he says. “He’s been acting all jealous ever since you set Kageyama up with osamu, and earlier when Kageyama was texting Osamu to make plans to get railed again tonight-” Kageyama kicks him under the table. “-Hinata made up some bullshit excuse about needing to leave. When Yoshida asked Hinata who he liked, Hinata got all flustered, so obviously he likes someone we all know. He went missing after the party and didn’t reply to any of our texts, despite always double- and triple-texting. His playing has been off, too.”
“Is Osamu also hung?” Tanaka wonders.
“That’s beside the point,” Ennoshita says, head in his hands.
“But I’m curious!”
“He is,” Kageyama answers.
“My point being,” Tsukishima says harshly, “these two idiots are pining after each other and sooner or later it’s really going to affect their playing, and then we’ll never make it to All Japan.”
Tanaka and Noya’s eyes harden at the mention of not making it to All Japan. “Kags, no more hooking up with Osamu.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Just last week your big plan was to get Kageyama laid,” Ennoshita points out.
“Now we’re skipping right to Plan C, then! Hinata fucks Kageyama!” Noya declares.
“Oh my god,” Tsukishima moans, banging his head on the table.
“We’re going to be late to practice,” Yamaguchi says and starters shoving his books in his bag.
“But we didn’t even study! I have an exam tomorrow!” Tanaka whines.
“It’s not our fault you got distracted by gay men and big dicks,” Ennoshita quips.
“Don’t phrase it like that!”
Kageyama slowly packs up his books, anxiety settling deep in his chest. He’s still not sure Tsukishima is right, but he wasn’t wrong about Hinata acting strangely. Maybe Hinata doesn’t want to be friends with Kageyama anymore. That could be why he’s hiding things from him. Kageyama shuffles behind his teammates as they head towards the gym. Tanaka and Noya are still arguing about what type of gay each member of the team would be, with Ennoshita chiming in with his two cents every minute or so. Kageyama falls into step beside Tsukishima. “Hey. Tsukishima?” he says quietly.
“What.”
“Are you sure Hinata likes me?”
“I explained it earlier.”
“Yeah, but-”
“I don’t want to repeat myself.
“But what if it’s because he hates me?” And this is bad. Kageyama has resorted to asking Tsukishima of all people for help. God. He’s going to cut the wires on Tsukishima’s headphones later. “It’s just- I’m not very good at noticing other people’s feelings.”
Tsukishima snorts.
“And Hinata is… He’s my best friend. I don’t wanna- I don’t wanna lose that.”
They’re just outside the gym doors now. The others have gone ahead to change into their practice jerseys. Kageyama can hear Tanaka and Noya still arguing, and even Suga’s bright laugh at something Daichi has said. Tsukishima sighs and casts a look into the gym, eyes following Yamaguchi as he disappears into the locker room.
“Look, even if I’m wrong—which I’m not—Hinata wouldn’t let anything come between you two.” At Kageyama’s confused look, he adds, “I’m one hundred percent sure that Hinata does not hate you.”
“How sure are you that he likes me?”
“I’m ninety-seven percent sure he likes you. And even if I’m wrong, I don’t think an unrequited crush could ruin your friendship.”
Kageyama blinks.
“Of course, both of you are too stupid to do anything about this, so I suspect I will have to put up with this ridiculous pining for a while.” With that, he turns on his heel and walks into the gym. “I’m done with this conversation now,” he tosses over his shoulder, leaving Kageyama alone in the fading sunlight outside the gym.
Hinata doesn’t come to practice that night.
Kageyama offers to help clean up the gym after practice has ended. He collects all the stray balls, helps Takeda fold up the volleyball nets, and even dust mops the floor. By the time he walks into the locker room to shower, most of the guys have already changed and left. Only Kinoshita, Narita, and Asahi remain; and Kageyama pays them no mind as he strips down and yanks the nozzle in the shower stall all the way to the hottest setting.
Here are the facts: Kageyama has developed some weird crush on Hinata after catching a glimpse of his absolutely massive horse cock. Despite the fact that Kageyama is not at all interested in a relationship, the sexual desire has morphed into romantic desire as well, which is an interesting development to say the least. Tsukishima is inclined to believe that Hinata reciprocates these feelings, and he’s hardly ever wrong about things, not that Kageyama would ever say that to his face.
Kageyama shuts off the water and immediately heads over to his bag to grab his phone.
21:23
milk slut: I’ll be there in 15
Osamu: please, continue to take ur sweet time
milk slut: Sorry, I stayed to help clean the gym
He doesn’t wait for a response, just drops his phone back into his bag and hurriedly pulls on his sweats (forgoing his underwear in his rush) and a t-shirt and hoodie. He shoves his feet into his running shoes and just tucks the laces under his feet rather than tying them. Once he’s dressed, he darts out the door and half-jogs the entire way to Osamu’s apartment.
He’s a little out of breath when he knocks on Osamu’s door. He shouldn’t have run this far after practice, but the gears had already been turning in his head, and the quicker he got to Osamu’s, the less time he had to change his mind. Osamu opens the door and before he can even say hello, Kageyama blurts out, “I’m not having sex with you tonight.”
“Hello! Yeah, my day was great, thanks fer askin’. Took an exam today, pretty sure I aced it,” Osamu says dryly.
“Sorry,” Kageyama mumbles. “I’ve just- I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
Osamu sighs and opens the door wider, letting Kageyama slip inside. He murmurs a quick ‘sorry for the intrusion’ before slipping his shoes off. The same black and white haired guy who was sitting on the couch when Kageyama left on Sunday is sitting at the kitchen table, textbooks spread out in front of him. He nods at Kageyama, but doesn’t say anything. Osamu leads Kageyama into the kitchen and pulls a kettle out from a cabinet. He fills the kettle, turns on the stove, and grabs two mugs from another cabinet. He takes two tea bags from a basket on the counter, then drops them into the mugs. He turns to Kageyama and crosses his arms over his chest. “Is this about Shouyou?”
Kageyama looks back at who he assumes is Osamu’s roommate.
“Don’t mind Kita-san. He doesn’t stick his nose anywhere it doesn’t belong. He’s good at advice, though, if ya want it,” Osamu says.
“How’d you know it was about Hinata?” Kageyama asks instead.
“I figured as much when I saw how he was actin’ at that party. He’s always been the oddly jealous type. Was like that with ‘Tsumu anytime he flirted with someone else.”
“Your brother flirts with people even when he’s in a relationship?”
Osamu’s eyes harden. “‘Tsumu flirts with anythin’ that walks. Shouyou knew that ‘fore they started datin’.”
“I wasn’t-”
“You were. ‘Tsumu is a dick, but he’s not a bad person. He just likes attention. It’s his fatal flaw.” The kettle starts whistling, and Osamu turns around to pour the hot water into their mugs. “You take sugar or anythin’ with yer tea?”
“Uh, no, thank you.”
He hands Kageyama his mug and adds a splash of milk to his own drink. He leans back against the counter and blows over his tea. “Why’re you comin’ to me about Shouyou? Why not someone on yer team?”
Kageyama looks down at his drink, fingers fiddling with the string dangling out of it. “I guess I wanted an outside perspective.”
“And you didn’t want yer teammates givin’ ya shit.”
He nods. “That too.” He takes a sip from his tea. It’s good, herbal and warm and soothing. “Tsukishima thinks Hinata likes me. Likes me, likes me.”
Osamu snorts. “What’re ya? Five?”
“I’ve never been in a relationship before, alright? So excuse me if I don’t know the right terms, or whatever,” Kageyama snaps. “And Hinata’s been in three! What if- What if I’m not a good boyfriend? What if I’m so terrible he breaks up with me and never speaks to me again? Are there certain rules I don’t know about? Do I get him gifts for every anniversary? Do I have to take him out on fancy dates? I don’t have enough money for that and I don’t have time for a job. I’d be such an awful boyfriend and Hinata would hate me!”
“Okay, first of all, slow down,” Osamu says. “Second of all, every relationship is different, so there aren’t really any rules. Finally, from what I saw of Shouyou ‘n ‘Tsumu’s relationship, Shouyou was really laid back. He didn’t care ‘bout goin’ on fancy dates. He just liked spendin’ time with ‘Tsumu, for some weird reason. Of course,” Osamu continues, “this only matters if you can grow the balls to do anythin’ about it.”
Kageyama glares at him. “This only matters if Hinata likes me back.”
“For fuck’s- ‘Course he does! Yer exactly his type! Brooding and mouthy and obsessed with volleyball! And yer a setter! ‘Tsumu and Kenma are the same. Well, Kenma isn’t quite as obsessed with volleyball, but he’s sure got a mouth on him.”
“Wait, you know Kenma, too?”
“Our team played against theirs a few times. Not the point, though. Listen, I’m no expert on relationships or love or anythin’ like that, but I know Shouyou pretty well with how much he was over at our house while he and ‘Tsumu were datin’. So I know what he acts like when he likes someone.”
Kageyama stares down at his tea as if it holds the answers to all his problems. He wishes he could read minds, then he could know exactly what Hinata thinks of him. Maybe this would all be easier if he wasn’t… himself. He frowns.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about? You look like yer constipated,” Osamu comments.
“How much easier this all would be if I wasn’t so…” He trails off, unsure of how to finish his sentence. If he wasn’t so what? Emotionally stupid? Closed off? “If I wasn’t so scared,” he admits in a small voice.
“Aw, geez,” Osamu mutters. “I’m not- Fuck.” He drags a hand down his face. “Look, I know it’s scary openin’ yerself up to people. I don’t know anythin’ about what you’ve gone through to make you the person you are today, but I know nobody goes through life without gettin’ hurt. You can’t control what others do to you, alright? You can only control how ya deal with it. Shouyou isn’t the kinda person to hurt ya intentionally. In fact, he’s probably the best person to have as yer first boyfriend. He’s got a good heart and a good head on his shoulders. So even if things turn out wrong, he’s not gonna leave ya in the dust. Once Shouyou cares about ya, that’s it. Hell, he still texts ‘Tsumu to see how he’s doin’ and to check up on him. He’s just that kinda person. And somethin’ tells me you’ve already opened yerself up just a little bit to him. He didn’t reject ya then, did he?”
Kageyama shakes his head. Hinata was the first person he had ever told about Terushima. For anyone else, that kind of emotional baggage might have been too much, but Hinata took it in stride. He’s been underestimating Hinata all this time, and that’s not fair to him. He sets his mug down on the counter. “Thank you,” he says to Osamu.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his head. “Now get out of here. Go get Shouyou.”
Kageyama nods and runs to the door. Once he’s got his shoes on (after putting them on the wrong feet first) he’s darting out the door and grasping for his phone in his bag. He opens his messages app and scrolls down to his message thread with Yamaguchi.
22:49
milk slut: IsHina inthe drm?”
gucci gang: uh
gucci gang: what
Kageyama slows down and focuses on what he’s typing, nearly tripping over a divot in the sidewalk as he does.
milk slut: Is Hinata in the dorm?
gucci gang: yeah he is
gucci gang: he said he wasn’t feeling well and that’s why he skipped
milk slut: I don’t care
milk slut: Can you leave? I’ll be there in 10 minutes and I want to talk to him alone
gucci gang: yeah, i’ll head to u and tsukki’s room
gucci gang: good luck
milk slut: Thank you
Soon, Hinata’s dorm building looms in front of Kageyama, and he slows his pace as he approaches. His heart is hammering in his chest and he knows it’s not from running. Once he uses his student ID to unlock the building’s doors and steps inside, he gives himself a few moments to collect himself before he starts climbing the stairs to the third floor.
Kageyama has gone through the majority of his life accepting the fact that he is fundamentally unlikable. His personality is too harsh, his face is too scary, and his love for the game of volleyball is too intense. And he’s alright with that. He knows what he’s like. He knows a lot of people don’t like him, and the people that do only like him for his body. Then Hinata came along, full of energy and a love for volleyball that rivaled Kageyama’s own. Plus, he actually enjoys Kageyama’s company. Hinata invites him out to eat; they study together; they go on runs together. Hell, they even practice together on their days off sometimes. Kageyama’s whole world has narrowed down to Hinata Shouyou. He doesn’t want to lose any of that.
But Tsukishima and Osamu think Hinata likes Kageyama. And while Kageyama does not want to lose his friendship with Hinata, he has never been one to settle for less than what he wants when he’s mostly sure he can get it. Osamu was right: he can’t control how others feel, only how he reacts to situations. If Hinata doesn’t actually like him back, Kageyama will feel embarrassed. But he’s felt that way before, and he survived. He can do it again. So Kageyama takes a deep breath and exits the stairwell, heading straight to room 329.
He knocks on the door three times.
“Go away, Kageyama,” Hinata grunts from inside the room.
Kageyama pauses. “How’d you know it was me?”
“You knocked three times.”
“You… memorized how I knock?”
There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Go away!”
“Can you open the door? Please? I just wanna talk to you.”
He can hear Hinata huff, so he must be right on the other side of the door. “No. You wanna yell at me for skipping practice.”
“Well, yeah! At some point! How could you skip practice with All Japan coming up?” He shakes his head. “But that’s not what I wanna talk to you about.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be with Osamu right now?” Hinata’s voice sounds like he’s trying very hard to keep it neutral.
“I canceled.” Kageyama wiggles the doorknob. “Can you please open the door?”
Another long pause. “Why’d you cancel?”
“Because I needed to talk to you.”
Hinata opens the door and stares up at Kageyama. He’s wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt with his high school’s name emblazoned on the front, and gray sweatpants cuffed at the ankles. He looks soft and cozy and warm, and Kageyama is suddenly possessed by the desire to just hold him for hours; which is probably the gayest thought he has ever had, and he’s been lusting after his spiker’s dick for the past few weeks.
“Are you gonna talk or just stare at me?” Hinata asks.
Kageyama doesn’t think. He drops his bag on the floor and wraps his arms around Hinata, burying his face in bright orange hair. He smells like strawberries and his Old Spice body wash. Kageyama’s heart pounds a staccato against his ribs. He’s scared, terrified, even, but he can’t let fear hold him back.
“Kageyama, what-”
“I like you, okay?” Kageyama mumbles, cutting him off. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds Hinata just a little tighter.
“I like you, too? We’re best friends, ‘Yama-yama.”
“No, you idiot. I like you. I wanna hold your hand and take you on dates and kiss you and stuff like that.” He can feel the blush climbing up his cheeks, and he curls his fingers into Hinata’s shirt. His blood roars in his ears; his stomach flips and rolls. He’s waiting for Hinata to reject him, for Tsukishima and Osamu to be wrong, for Terushima to be right. As the seconds tick by and Kageyama is neither shoved away nor punched in the gut, he begins to think maybe, just maybe, Hinata does feel the same.
Hinata’s arms circle around Kageyama’s waist and his hands grip the back of his shirt, gathering the fabric into his fists. “But you don’t do relationships. And I don’t do hookups.” His voice is quiet and small, like he doesn’t quite believe what Kageyama is saying.
“Did you not hear a word I just said?” he asks, still speaking into Hinata’s hair. “I do want to date you, stupid. And…”
“And what?” Hinata prods when Kageyama doesn’t continue. He pulls back so he can look Kageyama in the eye. He keeps his hands around his waist, but his fingers have slipped under Kageyama’s hoodie, rubbing soothing circles into his lower back.
Kageyama’s face is bright red; he can feel it. He looks off to the side as he mumbles, “And I really wanna be fucked by you.”
Hinata laughs. “That’s so vulgar!”
“Shut up!” he hisses, grabbing Hinata’s hair and pulling.
He’s still giggling. “I feel the same, by the way. I like you like that, and I also wouldn’t mind being fucked by you.”
“Wouldn’t mind?”
“I would love to be fucked by you, ‘Yama.”
“Now who’s the vulgar one?” he teases. He smiles and cards his fingers through Hinata’s thick hair.
Hinata grins, all teeth, and squints his eyes closed, but the smile slides off his face. “There’s… a problem, though,” he says quietly.
“What? What’s the problem?” Fuck, he’s gonna say he doesn’t want a relationship right now, or that they should focus on All Japan or school or-
“You only bottom, right?”
Kageyama’s thoughts come to a screeching halt. A… sex problem? He flushes at the question and answers, “I prefer it.”
“I’ve only topped once, with Kenma, and it wasn’t- it wasn’t good. I hurt him. Atsumu wouldn’t even consider bottoming for me when he saw- when he saw how big I was- am.” Hinata is fidgeting now; Kageyama can feel it with how close they still are to one another.
“I know how big you are,” Kageyama admits.
“You saw during the photoshoot.”
“It- It turned me on.”
“I- what?” Hinata’s eyes are wide, questioning. “Wait, what?”
Jesus fuck, how much is Kageyama going to blush tonight? “I kind of have a thing for- for big dicks.”
Hinata doesn’t tease him. Instead, he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”
Kageyama nods and leans down to press his lips to Hinata’s. His hands find themselves cradling the back of his head, while Hinata keeps his hands on Kageyama’s waist. Hinata’s lips are slightly chapped and a little dry, but he’s quick to swipe his tongue out along Kageyama’s bottom lip. His tongue is wet and warm, his hair soft beneath Kageyama’s fingers, and his nails are dragging deliciously over his exposed skin. Kageyama feels a little dizzy with desire. He opens his mouth at Hinata’s prodding and sucks his tongue into his mouth. Hinata laughs a little at that and drags his tongue over the back of Kageyama’s top teeth before pulling back, teeth grazing Kageyama’s bottom lip. Kageyama chases him, pushing his own tongue between Hinata’s lips. The inside of his mouth tastes like sour gummy worms and Vitamin Water; he thinks maybe he could survive off those two things forever. He moans when Hinata’s teeth skim over his tongue in tandem with his fingers squeezing his waist. Kageyama pulls on Hinata’s hair, forcing his head to tilt back more and his mouth to open wider. Hinata makes a noise in the back of his throat and presses closer his cock dragging across Kageyama’s thigh. Kageyama gasps and pulls back, panting.
Hinata’s pupils are blown wide and his lips are spit slick and red. He’s looking at Kageyama like he’s something to devour and he shivers at the thought. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that for,” Hinata says, pushing his face into Kageyama’s chest.
“How long?” he asks. He twirls strands of Hinata’s hair around his fingers, fascinated by how soft it is.
“Since the first time I saw you, at tryouts,” he admits. “I noticed your hands first. Setter’s hands.” He reaches up and grabs one of Kageyama’s hands, pulling it out of his hair and bringing it to his face. He presses his lips to the center of his palm. “Long fingers, clipped nails. I just knew. ‘Tsumu was the same.”
“Can we not talk about your ex when your dick is literally poking my leg?”
Hinata smiles. “Sure.” He kisses the palm of Kageyama’s hand again before stepping back. “Clothes off, ‘Yama. I can’t fuck you while you’re wearing all that.”
“Right. Yeah.” Kageyama swallows. “Yeah.” He pulls his hoodie off and then his shirt, tossing them off to the side. He kicks his shoes off, glad he hadn’t properly tied them earlier, and pushes his sweatpants down to his ankles. He’s fully naked, and Hinata is fully clothed. Something about that turns Kageyama on even more, making his dick jump from where it’s filling up against his thigh. He’ll unpack that later.
“He really marked you up, huh?” Hinata murmurs as he runs his fingers over Kageyama’s chest, pressing down on the fading hickeys Osamu had left.
Kageyama’s breath catches in his throat. “Please,” he begs, unsure of what he’s asking for.
Hinata presses a kiss to his lips. “Lay on the bed, okay? I’ll be right back.”
“Wait, where are you-” But Hinata slips out the door before Kageyama can finish his sentence. He sighs and shakes his head. Typical. He suddenly feels awkward standing alone in Hinata and Yamaguchi’s dorm room, dick out. He hoists himself up onto Hinata’s half-lofted bed, his legs swinging through the air. His dick is almost painfully hard and with no idea of how long Hinata will be gone, he spits into the palm of his hand and begins to stroke himself slowly. It’s nice, but not enough, and he wants Hinata’s dick deep inside him as soon as possible, so he shifts onto his knees and presses his face into Hinata’s pillow. He keeps his hips raised and shoves two fingers into his mouth.
That’s how Hinata finds him: ass up, hand on his dick, and two fingers in his mouth. “You couldn’t wait?” Hinata asks, dropping the lube and condoms he’s holding onto his desk.
“I didn’t know how long you’d be gone for!”
“I was just getting stuff from my RA.”
Kageyama sits back up and stares at Hinata. “You just went to your RA to ask for lube and condoms?” He looks down at the very obvious tent in Hinata’s pants. “Like that?”
“Ohira-san said he didn’t mind!”
Kageyama barks out a laugh. “I’m sure he’d rather jump off a bridge than have to look at one of his resident’s dicks.”
“Well, if he minded that much he wouldn’t have offered at the beginning of the semester. He always said he'd rather us be safe than spread STDs.”
Kageyama’s dick flags at the mention of STDs. “Dude.”
“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you!”
“Well at the rate we’re going I’ll be dead by the time your dick is inside me, and something tells me necrophilia isn’t your thing.”
“Dude.”
Kageyama fixes him with a glare.
“Right,” Hinata says. “Lay back.” Kageyama complies quickly, and Hinata shucks off his shirt before climbing onto the bed and straddling Kageyama’s hips. His chest is toned and pale, a smattering of freckles over his shoulders and collarbones. His nipples perk up in the cool air of the dorm room, and the muscles in his stomach jump when Kageyama drags his fingertips over them, just feeling the warm skin. “Wait! I forgot the stuff!” he shouts, sliding off the bed to retrieve the lube and condoms from his desk.
“Oh my god,” Kageyama groans and drops his head back onto the pillows.
“Sorry! I’m just nervous, okay?” He climbs back onto the bed and drops the lube and condoms next to Kageyama, straddling his hips once again. Kageyama has to forcibly stop himself from bucking up into his weight. “I haven’t topped since I was seventeen. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
Kageyama grabs Hinata’s hips, rubbing circles over the protruding bones. God, he’s like a furnace. He’s warm, solid, and very real in Kageyama’s hands. “You won’t. And if you do, I’ll let you know. I want this. I’m asking for this.”
Something seems to settle in Hinata. They both want this, yearn for this. It’s like a dam has been broken and every emotion they’ve kept bottled up, buried deep inside to keep hidden away from prying eyes, is leaking through the cracks. In every touch, every word, every breath, there’s an undercurrent of want, of need. It’s overwhelming, this feeling of being wholly wanted, not just for his body, but for him. Kageyama releases a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. He lets the feeling wash over him, blanket him. This warmth, spreading from his heart and down to his fingers and toes, he welcomes it, basks in it. This is Shouyou, he realizes. Shouyou is all encompassing warmth. He’s long nights spent half-studying, half dicking around in the library; he’s running in the morning sun; he’s jokes whispered in the back of lecture halls. He’s Tobio’s. It makes Kageyama’s toes curl with the intensity of the emotion. He grabs Hinata’s hand, kisses the palm like Hinata had done for him earlier, and places his hand right over his racing heart.
“You’re mine now, okay?” Hinata whispers, possessiveness leaking into his tone. He kisses Kageyama fiercely, nipping at his bottom lip before pulling away. He smooths a hand over Kageyama’s forehead, pushing the hair back out of his eyes. Hinata kisses his forehead, gentle and sweet and adoring. Kageyama could live in this feeling forever. And then Hinata leans down and attaches his mouth to Kageyama’s collarbone, right over a mark Osamu had left there two nights before. He sucks the skin into his mouth and bites down gently, then soothes over the mark with his tongue. He repeats the process a few times until the hickey is nearly black. Kageyama’s hips jerk with each drag of his teeth, and sighs fall from his lips with every apologetic swipe of Hinata’s hot tongue. “I want you. All of you,” he confirms as if he hasn’t proved it every single day since they met.
“I’m all yours,” Kageyama agrees, and it doesn’t feel like signing his life away. It doesn’t feel like he always imagined it would, opening yourself to love and be loved by another person. It feels like coming home. It feels like a beginning. “All yours, Shouyou.”
Hinata lets out a low moan at the use of his given name and continues his assault on Kageyama’s chest. He sucks over each mark Osamu had left, staking his claim. With every scrape of his teeth, with every pacifying lick of his tongue, Kageyama feels himself fall more and more. He belongs to Hinata.
By the time Hinata has gone over every mark, Kageyama is struggling to catch his breath and his cock is leaking steadily onto his stomach. He is very aware of the fact that Hinata still has not touched his dick, nor has he touched Hinata’s. He pushes his hips up, grinding their cocks together. This causes Hinata to bite down rather harshly over Kageyama’s right pec and the teeth marks purple almost immediately.
Kageyama gasps and gropes the base of his cock to keep from coming on the spot, the sparks of pain turned pleasure too much for him. Hinata pulls back very quickly with an apology already on the tip of his tongue. “Fuck, are you-” he starts, but then he catches a glimpse of Kageyama’s almost painful grip on his cock. He licks his bottom lip and drags his fingers through the precum that has leaked onto Kageyama’s stomach. “Did you almost just cum?”
“Yes.” He suddenly feels very embarrassed. His hips rut up without his permission, fucking his dick through his fist. He groans. For all that he figured Hinata could never actually like him for his personality, he never took the time to think about how their interests in the bedroom would align. Kageyama wouldn’t say he’s kinky, but he’s certainly not vanilla. Hinata is probably disgusted by him. Damn, what a fucking joke. “If you’re gonna call me a pervert or whatever just-”
“Fuck, ‘Yama, that’s so hot,” Hinata breaths, effectively cutting off Kageyama’s spiraling train of thought. He leans down to kiss him so fast that their foreheads knock together. Kageyama’s noise of surprise is silenced by Hinata’s lips covering his own. Hinata pulls back all too soon, a string of salvia connecting their mouths. “Shit, can I eat you out?”
“Can you- What? You want to?” Kageyama’s head is spinning. He should have known sex with Hinata would be like everything else with him: chaotic and messy and unpredictable.
“Of course I want to,” he replies earnestly. “I wanna taste you, all of you.” He runs his finger up the length of Kageyama’s cock just to watch it twitch. He collects a bead of precum on his fingertip and sucks it into his mouth. He smacks his lips obnoxiously, and Kageyama wants to kick him and kiss him at the same time. “I wanna take you apart nice and slow.”
“You’re gonna kill me,” Kageyama moans, covering his face with his hands. He wants to be completely broken down by Hinata, taken apart piece by piece and put back together again into a better version of himself. A happier version.
Hinata smiles, tongue caught between his teeth. “Please don’t die. We’ve already established that I’m not into necrophilia.”
“You are such an idiot,” Kageyama says, and he didn’t know he could sound that fond.
Hinata’s grin gets even wider. “An idiot who is about to eat your ass like no other. Turn over, lemme see you.”
“Take your pants off first,” Kageyama demands, sitting up on his elbows. “I’ve been daydreaming about your dick for long enough. I deserve to see it.”
“Deserve, huh?”
“Yes.”
Hinata laughs. “Fair enough.” He seems a little nervous, like Kageyama might change his mind about bottoming when he properly lays eyes on his dick. He pauses with his thumbs hooked in his waistband, but takes a steadying breath and pulls them all the way off, taking his boxers with them. His cock springs free, tilting ever so slightly to the left. Kageyama’s breath catches in his throat.
“Holy fuck,” he mumbles. It’s beautiful. God, he might even cry. Hinata’s dick is a gorgeous nine and half inches in length and four inches in circumference. He is going to split Kageyama open and he pants at the thought of it. The head is flushed pink and it’s leaking a steady stream of precum. He reaches his hand out to wrap it around Hinata’s cock, giving him one firm pull from the tip to the base, watching the head poke out from the foreskin. Kageyama’s cock spurts more precum onto his stomach at the sight.
Hinata throws his head back and moans. It’s like music to Kageyama’s ears; the slick slide of a fat cock in his hand and the delicious moans of Hinata above him. Hinata is heavy in his lap, an anchor to the present. He feels very lightheaded. Is his blood sugar dropping? Maybe Hinata has some of those gummy worms Kageyama tasted in his mouth earlier. “‘Yama,” Hinata pants, “please, I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that.”
Kageyama yanks his hand away like he’s been burned. He digs his nails into the meat of Hinata’s thighs. “As much as I would love for you to eat me out, I need your dick in me by yesterday.”
He nods quickly. “Yes. Fuck, yes.” He wastes no time grabbing the bottle of lube, but then he hands it to Kageyama. At his confused look, Hinata says, “Your fingers are longer than mine. They’ll reach deeper.”
“But-”
“Next time. I promise, next time I will prep you, but I need to make sure you can take me first.”
Hinata looks so concerned, so worried, about Kageyama’s comfort, that he finds himself nodding. “Okay. Okay,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to Hinata’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of soap and skin and sweat. “Get off of me.”
“What?”
Kageyama huffs and pushes Hinata towards the wall. His head smacks into the plaster with a resounding crack. “Oi! Kageyama!”
“Idiot,” he mutters as he flips onto his stomach. He copies his position from before: ass up, with his legs spread. He tucks his cheek into the pillow and looks at Hinata. “Watch me.”
His mouth drops open in understanding, and Hinata crawls between Kageyama’s legs, forcing his knees further apart. He steadies himself by grabbing the fronts of Kageyama’s thighs, pulling his ass closer to him. Kageyama can feel his breath ghost over his lower back and he shivers. “I’m ready,” Hinata says.
Kageyama snorts. “Wanna get a bag of popcorn or something? Feels like you’re settling in for a show.”
“Well, aren’t I? You told me to watch! Don’t tell me you changed your mind! Are you gonna make me close my eyes?” His eyebrows furrow as he says this, the same divot appearing as when he’s nervous about a test or a big game. “Because honestly, I don’t think I could keep my eyes closed even if you threatened to kill my mom.”
“You’d let your mom be murdered just to watch me finger myself?” Kageyama asks, pausing as he uncaps the lube.
“Gross, ‘Yama! Don’t say the words ‘mom’ and ‘finger’ in the same sentence.”
“You’re the one that brought her up!”
Hinata giggles. “Get on with it then,” he says, slapping Kageyama’s ass as he says so.
“Oi!” he shouts. Hinata didn’t hit hard enough to make it hurt; in fact, it was more of a pat. He’s just offended on principle.
“Don’t act like you don’t like it.”
Kageyama rolls his eyes. “Why are you so cocky in the bedroom?”
“Sorry, not all of my cockiness could fit in my dick. Some of it had to go to my personality.”
Kageyama laughs, a deep belly laugh that surprises him. Sex has never been like this for him. He’s never been able to joke around with someone, to get so horribly derailed from the task at hand. He loves it; he loves how carefree it all is, how enjoyable it is. Kageyama has always liked sex, but with others, he was always racing towards the finish, uncaring of how he got there. With Hinata, every moment is mind blowing. Every touch, every breath, every word, they are all piling on top of each other, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. This is fun.
Kageyama doesn’t know how to voice any of that, though, without sounding like a sap, so instead he drizzles lube over the fingers on his right hand. He reaches behind himself, arching his back as he does to to get a better angle. Hinata helpfully pulls his cheeks apart. His eyes are hungry as he watches Kageyama circle his rim with his middle finger before pushing it in all the way.
It’s uncomfortable, but doesn’t burn. He wastes no time and begins to pump his finger in and out of himself. He purposely avoids his prostate for the time being and just allows himself to get used to the feeling of a finger inside himself. It doesn’t take long. He pushes his pointer finger in alongside his middle one, gasping at the slight stretch. He feels Hinata’s thumbs dig into his ass cheeks, can hear his breathing pick up. He imagines he can feel the heat radiating from the absolute monstrosity that is Hinata’s cock, but honestly it’s probably all of his own blood rushing south that’s making him feel warm.
He scissors his fingers and then curls them just right over his prostate. His hips jerk back as he applies pressure, rubbing in small circles. His eyes roll back in his head, eyelashes fluttering. “Fuck,” he moans,” hips pressing down, searching for some sort of friction.
“Add another,” Hinata commands. His hands massage his ass cheeks, groping and pulling them apart. He sounds like he’s just run twenty kilometers all uphill.
Kageyama slowly eases his ring finger in alongside his other two. Three makes him feel almost full, and he begins to move his hips in earnest. He pushes back on each thrust in and soon he’s drooling all over Hinata’s pillow. Hinata is still watching him, eyes wide. His hands tighten their hold on his ass. Kageyama doesn’t think he blinks once. Kageyama closes his eyes for one second, just to get his bearings, and that’s when Hinata rubs his thumb over the stretching rim of his hole.
Kageyama gasps and jolts forward enough to slam his head into the wall. “Fucking Christ,” Hinata breaths. “Another. Add another.”
“Hinata, please,” Kageyama groans, twisting his wrist as he continues to finger himself. “I’m ready, I promise, please-”
“Another,” he demands in a tone that leaves no room for discussion. God, that’s fucking hot.
Kageyama pushes his pinky inside of himself. He very rarely uses four fingers. Three is usually plenty to prep him for whoever is fucking him that night, but this is Hinata, and he doesn’t want him to feel nervous about hurting Kageyama at all. He wants him to enjoy topping. Hell, he’d let Hinata shove his whole arm up his ass if it meant he wouldn’t be so worried about hurting Kageyama. He spreads his fingers as much as he can, relishing in the sting it produces. He’s gasping like a fish out of water now, heart pounding against his ribcage. Hinata is still rubbing his thumb over Kageyama’s rim and unexpectedly he dips the tip of his thumb in along with Kageyama’s four fingers. He shouts at that, hips jerking back to force more in.
“Please, please, Hinata, I’m ready, I know I am, please, please, just fuck me, I’m ready, I promise, you won’t hurt me, just please,” he begs, thrusting back on his hand. He’s still lightheaded and dizzy. He really should have asked for a snack break.
“Okay, okay,” Hinata wheezes, sounding like he’s having an asthma attack.
Kageyama pulls his fingers out with a whimper. He can feel his hole fluttering around the empty space inside of him now. His dick is leaking like a goddamn faucet and he knows he’s not going to last long, athlete’s stamina be damned. As Hinata rolls the condom on, Kageyama takes the opportunity to once again throw Hinata into the wall by flipping back over. Hinata makes a noise of disbelief.
“I’m trying to fuck you like you asked, and you throw me into the wall? Again?” he mutters, finally sheathing his dick inside a condom.
“I wanna see your face,” Kageyama admits, then frowns. “That was really gay.”
“You’re really gay,” Hinata counters, opting to arrange Kageyama’s legs so that they rest over his shoulders. He yanks the pillow out from underneath Kageyama’s head and positions it beneath his hips.
“That’s the point, dumbass. Now please, hurry up and fuck me, you’ve kept me waiting long en- ungh!” he grunts when Hinata suddenly shoves the first two inches in. Even just that much inside him leaves Kageyama breathless.
“Shit, are you okay?” Hinata swears. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”
“Don’t you dare pull out now,” Kageyama threatens, heels digging into Hinata's scapula. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
Hinata’s eyes harden at the challenge. “I’m gonna make you cum without either of us touching your dick.”
“Oh, fuck,” Kageyama groans as he shudders at the thought. Hinata grabs one of his hands and laces their fingers together. “Sap,” Kageyama teases, and that’s the last coherent word he gets out because Hinata suddenly starts a slow and steady push in.
It burns. Holy shit, does it burn. The stretch is painful, but Kageyama loves it. He loves the feeling of Hinata inside him, buried so deep Kageyama can feel it in his throat. He feels like he’s being split in two, torn apart so slowly he can feel every chemical bond breaking. He lets out a guttural moan, eyes squeezed closed in pleasure. Just when he thinks Hinata is all the way in, he keeps going, until Kageyama is so full he feels like he might burst. For a fleeting moment, he’s worried he’ll split open from his asshole to his balls, but fuck, it feels so good he doesn’t care. The hand that isn’t holding Hinata’s grabs his shoulder, nails digging in so deep he knows Hinata will have crescent shaped bruises there in the morning.
When Hinata finally bottoms out, Kageyama feels more than hears Hinata let out a long sigh, because it seems to push him even deeper inside. “Are you alright?” Hinata asks, holding so still he’s twitching with the effort.
“Shit, you’re so big ,” Kageyama babbles. For as stoic as he is outside the bedroom, he’s surprisingly talkative inside of it. “I can feel you in my throat, you’re so deep. Filling me so well, I’m never gonna be happy with anyone else. Fuck you, Hinata, fuck.” He rolls his hips, gasping at the drag of Hinata’s cock deep inside him. “God, you feel so good. Come on, please, move, I can take it, please, please,” he gasps.
Hinata’s head drops down and his eyes flutter shut. “Oh, fuck. Why do you have to say shit like that?” He pulls out just a few inches before gently thrusting back in. At Kageyama’s moans of encouragement, he picks up his pace, plunging deeper and harder with each stroke.
“God, please,” Kageyama begs. “Harder, make me so loose I have to wear a plug to keep from shitting myself.”
Hinata pauses. “What the fuck is wrong with you.”
“Why’d you stop?” he whines, kicking his heels against Hinata’s back.
“You’re,” thrust, “so,” thrust, “vulgar,” Hinata gasps, pushing in on each pause and pulling out as he breathes each word.
“Harder,” Kageyama demands, arching his back.
Hinata pulls his hips back and slams inside, keeping the brutal pace. The bed rocks on its frame, knocking into the wall behind it. The springs creak, the lube falls off the bed, there’s probably an explosion somewhere; Kageyama doesn’t know. He’s too blissed out to care. He’s full, so full, and surrounded by Hinata. He’s inside him, fucking him like it’s his job. He’s hovering over him, murmuring praise with each push in. His voice penetrates his ear drums. Fuck, does Kageyama understand what people mean by an eargasm now. His scent is in his nose: strawberries and Old Spice body wash. His taste is on his tongue: sweat, sour gummy worms and orange Vitamin Water- because Hinata believes it’s the best, even though everyone knows dragonfruit is the best. Kageyama squeezes Hinata’s hand tighter, drags his nails from his shoulder down to his bicep, where he wraps his hand around it in a bruising grip.
“Take me so well,” Hinata is saying. “Doing so good, Tobio, so good. You gonna cum for me? Please, I wanna see it, wanna see you make a mess, please, Tobio. I bet you look so pretty when you cum. Lemme see it, please? I wanna see it so bad, wanna see you come undone.”
Kageyama gasps. “Shouyou,” he groans, hips stuttering.
“That’s it, let it all out. I’ve got you. Come on, Tobio. I’ll take care of you, I promise. I’m yours, alright? You’ve got me, so come on, I’m right here.” Hinata shifts the angle of his hips and then he’s hitting Kageyama’s prostate head on with pulverizing force.
“Shouyou,” he moans again. “Please.” He sounds wrecked, absolutely shattered.He can feel himself coming apart piece by piece, each part falling into Hinata’s open and waiting hands.
“That’s it, Tobio, that’s it. I’ve got you,” Hinata promises, his movements never slowing.
“Shouyou.” Kageyama comes so hard he blacks out. He sees stars. He’s pretty sure he meets God. He unlocks the secret to the universe: Hinata Shouyou’s massive cock. When he comes to, Hinata is still going, pounding into Kageyama’s oversensitive ass. “Come on, your turn,” he prods. “Come inside me. Wanna feel it.”
“Tobio,” Hinata shouts, voice cracking. He presses in deep and cums, shooting load after load into the condom. Kageyama places his hand over his lower stomach to feel Hinata’s dick twitching inside him. Fuck, he might get hard again just from that. He doesn’t, though. He’s pretty sure his dick died and went to gay heaven. “Shit,” Hinata repeats as he comes down, collapsing on top of Kageyama. Kageyama’s legs fall off his shoulders and spread lewdly beneath him.
The air is punched out of Kageyama’s lungs, but that doesn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around Hinata and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “That was amazing,” he tells him as he rubs his back.
“I think I met Jesus,” Hinata mumbles.
“Really? I met God.”
He hums. “What’s she like?”
“She’s nice.”
“Hmm, cool.”
They lay like that for a while, basking in the afterglow, until Hinata gets too heavy and the cum drying between them is starting to get uncomfortable. Hinata pulls out slowly, but Kageyama still winces, and his hole flitters around nothing. Hinata climbs off the bed, only slightly unsteady, and comes back with a t-shirt. He cleans up the mess on both of their stomachs, but some of it has already dried and will need to be washed off properly. He tosses the t-shirt in the direction of his clothes hamper and then heads to the mini fridge in his room. He hands a Vitamin Water to Kageyama (dragonfruit, because he knows it’s his favorite) and takes an orange one for himself. Once they’ve been given sufficient time to catch their breaths and come down from their post-orgasm highs, Kageyama sits up, wincing as his ass twitches.
“Are you alright?” Hinata asks, voice quiet.
“It hurts,” Kageyama admits. Hinata’s face falls, so he quickly adds, “But not in a bad way! A good kind of hurt, like when you receive a really strong spike.”
His eyes light up. “That good, huh?”
Kageyama rolls his eyes. “You did pretty well, for it only being your second time topping.”
“Yeah? What would you rate me?” Hinata crawls back onto the bed and tucks himself under Kageyama’s chin.
“Hmm… A five.”
“You told me you saw God, and you’re only giving me a five?”
“I was told my ass would be eaten. And here I am, my ass uneaten.”
Hinata slaps his chest. “That’s all on you! You got too impatient.
He shrugs. “Maybe so.”
“Next time, then.”
Kageyama blinks. He knows they said some things not too long ago, but to be fair both of their dicks were out and Kageyama normally doesn’t hold people to the things they say during sex. And maybe Hinata changed his mind about liking Kageyama. Maybe he really did just want to fuck him, and now he’s realizing he doesn’t actually want to be with him. “You want there to be a next time?”
Hinata looks at him, face carefully blank. “You really are stupid, aren’t you, ‘Yama?”
“Hey! Dumbass,” he grunts, pinching his cheek.
He swats his hand away. “Of course I want there to be a next time, and a third time, and a fourth, and a twentieth and a hundredth and a thousandth. I wanna be with you, Tobio. That’s why- That’s why I was acting so weird. I just wanted to be with you.”
Kageyama’s heart absolutely does not clench at Hinata’s words. “I want that, too.”
“Good,” Hinata says. “Can I call you my boyfriend then?”
Kageyama pretends to consider it. “On one condition.”
“What?”
“We’re still best friends.”
Hinata’s smile is so bright it blinds Kageyama, but that’s alright. Kageyama has the rest of his life to get used to his one million watt smiles. He might as well buy some sunglasses and enjoy his stay.
Kageyama wakes up with a familiar, but not unwelcome, ache in his lower back and dark purple bruises all over his chest. Well, it was real then and not some hyperrealistic wet dream he had. Hinata isn’t in bed with him, though, and Kageyama only has two minutes to wonder where he got off to when the dorm room door opens and Hinata comes in carrying breakfast. “I went to the dining hall and got us some food,” he says as he kicks his shoes off. “They didn’t have the oatmeal you like, so I got you some eggs instead.”
I love him, he thinks, but it’s too soon. There’s still a lot to figure out. Kageyama has never been in a relationship before. He’s never had to adjust his life to fit a second person, a person who he maybe loves. Kageyama is a little selfish; he’s not good with feelings. He’s too harsh sometimes, and sometimes he’s just simply unobservant. Hinata is too loud, too forceful and pushy with what he wants. They’re going to fight just like they always have. It’s not going to be easy. Kageyama has a lot of unresolved trauma from Terushima, and Hinata has lost relationships to circumstance. They’re both going to have a lot of anxiety about everything revolving around their relationship; Kageyama isn’t so dumb that he doesn’t realize that. The interesting thing, though, is that he doesn’t mind trying. He knows it’s going to be hard, and he knows it might not end the way he wants it to. But he still wants to try. He wants to be there for Hinata. He wants to hold his stupid hand and play with his soft hair. He wants to argue over the best flavors of Vitamin Water; he wants to taste sour gummy worms and caramel and every other sugary snack Hinata keeps stashed away in his bag. Kageyama can’t be sure of the future. But he’s sure of Hinata, he knows that much. He can’t quite voice any of that just yet, though, not right now, not when everything is new and fresh. He’ll have to wait. He doesn’t mind waiting when it comes to Shouyou.
So instead Kageyama says, “I wanted oatmeal.”
Hinata rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Too bad, you big baby. Also, I kind of used Yamaguchi’s shirt by accident last night to clean us up. Should I wash it with my clothes or just burn it for him?”
Kageyama accepts the box of food from Hinata and scoots over to make room for him on the bed. “Give it to Tsukishima.”
Hinata throws his head back and laughs.
Morning practice is a nightmare. Kageyama can’t walk without limping, Hinata still has crazy sex hair, and there’s somehow dried cum on Kageyama’s sweatpants. Suga gives them a thumbs up; Daichi looks torn between high fiving them and scolding them; and Asahi looks like he wishes he had just become a monk. Tanaka and Noya jump on Hinata and Kageyama’s backs, whooping and hollering about finally having a chance at winning All Japan. Ennoshita looks oddly smug, while Narita and Kinoshita appear to be wishing they had never woken up at all. Tsukishima looks constipated as always, and Yamaguchi looks a little wary. Takeda appears very, very confused, and Ukai just sighs, mutters something about deserving a raise, and makes the whole tem run three kilometers.
After practice, Hinata showers in the locker room for the first time, and Kageyama has to remind himself that they have class at nine and the whole team probably (definitely) does not want to watch him swallow Hinata’s cock like a goddamn pro. When they both strip down to shower, the constellation of marks all over Kageyama’s chest and the fingerprint bruises on Hinata’s bicep and the scratches down his back are revealed to the team at large.
“I fucking hate this,” Tsukishima announces. He takes off his glasses and closes his eyes. “I want to gouge my eyes out.”
“Noya!” Tanaka shouts. “You owe me 500 yen! Yama-yama definitely has a dick!”
“Don’t call me that,” Kageyama bites.
Noya hands over 500 yen to Tanaka, who looks just a bit too happy about winning.
“Hold on,” Suga says. “You all owe me 2000 yen. I won the bet.”
“Nope,” Daichi grins, slinging his arm over Suga’s shoulders. “Ennoshita won. He bet they would get their shit together after Kageyama and Osamu hooked up.”
“But I said it would be before All Japan!”
“All Japan is still two months away. Kageyama got his shit rocked by Osamu three days ago. I win,” Ennoshita explains. He sticks his hand out. “Pay up, all of you.”
“You bet on us getting together?” Hinata asks, blinking.
“Fuck!” Ennoshita swears.
“Pay up, bitches,” Yamaguchi sings.
“What’s happening now?” Kageyama asks, watching as his teammates pass the money over to Yamaguchi instead of Ennoshita.
“Ennoshita only bet that you guys would fuck,” Kinoshita says. “Yamaguchi bet that you guys would get together.”
“Wait,” Suga interrupts. “Who topped?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kageyama spits.
“I did!” Hinata answers cheerfully.
“Hell yes!” Suga yells, pumping his fist in the air. Asahi and Daichi hand him a few 1000 yen notes.
“That felt dirty,” Asahi says as he shivers.
“No one asked you to bet on their sex life, Asahi-san,” Noya points out, jabbing him in the ribs with his elbow.
Asahi turns pink. “Whatever. I thought for sure Kageyama would top.”
“Nope! He’s a size queen and Hinata is hung,” Tanaka adds.
“Can we stop,” Kageyama and Tsukishima say at the same time.
“Wait, what?”
“Yamaguchi told us you have a big dick,” Ennoshita says, looking regretfully at the bills in Yamaguchi’s hand.
“Sorry, Hinata,” Yamaguchi says. He does look remorseful, but the way he licks his thumb to flip through the bills in his hand contradicts that.
Kageyama rolls his eyes, but glances over at Hinata to see how he feels. They make brief eye contact, and Hinata nods. He’s alright. Kageyama offers him a small smile. “Hurry up, dumbass, or we’ll be late to psych,” he mumbles, throwing his dirty socks at Hinata’s head.
Hinata happily takes a sock to the face; he’s too busy smiling goofily at Kageyama to duck.
Kageyama’s head tilts back as he takes in the high ceilings of the arena, the blinding lights, the smell of salonpas, and the sound of bodies and balls hitting the floors. Beside him, Hinata seems to be doing the same, though his eyes are shut and he’s grinning so wide Kageyama is convinced it must hurt. They’ve finally made it to All Japan.
“We’re actually here!” Tanaka shouts, draping himself dramatically over Kageyama’s shoulders. “And it’s all thanks to me and Noya!”
“Hell yeah it is!” Noya agrees, pumping his fist in the air.
Ennoshita rolls his eyes. “Oh, no, please. Go ahead and ignore all the hard work everyone single one of us has put in these past few months. Please, continue.”
“Ennoshita! You know that’s not what I meant,” Tanaka pouts. “It’s because me and Noya got Hinata and Kageyama to fu-”
“Alright!” Daichi interrupts, clapping his hands. “Our first game isn’t until one o’clock, so you guys have time to familiarize yourselves with the arena. We’re playing against Senshu University first on court three. I want us all to meet by the first floor bathrooms at noon so we can start warming up. I recommend watching some of the other games, but you’re more than welcome to walk around and look at the vendors. And please, for the love of God, stay in pairs and keep your phones on.”
“Yes, Dad,” Suga says.
“Suga, I swear to God-”
“Wanna go look around?” Hinata asks Kageyama, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I wanna find the stall that’s selling our calendars!”
“For as much as you hated doing that photoshoot, you sure are excited about the calendar,” Kageyama points out, but follows Hinata nonetheless.
“Well now everyone knows I have a big dick, so there’s nothing to stress about!”
“Kageyama especially,” Tsukishima quips. He and Yamaguchi are walking a few paces behind them, seemingly intent on staying with the couple.
“I’m going to shit on your dinosaur,” Kageyama growls.
“I thought you only put things up your ass.”
Kageyama drops his bag and is about to punch Tsukishima in the nose when Yamaguchi interrupts, “Look! That stall is selling our calendars!”
Sure enough, there’s a stall with tons of different calendars, all volleyball related. Karasuno’s calendar is strategically placed in the center of the display, boasting that all proceeds will go to underfunded high school and middle school volleyball clubs. It looks like a good portion of the calendars have already been sold, and the vendor locks eyes with the group, intent on making a sale.
“You boys interested in a calendar?” he asks, stepping out from behind his table.
“How much are the Karasuno University ones?” Hinata asks. He’s already fishing through his bag to find his wallet.
“2600 yen. They’re selling out fast.” The vendor pauses and appraises the group. “You’re from Karasuno.”
“What gave it away?” Tsukishima mutters, tugging down his jacket emblazoned with the university’s logo.
“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi chastises. He smiles at the vendor. “We are. We haven’t seen the final product yet.”
“They turned out real nice, if I say so myself!”
“I can’t find my wallet,” Hinata whines.
Kageyama rolls his eyes and grabs his wallet from the front pocket of his bag. “I’ll take two of them,” he tells the vendor, handing over six 1000 yen notes.
“Simp,” Tsukishima snickers.
“Tsukki, let’s go look over there,” Yamaguchi says, preventing a fight between Kageyama and Tsukishima.
The vendor watches them leave as he takes the money from Kageyama. “That tall one is kind of a dick, isn’t he?”
“Shut the fuck up and give us the calendars,” Kageyama hisses.
The man blinks and hurries to give Kageyama his change and the calendars. “Have a nice-”
“Shut up,” he repeats and shoves the calendars into his bag. He grabs Hinata’s jacket sleeve and pulls him away.
“Wow, ‘Yama. It almost sounded like you were defending Tsukishima back there,” Hinata points out, happy following in Kageyama’s wake.
“Shut up! I wasn’t defending him. I just told that douche to shut up.”
“After he called Tsukishima a dick.”
“Well, yeah. Tsukishima is a dick, but he doesn’t get to say that.”
“And you do?”
“I live with him! I know better than anyone! That guy doesn’t know shit.”
“Aww! ‘Yama-yama and Tsukki are friends!” Hinata teases.
Kageyama squeezes his head, growling low in his throat. “Shut up!”
“Alright! Alright!” He pulls Kageyama’s hand off his head, but tangles their fingers together.
Kageyama blushes; he’s not used to such obvious displays of affection, but Hinata shows his love freely. He holds Kageyama’s hand in public, kisses his cheek after good plays, and hugs him on trains when they’re crowded in each other’s space. He casually naps on Kageyama’s shoulder, lets Kageyama rest his head in his lap and plays with his hair, and he even steals Kageyama’s sweatshirts. At first Kageyama thought it was overkill, that Hinata was just trying to prove that he liked Kageyama, but when he didn’t stop months into their relationship, Kageyama accepted it. He realized that Hinata wasn’t proving he wanted him to Kageyama; he was showing others who Kageyama belonged to. Kageyama liked that. He squeezes Hinata’s hand in his and they continue walking around the arena looking at different stalls and talking about their upcoming match.
The two of them are about to make their way up to the upper level to watch some of the matches and have a quick meal when Miya Atsumu runs into them. “Sho-chan!” he greets, smiling wide.
“Atsumu-san!” Hinata returns, waving with his free hand. “I remember reading that Waseda qualified for All Japan again.”
Atsumu scoffs. “‘Course we did. We’re the reigning champs.” He crosses his arms over his chest and pouts.
“Not for long,” Hinata challenges.
Atsumu grins, feral like a fox. His eyes finally slide over to Kageyama, who’s gripping Hinata’s hand much tighter now. He knows Hinata is friends with his ex’s; they’ve talked about it before. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly feeling insecure. Maybe it’s because Atsumu is older, more confident, and a starting setter for a university that has four consecutive All Japan wins. “I didn’t realize ya knew Tobio-chan,” Atsumu continues.
“Oh, yeah! He’s my boyfriend!” Hinata states proudly, not an ounce of shame. Kageyama preens under the title.
“Wait,” Atsumu says slowly. “Tobio-chan, yer not- yer not the volleyball player that ‘Samu fucked, are ya? He told me he fucked a volleyball player at Karasuno.”
“Oh, uh,” Kageyama starts. He looks down at Hinata, but he seems unbothered. “Yeah, that was me.”
It looks like Atsumu is doing mental gymnastics. “Hold on. I fucked Sho-chan, ‘Samu fucked you, and now you two are fuckin’. Holy shit. No! No, no, no!” he shouts, dropping to his knees. “No!”
“Atsumu-san?” Hinata asks. “Are you okay?”
“NO!” he bellows. “This means ‘Samu ‘n I have indirectly fucked!”
“Oh my god,” Kageyama mumbles. Hinata giggles.
“Miya-san,” a guy with an unfortunate bowl cut says. He’s wearing the Waseda University team jacket, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks very concerned and crouches on the ground next to Atsumu. “What’re you doing on the ground?”
“Goshiki-kun! I’ve fucked my brother!”
Goshiki appears to go through the five stages of grief. “Um.”
Hinata laughs again. “See you on the court, Atsumu-san! Let’s go, ‘Yama.” They finally make it to the upper level and start looking around for any of their teammates who may be watching the games.
“That was weird,” Kageyama offers as they search the crowds for familiar faces.
“Atsumu-san is just like that. He’ll get over it. Or he won’t.” Hinata shrugs. “Look! There’s Daichi and Suga!”
“Hinata,” Kageyama says, pulling the two of them to a stop before they can reach their captains.
“Yeah?”
He stares down at his feet, thinking hard. “You- You make me really happy.”
Hinata smiles and leans up on his tip-toes to press a light kiss to Kageyama’s lips. “You make me really happy, too. Is that all you wanted to say?”
“No. Um. I’m really happy we get to play together. And I’m happy we’re together. I-” He stops, frustrated at his inability to express what he’s feeling. “Thank you, I guess,” he settles on. “For making me happy.”
Hinata doesn’t say anything, just surges upwards again to kiss Kageyama, long and deep and sweet. Kageyama melts under the attention, hands rising to rest on Hinata’s waist. Hinata’s hands thread themselves through his hair, fingers clutching the smooth strands. He pulls back just a little bit to say, “Tobio,” and everything slots into place. Hinata loves him, and he loves Hinata. Nothing can stop them. They’ll rise to the top together.
“Fucking gay,” Tsukishima sneers as he and Yamaguchi walk past them.
No one stops Kageyama when he kicks Tsukishima so hard he topples over onto his face.
Karasuno University ends up placing fifth in All Japan. It’s a bitter defeat, but there’s always next year. As long as Kageyama has Hinata, anything is possible.
Kageyama waits until he’s back in his dorm to look at the calendar.
The calendar is well-made; the cover is glossy, and it catches the fluorescent light in his dorm room. The cover features a photo of the whole team in a v formation, with Daichi at the point, Suga to the left of him, and Asahi to the right. Everyone with an odd-numbered jersey is on the right, and everyone with an even-numbered jersey is on the left. Tsukishima and Yamaguchi stand at the end of the rows, Tsukishima with a glare and Yamaguchi with a sweet smile.
He flips to the first month to see Daichi. The background is white, but his jersey number has been edited to show up faintly in the background. His photo turned out really well, Kageyama has to admit. Daichi has always been broad shouldered, with thick thighs to match, and it looks like Hayashi may have had Daichi roll up his shorts a little bit so more of his muscular thighs could be on display. His right hand is on his hip, dragging his shorts down just the tiniest bit. He holds a volleyball on his left hip, pressed there by the inside of his elbow. He offers the camera a lopsided grin, a flush on his cheeks. Underneath the grid for the calendar dates is Daichi’s name, year, and position, and under that is a quote that he gave to Seki: “We’ll never win if we don’t believe we can.”
Kageyama turns the page to February. Suga grins impishly back at him, his smile so wide his eyes are closed. He’s sitting on the ground, one leg stretched out, and the other with his knee up. His tongue pokes out from between his teeth, causing him to look like he was caught red-handed in the cookie jar. He’s naked from the waist down and a ball sits between his legs, keeping the photo PG-13. One hand is resting on the top of the ball, and the other he leans back on, making his legs and torso appear longer. He’s pretty, Kageyama realizes. His quote says, “Every player feels the same pride about the fact that they’re going to be on the court, no matter whether they’re some genius or just a regular guy.”
March brings Asahi, and even with his back turned to the camera, Kageyama can see the blush on the back of his neck and on the tops of his shoulders. He’s completely naked and Kageyama laughs to himself. Asahi is not going to like this at all. His hair is pulled back in a loose bun, tendrils falling down to his shoulders. His head is turned to the right, his jawline sharp. His right arm is held straight out and he palms a volleyball, his large hands obviously having a very firm grip on the ball. His left hand rests on his hip. Asahi’s back muscles are prominent, most likely due to a combination of makeup, lighting, and his own vigorous workout routine. The quote he’d given reads, “To strike past all obstacles, that’s the ace!”
Noya is next. He’s shirtless and the photo catches him mid air, arms extended to receive a ball. His skin glows in the photograph, a sheen of sweat visible. His hair falls into his eyes and his mouth is open wide in a shout. His body holds a beautiful curve and his lithe frame makes him look like a bird in flight. There’s obvious prom and expertise in his form, evidence of long training and hard work, making it look natural. Sometimes Kageyama forgets, especially off the court, that Noya is a nationally ranked libero. He looks graceful in the photograph, and that’s a word Kageyama would have never associated with Noya. His quote just says, “Rolling thunder!” Ukai is going to kill him for that one.
May rounds out with Tanaka, standing naked and proud. His grin is wide and almost feral, and the cut of his hips is sinful. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that makes Kageyama wonder if he had just pulled a prank on Asahi before going to be photographed. One hand covers his crotch while he points directly at the camera. His right foot is balanced on a volleyball, drawing attention to his calves and the muscle of his thighs. He looks every bit like the delinquent he is. His quote reads, “The one important thing you gotta remember about volleyball is everybody on this side of the net is your ally no matter what!”
With June comes Ennoshita. He has the same sleepy look on his face as he always does, but the corners of his mouth are lifted into a smirk. He’s naked and squatting low to the ground, knees pressed outwards. His shoulders are about as broad as Daichi’s, but his waist tapers in just a bit more, making him look leaner. His wide hands clutch a volleyball right in front of his pelvis. He looks confident and smug, like he knows something no one else does. Kageyama is used to seeing him look bored or exasperated, but the easy confidence looks good on him. His quote simply says, “If I don’t get this ball, then I don’t deserve to be on this court.”
Kinoshita is featured for the month of July. He has an action shot like Noya and he’s shirtless as well. The photo captures him in midair, back curved like a bow as he sets himself up for a jump serve. His right arm is pulled back, the tension and strength evident in his shoulder. His pale skin gleams in the lighting of the studio and Kageyama can feel the raw power simmering inside Kinoshita. He told Seki, “Not all chances are created equal. But still, they exist!”
Next is August, and with it comes Narita. He’s posed similarly to Asahi, but he’s wearing a shirt, his jersey number standing out proudly on his back. He has a ball balanced on his hip and he’s looking over his shoulder at the camera. There’s a light blush dusting his cheeks and his eyes are wide open, like the photographer had snapped the photo when he wasn’t expecting it. His mouth is slightly agape and the curve of his jaw is soft. His quote says, “Never underestimate the support you give to your teammates. It can mean the difference between winning and losing.”
Kageyama takes a deep breath and flips to September. He’s shirtless and facing the camera, but his eyes are trained upwards at the ball nestled in his fingertips. Ito had spent some time highlighting the muscles on his stomach, so they stand out more than they would normally. He looks slim, but powerful. His waist tapers in from his shoulders just slightly, and the cut of his hip bones is sinful. His uniform pants hang low on his hips and just graze the middle of his thighs, His mouth is open, tongue poking out as he focuses on the ball above him. His eyes are narrowed in concentration, but the deep blue is still visible. There’s a flash on his cheeks and the love for the game is evident in his perfect form, the concentration on his face, and in the way he gracefully cradles the ball to send it into a pinpoint toss. The quote he had given to Seki was, “The only ones who get to stay on the court are the best.”
He skips October, wanting to save it for last. Instead he flips right to November. Tsukishima looks like he’s bored, and he probably was when the photo was taken. He’s shirtless like others on the team had been, but his pose isn’t nearly as dynamic as some others. It suits his personality, though: straightforward and string. His stance is steady, his eyes clear and focused directly at the camera lens. He’s holding a ball with both hands at chest level and his hands are so large they almost encircle the whole sphere. His legs seem to go on for miles. His torso is just as long. He doesn’t have prominent abs like Daichi or Tanaka, but rather a very deep v-line that leads directly into his shorts. His quote says, “The idea that the only good blocking is kill blocking is way outdated.”
The year finishes off with Yamaguchi. His pose is playful, and he was caught in the middle of a laugh, his head tossed back, eyes shut, and mouth wide open in a grin. His freckles stand out proud across his cheekbones, shoulders, and chest. He’s naked and turned to the side, ball held in front of his crotch. His skin is tanned, but Kageyama can see hints of a blush on his cheeks and down his neck. The slope of his waist down to his ass is gorgeous, something art students probably fantasize about. Yamaguchi isn’t broad like others on the team, nor is he particularly muscular, but he’s fit and slim. He told Seki, “I only have one weapon: my serve. I’m going to fight putting my pride and the flow of the game into that shot. I am a pinch server.”
Kageyama takes a steadying breath and then flips back to October. Something about Hinata is always inviting. His smile is always wide and he’s always ready to make new friends. So when Kageyama sees Hinata’s face in the photograph, he’s nearly convinced it’s a different person. Hinata looks murderous. There’s a raw anger etched into the lines of his face, in the way his muscles bulge as he grips the jersey in his hands. Everything about him screams stay away . His jaw is clenched and his eyes are dark. Kageyama shudders. He shouldn’t find this so attractive, but this image of Hinata coupled with the memory of him fucking into Kageyama sends jolts of electricity down his spine. He shakes his head and focuses on the photo. Hinata is facing the camera, his chest and legs bare, with a volleyball between his feet. The only thing protecting his decency is his crumpled jersey held in front of his dick. Kageyama’s mouth goes dry. In comparison to Tsukishima, Hinata’s legs are short and his torso is even shorter, but his legs are strong and sturdy. There’s emphasis on the muscles in his arms and chest and Kageyama is overcome by the desire to bite . He reads Hinata’s quote instead: “Do you need a reason not to want to lose?”
Kageyama shuts the calendar and goes to take a cold shower.
(When Tsukishima returns from studying in the library, he finds the calendar hung up on their wall, open to October, despite it being January. He hides only one of Kageyama’s knee pads in retaliation.)
|
“We should not be enemies, not in this time of hunting at any rood, saving our enmity for war, when it comes. We should be friends,” Loki said, spreading his arms. “Our purposes are the same, after all.”
He draped a wrist over Aere’s shoulder and smiled down at her fondly, while his ice dagger softly tapped her chin.
From behind Loki, Aere could see Thor’s upper lip pulled back into a snarl, his shoulders heaved with every hard breath he took as he, with visible effort, held himself back. Even with Mjolnir in his fist, he could not hope to be fast enough to save her, should Loki choose to slip the blade just the smallest bit lower and pierce her throat.
Or up, to slice out her tongue to thank her in kind for her bullet that he had taken in the mouth.
Aere did not fear such things.
She knew Loki as no one else did, and he would not kill her. Would not suffer the least harm to come to her body. Such behavior would be crude, beneath his dignity as a king, a god, and all of the other things he saw himself as. Though that was true, he would also certainly revenge himself upon what he would see as her abandonment of him through subtle and rude methods. Nothing would satisfy him other than finding a way to make her beg for the privilege of returning to him.
Even if Loki had killed her more tender feelings she still had a mind for him to play with, after all.
Behind her she could feel Thor’s tension in the air about them. The dry, cold air that rolled off of Loki’s body even in his Asgardian form grew charged, and the sky was a turmoil of black and green, the sudden wet of the coming storm thickened the air with fog.
Even all their hair, even Loki’s, danced in the electricity that gathered and gathered about them.
It should have looked ridiculous, but rather it made his pleasant sinisterness all the more disturbing.
He raised a brow. “Control yourself, Prince Thor. It ill becomes Odin’s heir to be so easily swayed to chaos and disarray by a threat to a servant.”
“You know damn well Aere is no me-” Thor’s voice was choked with rage and something that Aere knew as grief even though Loki would not hear it.
“I know so much now, Thor, so much
you
could not possibly imagine, if you had an imagination, that is. Isn’t that right, Aere? You have some inkling of what I know now. I see it in your eyes,” he said, his voice as mercurial as his temperament. Drawling and contemptuous, then amused and light, alighting on seductive and slow and too knowing, as he looked into her eyes.
The deep green of his, which had always been mysterious and yet welcoming to her, were like mirrors, a thing that only had a surface so that any depth that seemed to be there was a reflection at best.
Aere forced herself to look over his shoulder, her face steeled in a manner she hoped was expressionless.
Loki laughed, but the hand that rested lightly over her shoulder now gripped hard. She knew he hated the thought that he could be ignored. The motion of it pulled her a little closer to him, so the dagger now pressed into her lips, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough that she could feel the cold in her teeth. Close enough that she could smell him.
“What do you mean, we should be friends?” Thor gritted out. “Why would the Jotun King seek the friendship of Asgard?”
Aere could see the Warriors Four fruitlessly struggling with their icy bindings. Even though they were melting a bit in the warm air, in the humidity of the storm that roiled in a distance as Thor fought to control himself, they were going to be of no use any time soon. If they could be any use at all against this Loki whose power had grown so vast.
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” he answered, again tapping and tapping with each no, his blade on Aere’s lip. “You misunderstand me. As ever. ‘Tis Asgard that wants the friendship of the Jotun King. That
needs
the friendship of the Jotun King, one with the Cask of Ancient Winters fully restored, fully powerful, and in his ... hands.” The last he said with another laugh, letting go of Aere briefly so he might lightly brush his chest before snake-quick returning to her shoulder, with a bit of a squeeze as if reassuring her in some way.
Aere’s dead heart did not stir. She would swear it did not.
“Why,” Thor’s voice was the thunder, “would Asgard ever need the friendship of the traitor king of a defeated people?”
Again, Loki seemed to seek Aere’s eyes. “Remarkable isn’t it? How Thor’s mouth opens and Odin’s words pour forth? Like vinegar on fresh greens.”
Letting her go, Loki backed away, spreading his arms, his dagger now gone. “Can you not feel it, Odinsson? Have not the Norns come to share their council? Had moth-” he stopped himself, grinning even broader, and shaking his head, “Rather, has not the Queen’s seidr given fair warning? It is coming, each day shortens your future.”
Aere felt cold. She stepped backward, carefully, eyes on Loki, backing up and up until she reached Thor who stepped between them, his hands fruitlessly squeezing into fists and then loosening, then closing again, as he tried to call Mjolnir, which shook and trembled against the iron bark of the tree, trying to reach its master.
Leaves fell like rain, and the wind from the waiting storm whipped them into a frenzy around them, all save Loki where the heavy frost that would cover them made them fall in a dead heap at his feet.
Aere knew, even if Thor did not, what Loki was talking about, and for the first time since Midgard, she was genuinely afraid.
“Nothing?” Loki taunted. “No ideas? Of course not. I was always the one to give you your ideas.”
There was the sound of metal cracking, as the hammer finally flew free, and Thor put out an eager hand. Loki may have been more powerful than ever, but Thor was always battle-ready, and never made the same mistake in a fight twice.
“Prepare yourself, brother,” Thor growled, as Mjolnir slapped against his palm.
“Ragnarok, my once-brother. Ragnarok is coming, whether Asgard is ready or no.”
Thor snorted, “Lies. Of course.”
Ignoring him, Loki continued, “Every portend points towards it barrelling towards your people, and knowing the All-Father, I presume he is aware, yet keeps his own counsel on it, preferring Asgard to sleep the gentle, contented sleep of ignorance. In the face of Surtur’s fiery sword, his demons riding dragons into battle, belching flame and burning to ash the unprepared Aesir, what better ally could you want than one capable of raising the fiercest winter storms to meet their fire?
“Is one woman, little more valued for all of the years of her life than a slave, truly more important to you than the lives of your people,
Prince
Thor?” Loki finished, with a regal incline to his head, and the tiniest of gestures towards Aere.
Mjolnir fell from Thor’s hand, and the shock of it nearly knocked Aere from her feet.
The fall of the hammer told a story, that Thor believed him.
Loki felt, somewhere within him, a desire to be at Aere’s side and steady her, yet it was easy to resist. For one thing, Thor was still between them and he had no special desire to be struck by lightning, even if it would not kill him.
Better to wait.
“You know it is true. I can see it in your face,” Loki let himself drift closer, moving and speaking slowly. “Whilst you have hunted my shards you have seen the signs yourself. You can read them as well as I can, God of Thunder and you know I speak the truth, even if you would that it was otherwise.”
“Why would you ally with Asgard?” Sif’s voice cried out from behind them. Loki felt a need to brush her away like a fly, but resisted, ignoring her words.
“Eventually you will find the last of my shards, most like before my agents do. I know your great skills as a hunter,” he spoke truthfully, and flatteringly. Nothing put an enemy on their heels more quickly than an unexpected compliment. “It is only a matter of time. If you find them and hie them hence to Odin’s treasure vault they will certainly fall with Asgard, when Surtur’s sword finds its wanting heart. Who knows if they will survive it, already broken as they are?”
“Better they should be turned to ash!” Sif again. He really should have covered her pretty face with ice when he had the chance. Doing it now would seem spiteful and he would lose any chance of winning Thor to his side.
So still only addressing Thor, he continued, “I need the Casket to ensure the future of Jotunheimr, and the reign of my children to come, and you need me to have it to ensure that you have a people to rule.”
For a moment Thor looked as if he wished to object. To say something touching and sanctimonious and heartfelt about brotherhood, and friendship, and the bond between them.
Loki waited.
The moment passed, as it should. After all,
Thor
was not the God of Lies.
“Should Surtur be victorious, should Asgard drop burning from the skies, her gods and people fiery husks, it would break my heart.”
Again he touched his chest, and again he felt nothing but the clickclickclick of the shards within him and
cold
, and again he laughed. “Or would, were it not already so badly broken.”
“Do you claim to still care for Asgard?” Aere said with a tone of disgust.
“Not at all. Someday Thor and I will go to war against each other, it is our weird. We have both perhaps always known it. Should Asgard fall, it really must be at my hand.” He waved off the fury of the warriors and Thor, “Eventually. Eventually. I have a kingdom to restore, heirs to make and raise, other battles to fight. A consort, er, consorts, to enjoy,” he gently inclined his head towards Aere. “We will both have long, fruitful reigns before the war between the Aesir and the Jotuns comes,
if
Asgard survives for you to rule.
“Really, are a few broken pieces of glass and a woman from a dead world too high a price to ask for a chance to save an entire Realm?”
Thor was silent, his head bowed. He looked at his massive, useless hands, and there was a glint of a tear in his eye, though if it was a tear of rage, frustration, or grief Loki could not say and told himself he did not care.
The Warriors Four, even Hogan, were a tangle of voices, and he did not bother to try and parse out who was saying what. He hadn’t been speaking to them, after all, so their words meant less than nothing to him.
He hadn’t really even been speaking to Thor. At least, not in the end.
“No, it isn’t.”
Aere walked past Thor, who raised his head to watch her and moved as if he might consider stopping her but did not. When she reached him, Loki closed his eyes for a moment, preening unashamedly in the strange half cold, half warm that emanated from her, caressing him, enveloping his body in a way that pleased both the Jotun and the Asgardian of him.
“If we find the shards in time, you will help Asgard, and then I will return to Jotunheimr with you.”
“Or, rather, you will return there now and wait for me, until the shards are found and I freeze Surtur’s burning cock off of him and bring it and his sword back home as my war prizes,” he countered. “After all, why should I trust you to not run whilst I am in battle?”
“Because my word is good. Since yours is not. I wouldn’t trust you to keep it once you had everything you want. No matter how badly you want to be the one to destroy Asgard yourself.”
He leaned close to her, so close, so he could whisper, and bask and feel something for the first time so long, even if it was only lust and wanting. “Don’t pretend you don’t want it too, my
Virðisløn
?”
“Never call me that again,” she snapped. “I don’t want
any
of the things you want. I don’t want anyone else to die because of kings and crowns, and fathers and sons.”
Taking one of her hands, he stroked his thumb over her knuckles as he raised it to his lips. Her flesh was still roughened with decades of toil.
“But you will come back to Jotunheimr with me, if I keep my word and use my powers to fight at Asgard’s side? And stay at my side and in my bed forevermore?”
All of the others fell silent.
Choking, unable to speak, Aere nodded, and he kissed her palm, smiling against her calloused skin.
|
Jimin was floating.
His skin still felt like fire, and his limbs felt stiff and heavy. His insides were tightly coiled, and he was so, so tired. He didn’t think he was asleep, but he couldn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to open his eyes. He was in so much pain . He tried to kick his hips up, to do anything to ease the throbbing ache in his pelvis, but he didn’t think he actually moved. It hurt so bad.
But he felt like he was floating. And that was a nice feeling.
He didn’t have to use his aching legs, didn’t have to stand or run or walk.
And the smell .
The scent of fire and slow burning coal coated his throat, and soothed him. There was an edge of something absolutely mouth watering about the smell, and Jimin wanted, wanted, wanted . But… No matter how much he wanted to just take, this wasn’t the scent he needed. A sharp, acidic minty smell made him shy away, made the charcoal bitter. The two scents didn’t mix, not well enough for Jimin to keen and bend. He needed something deeper, something more. But this smell was still nice, and it kept him floating.
And floating was nice.
….
It had taken a long time for Namjoon to find Jimin. The omega had made it incredibly far, even in the state that he was in. He might’ve been able to find Jimin faster if the entire forest didn’t have Jimin’s scent stuck to everything, but he had found the other nonetheless. The poor omega was tucked into the thick roots of a tree, shivering and moaning. His heady, sweet caramel scent surrounded Namjoon, seemed to cloud his mind and make it go hazy. His vision blurred and his body thrummed.
He turned his head and caught a whiff of something on his collar. The smell of bread and warm apple crowded his thoughts, and his head was cleared in an instant. All he could see was large brown eyes and pale, flushed skin. All he could smell was Jin. All he could think about was Jin.
Namjoon took a deep breath and shook his head for good measure before taking in another inhale and holding it in to the best of his ability. He crouched to the ground and tucked one arm under Jimin’s shoulders and one arm under his knees. Jimin keened and stretched at his touch, rubbing his wrists against Namjoon’s face and nose.
“It’s alright, little one,” Namjoon mumbled into Jimin’s ear. “I got you. We’re gonna get you home.”
Jimin only moaned in response, his hips stuttering in Namjoon’s hold. Namjoon sighed and adjusted his grip so that Jimin face was tilted closer to his stomach, hoping that his alpha scent would calm the omega.
Jimin nuzzled into Namjoon’s chest, whining and writhing. The alpha looked down to Jimin for a moment, and he did have to admit; Jimin was a pretty little thing. His lips were pillowy and plump, and an oh so inviting cherry red. His jaw was pronounced, but his cheeks were still round and soft, flushed dark red from his body heat. His hair might have been a gorgeous silvery blonde, but his eyelashes were long and black. Namjoon could see why Jungkook such a liking to him, though he himself prefers brunettes.
Jimin mumbled something, and Namjoon chuckled, warmth flowing into his chest. He willed his own scent to become thicker, hoping to smell more comforting than enticing. He thought it had worked until Jimin frowned and slurred out “spicy”. Namjoon smiled and shook his head fondly.
“Cute.”
He carried Jimin throughout the forest, the omega swaying slightly in his arms. Every once in awhile, Jimin would mumble or moan in desperation, but Namjoon only cooed and hushed him. Every few minutes, Namjoon would stop and sniff his collar as to not be affected by Jimin’s mouth watering scent, but now he noticed that the warm, overpowering vanilla scent was more sickly than anything, but he didn’t want to take any chances.
They were halfway through the forest when Namjoon halted his footsteps. He held onto Jimin tighter, and whipped his head around at the other alpha’s scent encroaching on their position. Jimin seemed to freeze in his grasp for a moment before he opened wet his mouth, gasping.
“I need-” Jimin choked, his body squirming and bucking wildly. Namjoon cursed and held onto the boy tighter still. Jimin bared his neck the best he could. His whines grew high pitched and breathy. Namjoon’s chest felt like it was being squeezed from the inside. All he wanted as an alpha was to protect and serve this tiny omega in his arms, but he knew that he couldn’t. In that moment, Namjoon understood how strong, how much power, and omega could have. Jimin started to gasp and tears leaked down his rosy cheeks, and Namjoon whimpered.
The whimper turned into a short growl when that alpha scent got closer. His honey eyes swiveled around until they came into contact with the round crimson eyes of Jungkook. Jungkook looked as though he was half crazed, his hair stuck up in different directions. His eyes were wide and his nostrils were flaring as they took in Jimin’s pretty scent. Namjoon shifted his body so that Jimin would be further away from the other alpha. He trusted Jungkook with his life, but he wasn’t sure he could trust him with Jimin’s.
“Kook.” Namjoon spoke firmly and he kept his eyes locked with Jungkook’s. The other boy rushed down from the hill he was standing on, using the trees around him to push himself down faster. He barely made any noise when he ran, even with the dead leaves and snow covering the ground. He stopped within arms length of Namjoon, his eyes darting to Jimin in his arms and then back up to Namjoon’s. His lips curled back over his teeth, and he growled softly at the older alpha.
Jimin mewled softly, though Jungkook’s scent seemed to have soothed the omega better than Namjoon’s had. He had stopped his writhing at the very least, and seemed to have fallen completely asleep.
Namjoon took a deep breath of freshly skinned deer and ashed wood. “Kook, you need to calm down.”
Jungkook’s eyes flashed and he took a step closer to Namjoon, growling louder. “Give him to me,” he almost whispered, his voice raspy. He reached his arms out, but Namjoon shook his head and took three steps away, keeping Jimin angled away from the alpha. Jungkook made a short noise of distress before he growled again, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
“Back down, Jungkook,” Namjoon said, his voice stern, leaving no room for argument. “You cannot beat me. You never have.”
“I’ve never had a real reason to beat you before, Namjoon, but he is mine, and I want him now,” Jungkook barked, his canines elongating in his mouth. His heart was thundering, and his head was so hazy. All he could think about was Jimin, all he could smell was Jimin, all he wanted was Jimin, all he needed was Jimin. And Namjoon was keeping him from Jimin. He put out his arms again, and his voice scraped the back of his throat as he asked One. More. Time. “Give me my omega.”
Namjoon took a breath in, as if he was about to say something.
Then he ran.
He knew that Jungkook was faster, but Jungkook was not stronger. If it came down to it, Namjoon could, and would, put Jungkook in his place. He didn’t want it to come to that. He didn’t want to hurt his friend. Especially over something he couldn’t control. He couldn’t control this forced heat, and he couldn’t control a forced rut. He just had to make it back to the field. Back to Jin. There would be enough people there to help.
But Jimin was cumbersome, and he was already slow as it was. He wouldn’t say that Jimin was heavy, but he wasn’t really holding on to him in his state of half sleep, so he was swaying and rocking dangerously in his grasp as he ran. He heard Jungkook curse from somewhere behind him, but he didn’t dare look back. He was clumsy in the best of times, and he didn’t want to trip now. He was so close, he could see the light peaking through the front of the forest. He heard Jungkook getting closer and closer, much faster than Namjoon could have ever thought possible. He had never been afraid of the other, even when they got into their worst arguments. But this… this was something different. He wasn’t afraid for himself, no not at all.
He was afraid for this tiny, trembling boy in his arms. He had only just met Jimin, but he could see in his every move, his every breath how strong he was. Namjoon knew that if anything were to happen to this precious omega, that the omega himself would break, even if it was Jungkook that held the hammer that shattered him. He wanted to protect this man, even if it meant hurting his best friend, someone he trusted more than anyone. What he felt for Jimin wasn’t the lust of an alpha trying to protect his mate, no. He felt as though Jimin was his own flesh and blood in that moment. Namjoon never thought it would happen to him. He never thought he would be like The Head Alpha of the Jeon Pack.
He felt Jungkook’s hand brush his back, and he willed his aching legs to go faster. He hiked Jimin up, hoping to able to go faster for even a moment. Jungkook was howling and growling, painfully aching for Jimin. The light was getting closer and closer, but so was Jungkook.
Sudden, searing pain ripped through Namjoon’s shoulders and back. He shouted, and stumbled, but somehow kept his footing, and burst through the sunlight. His feet pounded the ground as he ran back to the field. A majority of the pack had left, presumably to participate in the other trials of the festival. Namjoon grit his teeth. Hopefully the ones that were left would be able to control Jungkook, but he wasn’t hopeful.
“Help!” he shouted. His chest was painfully tight, and he couldn’t breathe properly. An iron weight settled on his heart and lead filled his lungs. He couldn’t run for much longer. He knew he was bleeding, his back ripped open and shredded. Three people began to run towards the other two, and Namjoon could have cried. It wouldn’t be enough to stop an alpha in forced rut, but maybe it would be enough to distract Jungkook to get Jimin to safety.
Namjoon was so close to the field, so, so close. He could smell apples and sweet bread on the wind. He could smell his home. But the other three coming for them wouldn’t get to them in time. The same shredding pain tore through his calf to his ankle. He yelled and fell to his knees. He threw his body on top of Jimin’s, covering the groaning omega completely. He heard someone scream.
Jungkook was on him in seconds, ripping and tearing at Namjoon’s arms and back, trying to pry the other off. Namjoon yelled and growled, and he was sure that his own eyes had gone deep red. Jimin whimpered. “I got you, little one. I got you,” Namjoon whispered. He tasted blood in his mouth.
And then Jungkook was gone.
Namjoon’s head shot up, and his mouth fell open.
The other three hadn’t gotten to them yet, they were still running towards them. The beta had gotten to them first.
Taehyung and Jungkook clawed and bit at each other, both of them completely changed. Jungkook was still an adolescent alpha, his massive black body was still smaller than Taehyung’s. Taehyung’s eyes glowed molten gold, his tawny brown fur rippled as they fought. Namjoon started to see black spots dance in his eyes, and he swayed where he sat.
Soft hands touched his face and he turned with their guidance to look at Jin’s face. His brown eyes were puffy, his cheeks tear stained and pink. Jin pet his face, more tears leaking out of those pretty chocolate eyes. Namjoon had never felt so warm before. Heat spread from Jin’s hand into his face, to his bones. His heart clenched again, and he tried to lift his heavy arm. He wanted to touch Jin’s face, wanted to wipe away the omega’s tears. He tried, but he found that he couldn’t let Jimin go. His fingers were stiff around Jimin’s arms, and he couldn’t open them.
“H-Help me, please,” Namjoon mumbled. He was tired all of the sudden. Jin nodded and looked over to the two wolves, still scrabbling with each other.
“Get my father,” Jin ordered one of the other pack members, who nodded promptly before running in the direction of Jin’s home. Jin’s hands travelled down from Namjoon’s face to his slick neck, his fingers barely brushing his skin. They smoothed down his taught arms and to his hands. “It’s okay now, I’ve got him.” Jin tucked his fingers between Namjoon’s fingers and Jimin’s body. He rubbed his thumbs against the back of Namjoon’s hands. The smell of sweet, sugary apples became stronger, and Namjoon found himself leaning forward towards the omega. Jin smelled so sweet and clean. Jin stiffened for a second, noticing that Namjoon was staring at his neck, still covered with the red scarf. The smell of crisp mint radiated off of Namjoon and Jin gripped his scarf with one hand and pulled it off with a soft tug. Namjoon’s eyelids fluttered. Jin swallowed and brought his hand back down to Namjoon’s continuing to massage the stiffness from them. He looked down to Jimin, then back up to Namjoon. “Go ahead.”
Namjoon couldn’t help but fall into Jin, burying himself in Jin’s scent. He let the other’s warm scent wash over him, let it alter his own. His eyes felt so heavy. His whole body felt heavy. He closed his eyes and let out a breath.
“Namjoon?” Jin muttered, but Namjoon barely heard him. He heard his blood rushing in his ears. He coughed once, twice. “Nam…” Jin’s voice was pretty, pretty, pretty. “Someone he…” Namjoon felt himself slide to the side, grunted when he landed on his arm on his side. The last thing he remembered was Jin’s scent and a massive gray wolf appearing at the top of the hill, the smell of rain pervading everything, stomping out everything else. Then everything went dark.
…
Jimin shot up and vomited over the side of his bed. Sweat trailed down his neck and back. Despite the vomit, his mouth was dry, his throat like paper. His head pounded. He groaned, then gasped. His hips kicked against his sheets, almost by themselves. The friction made him keen, and he did it again, just to get some sort of relief. He leaned back into his bed and traced his hands down his naked body, brushing over his sensitive nipples and down to his groin. He wrapped a hand around his cock, pumping it once, twice. His back arched and he whined. It wasn’t enough. He clenched around nothing and it brought tears to his eyes. He bit his tongue and tasted blood. Jimin shifted his hand up and down two more times before he found some sort of release. He let out a high pitched whine, gasping and crying. His body pulsed with need. He took deep breaths and tried to calm down. He wanted to scream when his cock just got hard again, this one more painful than the last.
The smell of honey made his eyes snap open and scan his room. He had just noticed that Taehyung wasn’t there with him. His watery eyes settled on the black haired male omega from the Jeon Pack. The omega was looking down at a book in his lap, like Jimin hadn’t just jacked off in front of him. Jimin supposed the other omega was used to it by now. Jimin licked his dry lips. “Y-Yoongi.”
Yoongi’s eyes shot up, and so did he. He put the book down, flipping it over so it laid open, as if to not lose his place. “Hey, Jimin-ah,” he cooed. His obsidian eyes were gentle and kind. He tentatively touched Jimin’s hand, not wanting to encroach on the others space. “I’m not even going to ask if you are feeling okay.”
Jimin found it within himself to crack a small smile. “Feel like shit.”
Yoongi smiled a half smile. “I know.” Yoongi rubbed his thumb over the back of Jimin’s hand. “Sorry you have to be in here with me. I know that having another omega with you during a heat cycle isn’t ideal, but it’s all we could do.”
Jimin shook his head in dismissal. “You don’t smell that bad, don’t worry.” Yoongi chuckled. Jimin’s hips bucked up suddenly and he gasped. Yoongi just held his hand as heat crashed through him. Jimin made a small noise of distress, before he managed to get a hold of himself. “But, I can’t be in heat. I already have had my heat, so why…?” He was cut off by another wave of pure, sharp arousal.
Once he had settled down again, his brows knit together in frustration, Yoongi squeezed his hand. “Yeah, but..”
Jimin groaned and stretched. “But what?” he gasped, trying to will away his arousal.
“You are experiencing something called Forced Heat.”
…
“I’ve never heard of anything called Forced Heat.”
Taehyung, Jin, and Hoseok had gathered in Jin’s room. Namjoon was sprawled on his stomach on Jin’s bed. Jin was slowly and methodically placing a green salve and white bandages on Namjoon’s back, arms, and legs. Jungkook had done a number on the poor alpha. Three deep slashes ran from his right shoulder to the lower left side of his back. His hamstring was completely destroyed, his calf muscle split in two, though it was pure luck that his achilles tendon was left untouched. Multiple deep gashes and cuts bloomed across the back of his arms and the rest of his back. Even with all of the cuts and wounds, Jin could see the strong shoulders and the fatless calves that the alpha had. No one could doubt that Namjoon worked hard for his body. Jin just hoped that the other could walk.
Namjoon hissed and shifted when Jin placed some of the salve on one of the deeper cuts on his arm. He had only passed out for a moment, coming to not too long after Jin had started bandaging him up. He had wanted the alpha to rest, but he also wanted answers. The healing omegas had tried to take him, but to everyone's surprise Jin had growled and snapped at anyone who tried to go near the injured man. Jin still carried a subtle hint of mint on his body, and Namjoon carried a heavy scent of apples. “I’m sorry,” Jin mumbled before he turned back to Hoseok. “You said that Jimin was in Forced Heat, and Jungkook in Forced Rut?”
Taehyung crossed his arms over his chest, before grimacing and putting them back down to his sides. His lip was split, and he had a dark bruise forming under his eye. Jin had checked over Taehyung first. The only other injuries he had sustained was that he had purple and red bruising on his chest and ribs. He sat in a chair near the door, Jimin’s room in his lane of vision. He wanted to be with the other, but he needed to figure out what was going on first. “What is it?” he asked, looking at the other beta.
Hoseok sighed and shifted on his feet. “Have you heard of imprinting?” Taehyung and Jin’s eyes widened and they looked at each other for a moment before looking back at Hoseok.
“Imprinting?” Jin asked, gently sliding another bandage onto Namjoon’s back. The alpha twitched and made a short noise. “Sorry,” Jin mumbled to Namjoon, leaning down to kiss the back of Namjoon’s head before looking back up and reaching for his salve. “Isn’t that so rare that it basically only exists in stories?”
Hoseok nodded, “Yes, but it is real. We had an imprinted couple in our pack. It’s rare, but it happens. I think Jungkook and Jimin imprinted on each other.”
Taehyung rolled his eyes and leaned onto his knees. “What, exactly, does that entail?”
“It means that they are basically soulmates, and that they need to be together. There is some sort of cosmic link between imprinters. They see each other, and that’s it. They are each others oxygen, each others life source. You would think that life bonded mates have a strong bond, but imprinting is about ten times as strong.” Hoseok looked around the room as the news set in. Jin looked concerned, but Taehyung looked livid.
“What does this have to do with this Forced Heat?” Jin asked.
Namjoon shifted so that he could speak. “Forced Heat is a bad name. It’s more like, Jungkook triggered Jimin’s heat, and Jimin’s heat triggered Jungkook’s rut. They are both young, and they both got really close, really fast. Unfortunately, they need each other now. The reason Jimin’s heat was set off was because he smelled Jungkook, imprinted on him, and then he was taken from Jungkook. It was Jimin’s body panicking. Since they didn’t spend enough time with each other, his body thought that he would lose his mate, and therefore, his body forced a heat to try to get Jungkook back, to leave something with him if he was going to leave again.”
Jin bent down to look at Namjoon’s face. “How do you know all of this?”
Namjoon tried to shrug, though he quickly thought better of it when his whole back burned with the movement. His cheeks flushed at Jin’s close contact. “I just do.”
Hoseok looked down and away from Namjoon for a moment, before looking to Taehyung. Taehyung shook his head and bit his lip. “So, what do we do? To stop this from happening again?”
Hoseok put his hands onto his hips. “You let them court, and it might help for each of them to have a piece of clothing from each other with them.”
Taehyung grit his teeth, but nodded. His eyes darted to Namjoon’s. “There’s no other way?”
Namjoon shook his head, jerking when Jin placed more salve on his back. “They have to be close to each other. If not, this will keep happening, and from what I have heard Forced Heats are more painful and longer than regular heats, and they get worse and worse the more that they happen.”
Taehyung looked to Jin. “Do what you think is right, Taehyung.”
Taehyung nodded and brushed a hand through his hair. “Once Jungkook asks me, he and Jimin will court. I will grab a scarf of Jimin’s for Jungkook.” The beta stood up painfully and made his way to the two omegas in Jimin’s room, shedding his shirt on the way.
The other three snorted when they heard an appreciative groan and a drawn out ‘well, hello there’ from Yoongi. Hoseok knew he could trust the other beta with his partner, so he didn’t bother going to check on Yoongi.
Hoseok stretched and made his excuses, leaving the room so that it was just Jin and Namjoon left.
The two sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Namjoon hissed and squirmed every once and a while, and Jin apologized every time. Jin broke the silence first with a sigh. “I think we are going to need stitches for your leg,” he said, his voice quiet.
“How bad is it?” Namjoon murmured. If he was being honest, he couldn’t feel his leg at all, which he supposed was a blessing. Jin was silent for a long while, placing more salve and bandages where he could. “Jin?”
“Bad. I-” Jin swallowed, his voice becoming thick with emotion. “I’m not sure you will be able to walk.”
“Oh.”
Namjoon felt the bed tremble. He tried to look over his shoulder at the other man. “Jin? Why are you crying?”
“Why?” Jin asked, his voice wet and trembling.
“Why what?”
Jin stood and went to kneel in front of Namjoon, their eyes meeting. Jin’s eyes were glossy and his lips pointed down in a deep frown. “Why did you protect him to the point of… this?”
Namjoon bit his lip but didn’t look away. “You asked me to.”
Jin froze, but then laughed, though it sounded more exasperated than anything. “I asked you to find him, to help him. Not get torn up, to lose your leg for him. I love Jimin more than anything, but you hardly know him or me, so why?”
Namjoon looked down for a moment and looked back up to Jin. “I hardly know you, sure. I have never even spoken to Jimin. But I know that I want to know you, I want to talk to you. I want to know what you hate, what you love. I want to know what makes you happy, what makes you sad. You’re a beautiful person, I can already tell. You’re pretty, and selfless, and I need to know who you are, and who I can be with you.”
Jin looked down, his cheeks flushing dark red.
“But, what about Jimin? Even if you felt this way about me, there was still no reason to go this far for him, even for someone close to me.”
Namjoon sighed for what felt like the millionth time that night.
“Have you ever heard of something called Kindred Imprinting?”
|
So where did you meet him?
Has he got a job?
What’s he at school for?
What’s he like?
What’s his name?
How old is he?
How long have you known him?
How long have you been dating?
What do you mean you love him?
Rose awoke to a string of messages from her mother, questions that Rose had supplied some of the answers to in her texts the previous night. It was enough that she regretted telling her mum about James in the first place.
Scrubbing her hand over her sleepy face, Rose ignored her mother for now and instead opened up the new message from James.
Morning! Gollum actually let me pet him. I think the world is ending.
Rose grinned into her pillow and hugged her blankets tighter to her chest. A quick glance at the time told her she had another twenty minutes before she absolutely had to get up and get ready for her appointment at the university health center.
“Photographic evidence? No pictures, no proof.”
Three dots appeared as James typed his response. Ten seconds later, a photograph came through. Rose saw James’s hand scratching Gollum’s chin. The cat’s eyes were wide open, but he was at least leaning into the touch.
Ha! There’s your proof.
“The world is indeed ending then,” she replied. “Did you sleep better last night?”
Oh yeah. Loads better.
Conked out shortly after I finished texting you and didn’t wake up til Pippin meowed in my ear at 7:39.
Quite loudly, I might add.
“Poor baby was starving,” she said.
It’s a wonder he isn’t grossly overweight, as much as he eats.
Then again, he regularly does sprints throughout the house, so I guess he burns it all off eventually.
Are we still on for tonight? I can’t wait to see you.
“Yep! I can’t wait to see you too xoxo.”
The excitement of seeing James that night was what got Rose through an otherwise hectic day. Her appointment at the health center was short and mostly useless; the physician on call took a few basic measurements—height, weight, temperature, and blood pressure—and asked a few generic questions about her sex life—nonexistent, for now—before helping Rose schedule an appointment set a few days after Christmas at the nearby gynecologist. She didn’t think she and James would have progressed as far as proper sex in a week’s time, but in the event that they did… well, Rose had already seen that James stocked up on condoms.
After her appointment, Rose grabbed a breakfast bagel sandwich to go and headed to work. The grocery store was much busier today than it was yesterday, and Rose was barely keeping up. The manager on duty kept shuffling her around, from the registers, to stocking, to tallying inventory, and by the time she clocked out, she was thoroughly drained.
She was so exhausted when she exited the grocery store that she didn’t notice the dark figure jogging up behind her until a warm hand grabbed her elbow. Yelping, Rose yanked herself away from the touch and nearly thrust the heel of her hand into the stranger’s nose before she realized it was James.
“Oh my God,” she mumbled, face heating. “I am so sorry.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, holding his hands out in front of himself to ward off her almost-attack. “I was calling for you.”
“Sorry,” she repeated. “Work was hell today. I’m so tired. I didn’t even hear you.” She blinked. “Wait, what are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d surprise you by driving you home,” he said, rocking on his toes and then his heels. “You know, for our date tonight. But if you’re too tired, that’s completely fine. You look awful. I can drop you off and leave, let you go right to bed.”
In the frantic rush of her work shift, particularly the second half of it, she had managed to forget all about her date with James. All she had wanted to do was have a long soak in her bathtub. Though now that he reminded her, she absolutely did not want to be alone.
“No, no,” she said, reaching out to take his hand. “I want to have our date. I might be lousy company, but we can have a good cuddle and watch a film, right?”
“Right,” he said with a toothy grin. “Let’s go, Rose Tyler!”
He tugged her to his waiting car, which was blessedly warm. Though she’d only been outside for a couple minutes, her cheeks and nose had already gone numb from the cold December night.
It wasn’t boding well for Rose that she nearly fell asleep on the drive home. Every time her eyes slipped shut, she wrenched them open; she was determined to spend a quiet evening with her boyfriend and knew that if she fell asleep, James would insist on leaving to let her get some rest.
When they made it to her flat, James asked again if she was sure she wanted company. After firmly telling him she did, she looped her arm through his and guided him up to her flat.
“I don’t have a TV,” she said apologetically, dumping her keys and purse onto the kitchen table, “so we’ll have to use my laptop. We can either pull my table closer to the couch and set it on there, or…” She bit her lip. “Or watch in my bed.”
James’s cheeks flushed pink. His mouth worked for a silent moment before he stammered, “I… Well… Whatever you prefer. Whatever is easiest. You’ve had a long day, after all. I want you to be comfy. Which would you prefer?”
“The bed,” she admitted, longing to change into pajamas and lie down in a nest of blankets. “If that’s all right?”
James bobbed his head in a nod.
Rose excused herself to freshen up and change into more comfortable clothes while James picked a movie and made popcorn. When she returned, he was mindlessly munching on the popcorn and scrolling through Netflix.
“Did you not save the login info?” he asked when she approached. He gestured to the laptop. “I had to log in again.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t want to presume I could keep using it.”
He rolled his eyes. “I hereby give you permission to use my Netflix from this day henceforth. I saved the credentials to your computer. Access it whenever you’d like, Rose.”
“Thanks,” she muttered. With no cable, no television, and no streaming services, it was difficult to find ways to watch shows and movies. She’d been debating for months whether to get Netflix or Hulu or something. “I- I can split the monthly fee with you.”
“Rose, it’s like five dollars.” Before she could insist, he added, “I don't want you paying for it when you’re not using it. I use it damn near every night. Something to watch before bed. So how about this: the months that you use it, buy me a coffee or two, and we’ll call it even. Eh?”
Rose chewed on her lip, about to refuse and fork over the five dollars for this month’s usage.
Compromise, she reminded herself. He’s compromising. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t charge me a thing. And of course he won’t want to charge me when I don’t use it. What difference does it make if I give him cash versus a few dollars’ worth of coffee?
“Sounds fair,” she said, smiling.
He blinked, as though he couldn’t believe she’d given in so easily, then grinned. “Brilliant! So, I found a few options of what to watch. Let’s get set up, then we’ll decide.”
Ignoring the butterflies of bringing a boy into her bedroom, Rose led James down the hall. She’d quickly tidied up when she’d changed, but her room was messier than she wanted him to see. It didn’t help that it was a small room, so the sheer presence of her possessions made it appear cluttered.
“It’s a bit small,” Rose said apologetically.
“Nonsense!” he crowed, skipping up to her bed and plopping down. Rose wasn’t sure how he managed to keep his grip on the laptop and the popcorn bowl without spilling anything. “It just means we get to cuddle closer.”
He waggled his eyebrows at her, making her laugh. More restrainedly, Rose settled down beside him. They took a few minutes to rearrange pillows, blankets, and bodies until they were comfortable. James sat with his back propped against most of her pillows, the laptop resting on his thighs; Rose curled up beside him, her arm snaked around his back and the other wrapped around the bowl of popcorn at her belly while her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. He wrapped his arm snugly around her waist, fingers curved around her hip, anchoring her thoroughly to his side.
“I’m not sure how you feel about documentaries,” James said sheepishly, “but I love them. And there was this one on World War I I’ve been meaning to start. But if you don’t like them…”
“No, that sounds perfect,” Rose interrupted. She wasn’t technically lying; she had nothing against documentaries, but had seen too few of them to have an accurate opinion about them. Besides, she knew she was likely to fall asleep part way through, so she wanted James to be watching something he would enjoy.
She stayed awake long enough to help James polish off the popcorn. When it was empty, Rose placed the bowl on the floor beside her bed. Without the bowl in the way, she was able to fold herself even closer until she was nearly lying on top of him. He didn’t seem to mind though; he wrapped his arm more tightly around her. With his other hand, he began stroking her hair. That alone was enough to send her off into sleep.
It wasn’t a deep sleep—she remained conscious of James’s warm, solid body beside hers, of the way his chest rose and fell with his breathing—but it was deep enough that she had absolutely no idea what the documentary was about. A vague corner of her mind hoped James was enjoying it while she drifted in and out of awareness.
Sometime later, James pressed his lips to her forehead. Upon forcing open her eyes, she saw the end credits were rolling on the laptop screen.
“Good documentary?” she asked, nuzzling into his neck.
“Not bad,” he said. “The company was better.”
Rose groaned and hid her face. “I’m sorry. I’m so boring.”
“No, I was being genuine,” he said earnestly. His tone turned smug as he asked, “Did I make a good pillow?”
“The best,” she said, smiling.
Untucking her face from his neck, she peered up at him. All the air left her lungs when she realized how close his face had gotten. Her nose bumped against his lips, which parted in surprise. Her exhaustion evaporated in an instant as her entire focus shifted to James and the lips that were hovering mere centimeters above her own.
There was a firm tug coming from somewhere behind her navel, and she wasn’t sure who had moved first, or if it was an accident, but suddenly his lips were on hers. He sighed against her mouth, the sound soft and needy, and it made her entire body go molten. She couldn’t get close enough, hold him tight enough, kiss him hard enough.
Something rectangular poked into her stomach quite uncomfortably, and she grunted in annoyance. She groped between them and found her laptop, which must have slid off his thighs when he angled his body towards hers.
She closed the lid of the computer, picked it up, and reached behind herself to set it onto her nightstand. This had to be the only time she appreciated having a small bed—she had gotten the laptop out of their way without needing to leave the warmth of James’s arms.
However, the momentary distraction seemed to have cleared James’s head a bit. When she went in for another kiss, he placed his fingertips over her lips.
“You’re tired,” he protested.
“Not anymore,” she mumbled around his fingers before giving them a quick nip.
He pulled his hand away, his pupils dilating as they zeroed in on her mouth, and that was all the opportunity Rose needed. She reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling his face down to hers. Their lips met with a mutual sigh of satisfaction that liquified her insides at once.
She slung a leg over his hips, dragging him closer until their fronts were aligned and fused together. He let out a low groan that Rose felt more than heard. His hands soon began wandering, trailing up and down her back and ribs. She gasped when one of his hands ducked under her sweatshirt, skating across the expanse of her back and leaving goosebumps in its wake.
All the while, their lips and tongues glided together in a sensual dance. Their mouths performed a catch-and-release rhythm that was becoming so familiar the longer they kept at it. His tongue eventually probed her bottom lip, eliciting a gasp that he took full advantage of.
Shudders of pleasure rippled down her spine as his tongue slipped and teased its way around her mouth. With a final flick of the tip of his tongue against hers, he popped his mouth away from hers. Before she could protest, he kissed his way down her cheek and to the sensitive patch of skin beneath her ear.
She probably should have been embarrassed by the moan she let out, but it felt too bloody good for her to be self-conscious. Every nerve ending was alight with pleasure, and she tried to get closer to him. There were too many clothes in the way, and she wanted to feel him—his skin, his touch, his body—but the best she could do was slip her hands beneath his shirt. His back was warm and smooth, the muscles rippling beneath her hands.
Her nails bit into his skin when he nipped at a particularly sensitive spot, making her squirm and groan. His lips twitched into a smile against her neck, inordinately pleased with himself; Rose decided he had every right to be, as long as he kept kissing her like that.
She knew she was being selfish; every now and then, she realized her hands had stopped exploring him and were instead motionless, but it was difficult to keep her wits about her when James was so singularly focused on her. And with the small, contented grunts he let out every now and then, Rose thought he might be enjoying himself just as much as she was.
A throbbing, desperate heat took up residence between her thighs, and she tightened her core and her legs to try to alleviate the ache. She forgot, however, that one of her legs was slung over his hips, and when she clenched her thighs together, she brought herself into perfect contact with the front of his jeans. Something firm pressed behind his zipper, and when she rubbed against it, he let out a breathy whimper, his entire body going absolutely still.
“S-sorry,” he rasped, panting raggedly against the side of her neck. “M’sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, caressing her fingers up and down his spine. He shivered lightly. “It’s okay. I would’ve been worried if you weren’t… I’m glad to know you’re enjoying this.”
“I am very much enjoying this. More than I thought I would,” he admitted with a wry chuckle. “As you know, I’ve never done this with anyone. I- I’m glad everything’s, er, working the way it should.”
“Did you worry it wouldn’t?” she teased, unable to resist slowly arching her hips up and into his.
He hissed and curled his fingers around her hip.
“Well, I wasn’t sure what to expect,” he answered. “It’s all very new. I’ve never, er, been aroused around someone else. I’ve, y’know, indulged in self pleasure, so I knew everything… worked. But doing it by myself versus with someone else are two totally different things.”
Rose took a minute to absorb this information. He had told her he’d been in relationships before, and though he’d never had sex, he had shared kisses. However, there was a very, very wide distance between kissing and sex. But if he’d never even been hard around a girl before…
“Hey James? Can I ask you something?”
“‘Course.”
“Exactly how far have you gone with someone before?” she asked, cheeks burning. “Y’know, intimately? I know you haven’t had sex, but…”
He stilled, his body going tense. “Er… this, what we’ve been doing, is much farther than I’ve ever gone. I’ve shared kisses, and made out a few times. But it was all very… chaste. Never had anyone in my lap. Never shared a bed with anyone. I certainly never had anyone, er, feel how worked up I was getting.”
As though to prove his point, he shifted slightly and Rose felt the hard press of him against her.
“Erm… can I ask why?” she asked. As soon as the words were out, she realized how personal of a question it was and hastened to backtrack. “You- you don’t have to tell me. I was just curious. I mean, you’re so sexy and gorgeous and I’m curious why none of your previous girlfriends ever wanted to shag your brains out.”
James barked out a laugh that comforted Rose; he clearly wasn’t offended by her question. He pressed an affectionate kiss to her forehead, so different from the searing, toe-curling kisses he’d spent the last quarter of an hour giving her.
“Several reasons, I suppose. The biggest reason being that I was never in a relationship long enough for it to become physical. Beyond kissing, that is. The longest relationship I had with a girl was three months.” He paused and bit his lip. His body went rigid and he stared at a point behind her shoulder before he confessed, “And- and with a boy, two months.”
Rose blinked once. Twice. Still, James wasn’t looking at her. “You… you’ve been with a boy?”
James shrugged. “A couple. Didn’t last long.” His eyes finally flitted to her. His gaze was heartbreakingly vulnerable, and it made her chest constrict. “Is that… is that all right?”
Rose gave him a quick kiss, one that he automatically returned. “Of course. Sorry. Of course that’s all right. It took me by surprise, is all. Sorry.” A look of utter relief crossed his face, and Rose couldn’t help but kiss him again. “Right, so you were in the middle of telling me why all of your exes never wanted to shag your brains out?”
He chuckled, the rest of the tension in his body disappearing. “Well, several of my exes wanted to ‘shag my brains out’, as you put it. But I, er, didn’t feel the same. I never really wanted to make that last step. I enjoyed hanging out with my previous girlfriends and boyfriends, and I enjoyed snogging some of them, but… I dunno… I never had that spark of sexual attraction.” Scarlet bloomed across his cheeks. “I haven’t ever… er… felt that kind of attraction to someone.”
Something sank deep in the pit of Rose’s gut. She took a deep breath then asked, “Is what we’re doing too much? Do you not want…”
“No! I do! I want that very much.” He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I used to worry I was broken. Or different. A lot of my mates at school lost their virginity by the time we were sixteen. Nearly all of them had by the time we graduated. And I still hadn’t… I was too embarrassed to tell them, of course. And I was even more embarrassed to tell them I didn’t really want to lose my virginity yet. So I deflected whenever they asked me about it. I’m sure some of them realized, though.
“But with you, Rose…” He loosed a breath and rubbed his hand up and down her back in a sensual, loving caress that left goosebumps in its wake. “I have never felt like this before. I finally understand what they meant. It’s like I can’t get close enough to you. I never want to stop touching you, or kissing you. And… and I can actually imagine having sex with you, Rose.”
His ears flamed bright red, and she couldn’t help but tease him a bit. “And have you? Imagined it?”
His throat bobbed for a silent minute, and his face turned impossibly redder as he nodded, a quick, sharp dip of his head. She beamed and, to wipe his embarrassment off his face, leaned over to whisper in his ear, “I’ve imagined it, too.”
He squeaked and his hand spasmed at her lower back. “You- you have?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “‘Course. Been wanting to shag you for ages.”
To her surprise, he lowered his eyes and murmured, “Sorry. I- I know we’re going a bit slow…”
Cursing to herself, Rose removed her hand from where it had been making lazy lines along his spine and instead cradled his cheek in her palm. “I didn’t mean it like that. I am perfectly fine with going as fast or slow as you’re comfortable with, James. Just being able to snog you and cuddle with you and tell you how much I love you… That’s more than I ever thought possible.”
A broad, unrestrained smile lit up his face, and he ducked down to catch her lips in his. The heat between them had cooled, making it a kiss of comfort rather than desire, but regardless, it felt wonderful. The frantic throbbing between her legs had dimmed to a dull ache, and an inquisitive tilt of her hips confirmed he wasn’t nearly as worked up as he’d been five minutes ago.
He hummed and kissed her softly once, twice, three times before he gently began disentangling himself from her. Rose realized he was about to roll over, and thus roll off the bed.
“No, wait!” she cried, grabbing the front of his shirt.
He flinched and jumped, then squeaked and rolled over on top of her. The breath left her lungs in a whoosh before she began giggling madly. James was silent and unmoving for the span of several heartbeats, then he began laughing too.
“Sorry,” he said. “I forgot I was right on the edge of the mattress. Let’s try this again.”
Pulling his legs and hips away from hers, he sat up in bed, then gingerly stood. His crotch was at eye-level, and Rose tried very, very hard not to stare at the stiff protuberance at his zipper. She tightened her hands into her fists before she did something reckless like lower his zip and touch him like she wanted to.
Little shivers of renewed desire fluttered through her at the mental image her mind conjured up. It would be so, so easy for her to reach out and rest her hand on him, palming him through his jeans. She could already hear the throaty moan he would let out as she leisurely explored the length of him through the denim. From there, it would take no effort at all to undo the button and zip of his jeans, revealing him hard and straining against his boxer-briefs. She would tease him some more, stroking him so slowly through his pants before she would dip her hand beneath the waistband and finally, finally wrap her fingers around…
The illusion snapped when James, realizing the aroused state of himself, bent swiftly under the guise of grabbing the popcorn bowl. Rose blinked and willed her mind to get rid of those traitorous, lustful thoughts, lest she grab James ‘round the waist and tug him back into bed with her.
When James straightened, Rose noticed he’d readjusted himself in his trousers into a less conspicuous position. She, too, stood up off the bed. Now that she wasn’t busy snogging her boyfriend, Rose realized her laptop was barely balanced on the edge of her nightstand. It was a miracle it hadn’t gone clattering to the ground. She picked it up then guided James out of her bedroom.
He set the empty bowl in the sink, then sat down on her sofa to lace up his trainers.
“I had a really great time tonight,” he said, standing when he’d finished.
“So did I.” She leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Text me when you get home.”
“Will do.” He bent down and caught her lips head-on in a proper goodbye kiss.
When she closed the door behind him, Rose went to her front window to watch him leave. Half a minute later, she saw him step into the cold night air and climb into his car. Her heart dropped as she watched his tail lights disappear down the dark street. She wished he didn’t have to go.
Sighing, Rose spun away from the window and began locking up. She flicked the lights off and got ready for bed. Her bed still smelled like James, and she burrowed her nose as deeply into her pillow as she could without suffocating herself. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was wrapped around him. It had been so nice to cuddle into his side while lying in bed. And then the kissing…
Heat flared up inside her as she recalled the feel of his lips on hers, on her neck. The feel of his fingers mapping out the planes of her spine, drumming up and down her ribs. The feel of his hips cradled in her own, of him hard and wanting against every aching part of her.
“Goddammit,” she hissed as her core clenched and throbbed in renewed desire.
She wished they could have continued; she’d been as turned on as he was. If only they’d stopped talking and kept kissing… But she knew their conversation had been necessary. They needed to be on the same page. She needed to know how far he was comfortable with going, and she was sure frantically dry humping each other into oblivion was too much too soon for him. As much as she yearned to make love with him, she wasn’t going to rush him into anything.
But that didn’t mean she had to remain in this state of frustration.
Trying not to feel guilty about it, Rose conjured up the memory of James’s body rocking with hers as she dipped her hand into the front of her knickers. She thought of the involuntary moan he let out when she pressed against his erection, and she couldn’t help but wonder what he would sound like when he entered her, when he came inside her.
“Fuck,” she growled, her fingers working faster.
She was already so worked up that it took an embarrassingly short time for her to find her release, timing it perfectly with the James in her head who grunted wordlessly in her ear as he, too, climaxed. Her body trembled with pleasure as her hips arched into her own touch, wishing desperately that it was James she was clenching around instead.
Heart pounding and brain filled with fuzz, Rose slumped bonelessly into her mattress. James’s scent wafted around her, but this time it filled her with sorrow and longing. Usually a good wank put her in a great mood. This time, though, lying alone in the afterglow, a crippling sense of loneliness overtook her as her body thrummed with hormones meant to bond her with the person who had wrung such pleasure from her.
“Fuck,” she whispered into the dark, tucking her face into the pillow James had used all evening.
Hurriedly wiping her fingers clean, Rose reached for her phone. Not caring if it made her clingy or pathetic, she opened up her messages with James and said, “I miss you xoxo.”
He didn’t respond right away, probably still driving home. Rose nestled deeper into her blankets, her body heavy and boneless from her orgasm. She was almost asleep when her phone buzzed in her hand.
Resurfacing to consciousness, she opened James’s messages.
I miss you too.
I had a fantastic time with you tonight.
Rose smirked at her phone. “It was a good documentary then?”
Haha.
As good as the documentary was, what we did afterwards was even better.
The little dots that indicated he was typing appeared and disappeared half a dozen times.
I would love to do that again with you. Though without my moment of panic jolting us out of the moment.
“That can be arranged.” She added the winking emoji. “Though seriously. If we ever do something that’s too much, let me know. No questions, no embarrassment.”
Thanks. I will.
You too, btw. Don’t be afraid to tell me you want to stop, or if I do something you don’t like.
“It’s a deal.” Rose couldn’t stop grinning at her phone. The heaviness in her chest floated away, leaving her in a much better mood than she’d been in five minutes ago.
The exhaustion of the day caught up with her, and coupled with the drowsiness of finding physical release, Rose knew she would be asleep in minutes. Not wanting to go dark on James without warning, she typed, “I’m about to fall asleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Love you.”
With that, she switched her phone to ‘do not disturb’ mode and set it on her nightstand. She hugged her blankets closer and let the fading scent of James lull her to sleep.
oOoOo
Across town, James unlocked his front door and stepped into his dimly-lit house. His cats all greeted him at the door, even Gollum, who glared balefully up at him before stalking to his cat tree. He gave his other two cats some affection before he flicked all the lights off and started getting ready for bed.
His evening with Rose had been perfect. Utterly perfect. He’d felt guilty for having their date even though it was clear she was dead on her feet. But she’d insisted and, well, he had a difficult time saying no to her. Besides, what was the harm in letting her doze off while he watched a World War I documentary? He had thoroughly enjoyed being able to hold her for an uninterrupted hour and a half. And then the kissing…
His cock gave an interested throb, as it had been doing the entirety of the drive home. Whenever his mind even remotely wandered to Rose, his pesky body reminded him just how much he wanted her. These feelings were so new though, and so intense; he had never, ever felt this way about anyone. Even as a teenager, when it seemed that a stiff breeze would get him hard, he had never had the desire to find sexual release with another person. His own hurried hand in the loo or in bed had been enough to satisfy him.
But with Rose… God, he was embarrassed to admit how close he’d been to making a mess of his pants when they’d barely done anything at all. There had been a reason he tried to keep the attention on her, after all.
He was practically in a constant state of semi-arousal around her, and it was terrifying. Never before had he felt so out of control, like his body wasn’t entirely his own.
It had been amazing, though, to kiss her and entangle his body in hers. The memory of her mouth on his and his tongue on her skin was more than enough to make him hard again, and unless he wanted to wake up with sticky pants, he knew he ought to take care of himself.
He trekked down the hall and to his bedroom, his cock stiffening further with every step. Merry and Pippin followed along happily, jumping into bed to wait for him while he disappeared into the loo.
His cheeks heated with embarrassment and a touch of guilt as he carefully worked his jeans and pants over his erection. It was all too easy to recall Rose to memory, recall the feel of her legs wrapped around his hips, her hands across his back, her nails across his scalp. He had been more aroused than he’d ever been before, all without her even properly touching him.
The rocking of her hips against his had been delicious. Even now, his stomach coiled as he remembered her thigh slung over his hip, her ankle hooked behind his knee to hold him where he was. As if he would ever want to move.
But he had moved. His stupid gob had apologized, in the middle of snogging. Why had he done that? Why had he been embarrassed by his body’s response to the woman he loved? He had told Rose he wanted everything with her, and she, in turn, had assured him she wanted everything with him too. She’d made it perfectly clear that she wanted to make love with him, so why had he wrenched them out of their amorous moment?
Sure, he probably would have completely ruined his pants had they continued snogging, but James was fairly confident Rose wouldn’t have made fun of him for it. Well, not cruelly, at least. She loved teasing him, and he loved it just as much. The banter they shared was so much fun, and he knew Rose would never actually hurt him with her words. Just like he would never hurt her. He loved her too much to ever say a word to her in anger.
But he was getting sidetracked.
Returning his focus to Rose and how it had felt to kiss her and touch her, James moved his hand more quickly, more purposefully, along his cock. A swelling tingle had already taken up residence at the base of his spine; it wouldn’t take much longer.
So he allowed himself to get lost in his fantasy. What would have happened if, after they’d finished speaking, he had settled himself atop her rather than scramble out of bed? He would have pressed himself between her hips, rolling into her and hoping it felt as good to her as it did to him.
He would have kissed her again and again, exploring more of that sensitive spot below her ear. She had shivered so delightfully when he’d scraped his teeth over it, and he couldn’t wait to find every place on her beautiful body that made her feel good. He wanted to hear all of the different sounds she could make, from the gentle hum of pleasure to the throaty moan that had nearly made him come on the spot a few times that night.
Merely remembering the sound was enough to do him in.
The pressure in his gut squeezed, and James panted for breath as his hand stroked himself harder and faster, searching frantically for his release. He thought of Rose. How she had arched her neck to let him explore. How she’d held him with her entire body. How she had breathed his name…
“Fuck,” he rasped, arching his hips as his climax shattered through him.
His body trembled with the aftershocks, his knees weakening so much that he leaned against the wall to keep his balance. His pulse thudded in his ears, his vision a bit spotted. After a minute, though, he returned to his senses and hurriedly cleaned himself up.
His cats were waiting for him when he exited his en suite. They dutifully shifted to the end of the bed so James could crawl beneath the sheets. When he was settled, Pippin nestled down in the crook of his neck and shoulder, while Merry lounged at his hip.
The lingering endorphins of his orgasm made him delightfully drowsy. But before he dropped off to sleep, he ought to let Rose know he made it home safely.
A message from Rose was already waiting for him. I miss you xoxo.
Smiling, he replied, “I miss you too.” After sending that one, he said, “I had a fantastic time with you tonight.”
She responded almost immediately. It was a good documentary then?
James snorted. He could practically hear the drawl in her voice and see the tongue-tongued smirk. “Haha.”
“As good as the documentary was, what we did afterwards was even better.”
James sent that message, then began composing a new one. “Kissing you, Rose, was…”
What was it? Brilliant? Amazing? Incredible? Pleasurable? Beyond his wildest dreams? It was all those things and more. It was like no word was strong enough, descriptive enough, so he scrapped that sentence and tried again.
“I loved making out with you…” Delete. What was he, a fourteen-year-old boy?
“Can we snog again…” Delete. Jesus Christ.
“I would love to do that again with you,” he finally typed. He then added, “Though without my moment of panic jolting us out of the moment.”
He still couldn’t entirely believe he’d fled from her like he’d done. Oh God, had he offended her? Had he made her think he hated making out with her? That thought stopped him cold and made him suddenly nauseated. Before he could apologize and assure her that she hadn’t done anything wrong, she messaged him.
That can be arranged. Wink.
Well, if she were winking at him, she couldn’t be too upset, could she?
Though seriously. If we ever do something that’s too much, let me know. No questions, no embarrassment.
He blew out a shaky breath. Bless Rose and her patience and her kindness. However, he wasn’t sure why he was requiring her to be patient.
He was well aware that he was the one holding them back from a proper physical relationship, and it was getting more difficult to understand why he wanted to take it slow. He’d been falling in love with her for months, and was more comfortable with her than anyone else in the world. He knew deep in his bones that she was the one for him. She was the one he wanted to grow old with. So why was he denying them the physical pleasure of their love?
Groaning, James dug the heels of his hands into his eyes before he replied to her.
“Thanks. I will.”
Wait. A physical relationship took two people. The pace couldn’t be set by him alone.
“You too, btw. Don’t be afraid to tell me you want to stop, or if I do something you don’t like.”
He didn’t bother confessing to her that he was nervous that he would be a rubbish lover. He could admit that to her later. Though hopefully he wouldn’t need to. Hopefully he would be a fantastic lover. He knew the basics, after all, and he’d read books containing sex scenes—not those ridiculous ones that the internet made fun of—so he was fairly certain he understood the mechanics of the act.
He took comfort in the fact that Rose seemed to thoroughly enjoy what they’d done together that night.
His phone buzzed twice in quick succession.
It’s a deal.
I’m about to fall asleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Love you.
His heart sank. He wasn’t ready to say goodnight to her yet. But she’d had a long day; she needed to get a solid bit of sleep. So he forced aside his loneliness and said, “Love you too. Goodnight Rose. Sweet dreams.”
He waited for a few minutes, but Rose never responded. She probably already fell asleep. Sighing, James reached over Pippin and set his phone on his bedside table. The cat chirped upon being disturbed, but continued snoozing.
“You’re gonna need to find a new sleeping spot soon,” James murmured to his cat, stroking Pippin’s soft head. “When Rose eventually joins me in bed. Which I hope is soon.”
Despite his nerves with furthering their physical relationship, James wanted nothing more than to further all other aspects of their relationship. Though he knew it was probably far too soon, he wished Rose could move in with him.
He wondered when it would be appropriate for them to discuss future living arrangements. Rose’s last experience of cohabitating with her boyfriend had not worked out, and he worried she might be gun shy with him. She’d already admitted that Jimmy had left a sour taste in her mouth regarding so many relationship-y things.
Of course, he didn't hold any of it against her, and never would, but he was absolutely furious with Jimmy Stone for causing Rose to question and second guess everything. For causing Rose to doubt her worth of being loved wholly and completely for who she was, as she was.
Time, James hoped, would help show Rose that he was perfectly serious about wanting to spend forever with her. He liked the idea of time, especially time with Rose. They’d known each other for just a few months, and he was completely head over heels in love with her; he couldn’t wait to see how much deeper those feelings could go.
Unbidden, his future with Rose played through his mind. The specific details were a bit murky, but he knew with absolute certainty that there was no version of his future that didn’t contain Rose. Maybe they’d get married… maybe they’d have a whole houseful of kids… maybe, maybe, maybe…
With all of those hopeful scenes of possibility, James slipped into a deep and comfortable sleep, his mind full of Rose and their forever.
|
Mark sat at home that night knowing Rose wasn't going to visit him. He looked over at the green creature in the jar and thought about opening it up and having some fun. He hesitated not know if the mess would be cleaned up after he was done.
He suddenly got a better. He took the jar and headed for the front door. Just 2 floors down was a woman whom he had asked out about a month before he met Rose whom had turned him down. Her name was Kate and she had turned him down when he asked her to dinner. The note Rose left him said she put a spell on it so it would follow his commands.
As he got to her door he waited placed his ear near her to make sure she was home. He could just barley hear her place her keys down so it looks like she had just got home. He opened the jar and tilted it down at the bottom of the door letting the smokey creature flow in to her apartment.
Kate had just gotten home from work and placed her keys and purse down before taking off her heals and grabbing a glass of wine. Kate was an attractive athletic brunette who worked in pharmaceutical sales so she was wearing a business suit and skirt. She went and sat down on the couch with her drink and began reading a magazine she picked up on the way home
She didn't notice the green smoke flowing under her front door and taking shape before moving towards her. It stayed close to the floor and flowed quickly before. Her legs were crossed but that was not going to keep it from entering her. She never saw it before the flowed up between her legs and entered her pussy. It spread all throughout her sexual organ before preparing it for the torturing pleasure she was about to endure.
Kate suddenly felt very strange as the feeling rushed over her body causing her to drop her wine on the floor as she rolled forward wondering what this sudden sensation was. Her pussy began to swell along with her clit before it all started pulsing rhythmically.
"What the... holy shit!...FUUUUUCK!" She yelled out before she fell to the floor placing her hand on her crotch wondering what the hell was suddenly going on inside her.
She examined her slit with her fingers feeling her pussy pulse in her hands starting to freak out due to her not knowing what was happening. Soon the feeling began to feel very good and she was hornier then she had ever been before. Soon she could no longer control herself. She ripped her shirt open breaking some buttons as she did and started to rub her breasts before falling back on to the floor. Her pussy lips swelled and pulsed harder and faster as she lost complete control of her pleasure centers. She removed her bra and started to rub her nipples as she writhed in pleasure.
Seconds later she screamed out as she felt her first intense orgasm and some liquid squirt out of her soaking in to her panties before hitting the floor. She reached down to feel herself as her pussy was still pulsing uncontrollably only.to see green goo all over her fingers.
"What the fuck? What the hell is happening...!"
She writhed and wiggled as her pussy which now had a mind of its own continued to pulse and swell sending wave after wave of pleasure through her. She started to rub her green slimy fingers all over herself while her legs suddenly spread themselves as she gave in to the strange creature that was pleasuring her from the inside. She didn't care about the green slime all over the floor or the fact that this shouldn't be happening to her and only cared about the intense pleasure she was experiencing.
As her next orgasm approached she breathed heavily and squeezed her breasts as her pussy spazmed and pulsed before shoot more goo all over the place making her scream her pleasure as loud as possible.
Mark was still standing outside her door listening to what was going on inside before he decided to go back upstairs and let his new pet have its fun. Listening to her orgasm over and over made him very horny and started to think maybe he should have used it on himself again.
When he returned to his apartment he was shocked to see Rose standing in his room with her arms crossed and a stern look on her face.
"Oh?...hi um... what are you doing here? I thought tonight was a skipping night?" He asked.
"What did you do?" She asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you used your new pet to get back at a woman who rejected you? What are you a child?"
"I just wanted to..."
"That's not what i gave it to you for! You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"Im sorry."
"No! That's not good enough!"
"What do you want me to do?"
Rose sat there for a moment wondering how to punish him before she smirked held up her hand using some sort of power to throw him on his bed. Mark was a little shocked at her power and was even a little scared. Suddenly his clothes were ripped off of him leaving him naked on the bed. What was left of his shirt wrapped around both his wrists and tied themselves to his headboard.
"What are you gonna do?" He asked getting nervous.
She walked over and held her hand above his cock before she began to speak in some strange language he did not understand. He was curious until he looked down and saw his penis begin to shrink.
"What the hell? What are doing?" He asked starting to panic. He started to feel very strange as his cock disappeared, he then noticed to large mounds starting to form on his chest. "Holy fuck!" He said watching his body transform until he felt something strange between his legs before seeing a brand new pussy suddenly appear.
Mark didn't know what to think as he looked down at his new female body that his was changed in to. He looked over at the mirror on his door and saw what Rose had done to him only to see a very attractive woman in the reflection.
"Now that that's all done." She said as she raised her hand and another one of those Orgoblins appeared.
"Oh shit! You're not going to..."
"You need to know what you are doing to that poor woman, don't worry ill go clean up that mess but you are going to lay here and experience what she is right now, except this one hasn't been fed in weeks so it should last until sunrise!"
Mark watched as she pointed at his brand new female organ commanding her pet to enter. He watched helplessly as it flowed between his legs. He felt his new organ start to swell and pulse uncontrollably.
"Oh fuck!"
"Now you think about what you've done and ... enjoy!" She said as she walked out of the room leaving him at the mercy of the creature in his new sex organs.
------------------
Downstairs Rose got in to Kates apartment and saw her writhing on the floor as green fluid squirted out from between her legs as she moaned out in pleasure. She looked at the green stains all over the room and shook her head at the mess. She turned and got a spray of green goo in her face as Kate orgasmed again. She was in such a pleasurable fog she didn't even know Rose was standing there. Rose walked over and sat down on the couch and waited for the Orgoblin to finish up and exit this poor girls pussy.
About an hour later the creature finally gave her a final merciful orgasm before bellowing out of her making her scream out in pleasurable delight before passing out from exhaustion.
Rose collected the creature putting him back in a jar before cleaning up the mess and placing Kate in her bed to sleep. She went back upstairs to check on Mark and see how he was handling his new body.
She walked back in to his room and saw green slime dripping from the ceiling and all over the floor. Mark was writhing and moaning in his new female voice before he looked over at Rose who was watching.
"Oh my god!... its too much! Please!...SHIT!... MAKE IT STOP!"
"I cant, remember you have to wait until its done and he's been starving for a while so its going to be a while."
Mark squealed out again as his new pussy squirted out green goo all over the place.
"Enjoy yourself!" She said with a smile and a giggle before heading for the window leaving Mark to squirt over and over again.
|
Eventually, there is a man with a vacuum appliance throwing them stern glances as he begins to push the device about, and they realise they really will have to move on. The evening – the night – dining at the Ritz has been everything Aziraphale could have hoped for in a celebration of the world not ending and of them not being killed off by their own sides. He has eaten more courses than he can count, nattered away merrily with his friend, and sunk quite a few bottles of very fine wine, champagne, and even some port to round things off nicely with the cheese course. He’s a bit drunk, happy, and desperate that the night will not end just yet.
Outside, Crowley leans casually against one of the columns of the arcade at the entrance as Aziraphale wobbles over to him, fingers twisting in his waistcoat pocket for a tarnished silver watch he so very much wants to ignore.
“None of that, angel. Its early. Let’s go somewhere else?” Crowley’s voice is thick with all the wine, and the angel wonders if he’s leaning against the Ritz for support, rather than for how cool it makes him look. He does look ‘cool’ though-
He interrupts his own thought with a question, “What do humans do at this time of night?”
Crowley looks about, locking onto a few late-night revellers heading up the street towards Picadilly Circus. “Drink some more. Dance badly. Vomit on the night bus?”
“Ah well, we could drink some more, but unless you know somewhere where I can gavotte-”
Crowley smirks, “And I don’t much fancy vomiting on the night bus. Especially when our places are so close that we don’t even need public transport to get home…?”
Aziraphale thinks he hears a subtle question in Crowley’s words, but he daren’t explore even the hope of that. Everything else this evening has been so lovely how can he be so greedy as to aspire to spend time alone with Crowley in his flat, or the bookshop?
“We could just walk a bit?” Crowley says looking up at the sky and the few stars struggling past the light pollution. “Nice night. And we’ve got this if it gets chillier.” He holds up a bottle from the restaurant. A thick red. Expensive. Aziraphale smiles with glee, a smile that broadens as Crowley staggers a little towards him and offers him his arm.
“Lead on!” He trills, achingly aware of both Crowley’s sudden closeness, and that both of them probably need someone to lean on at the moment.
They walk in a very amiable way. A very meandering way. They’ve walked these streets – mostly apart – since about the eighth century or so. They’ve seen hovels become skyscrapers, dung heaps become mansions, gibbets become kids’ playgrounds. And now they’re lost.
“We cannnn’ttt beeee!” Whines Crowley dramatically.
“You have one of those modern phones don’t you-”
“This is my city… our city!” Crowley glowers at the anonymous street they’re in, “The day I bloody need an app to find my way about-”
“All we need to do is find the river.”
“Yes! Of course! Brilliant!” Crowley beams down at him, and Aziraphale can’t help but smile back. “Have you seen it?”
“N-no,” Stutters the angel.
“Just a sec.” Crowley gently untangles his arm from Aziraphale’s and the angel tries not to miss his touch quite so much.
But he can’t stop himself gasping a little as Crowley’s wings unfurl in black resplendence. They put his own to shame really, he’s never been as good at sticking to regular self-grooming as his friend. He is awestruck for a moment, and it almost looks as though Crowley is enjoying the attention, a small proud smile on his thin lips. But then Aziraphale remembers where they are.
“My dear! Should you be-?”
“Black wings, dark night. No one about. No-one’ll see a bloody thing. Promise!” The words are a little thick again and Aziraphale remembers that they used to have a full bottle of red wine with them…
Crowley takes off like someone who has not done a lot of city-based flying while full of a quite nice merlot. His down strokes are strong, and they carry him up far quicker than he seems to expect. He also fails to look up, so they take him straight into a metal sign jutting out from one of the brick walls. The next stroke tilts his balance off and there is something a little reminiscent of a bottle rocket as he careers into first one wall of the street and then the other.
“Oh, my dear!” Cries out Aziraphale.
“No, no, I’m fine.” Comes a pained voice from above him. Black wings, black clothes… Crowley is a patch of darkness against the night sky as he rises. “Hey, I can see it! We’re not far!”
Crowley’s landing is rough and shakes a few black feathers out before he folds his wings away. “A perfect 6.0! And it’s another gold medal for the demon!” He cheers himself.
Aziraphale can’t help but laugh, and when Crowley takes his arm again they march with more purpose down towards the river.
“Ahhh, I know where we are now!” The angel says happily. They emerge from some service entrance alleyway out to a road and cross it to the promenade on the northern side of the Thames, where gas lamps have long since been updated for the electrical age even if the twisting black fishlike creatures holding them up are old familiar faces. The river laps at the bottom of the Embankment as Aziraphale leans over to take a look down at its inky blackness.
“I remember when this was all fields.” He sighs wistfully, “But I do quite like what they’ve done with the place.”
Crowley is quiet, and it makes Aziraphale look up at his friend. Although his eyes are, as always, hard to make out behind his sunglasses, he can tell the demon’s face is turned to a monument just a little further up. Two black sphinxes flank an angular obelisk covered in hieroglyphics.
“Ah, Cleopatra’s needle. I was here when Sir Wilson finally got it ferried up the Thames. 1870 something-”
“I was there when it was carved. Though, that was actually a long time before Cleo.”
Crowley moves away again, long legs taking him quickly up the steps to the nearest sphinx, so he can place a friendly hand on its flanks and stare up at the needle. Aziraphale joins him there, not sure what this morose turn in his friend means. Then he vaguely remembers something he’d read in the sixties, something written by that… complicated… poet, Ted. But he can’t quite bring it to mind, his head fuzzy from the wine.
“You’d have liked her, angel. Where were you back then?”
“Rome.”
“Ah yes, Rome. My side had a lot of plans for Rome.” He sounds… bitter.
“So did mine.” Admits Aziraphale, but Crowley doesn’t seem to be listening as he stares at the obelisk.
“I told them they should help her out. Told them there was much more fun to be had with an Egyptian empire than a Roman one in the next few centuries. But they wouldn’t.” Crowley sighs, and its all Aziraphale can do not to take his hand and try to comfort him.
“She was a friend?” There’s another question there underneath the words, and the first lines from Ted’s poem start to come back to him.
The bright mirror I braved; the devil in it
Loved me like my soul; my soul
Now that I seek myself in a Serpent
My smile is fatal.
“Oh, she was bold.” Crowley smiles, sharp teeth gleaming in the lamplight. “She was a queen. She was defiant. And she was herself. I liked that. And she liked the clever little snake the ‘gods’ had sent her to tangle about her shoulders and hiss insults about her courtiers in her ears.”
Aziraphale remembers finally. “They say she kissed a serpent… in the end. When Rome had her. She died rather than submit-”
Crowley scoffs. “Who says?! Who is ‘they’!? Do you mean your mate, Willie Shakespeare?! Nah, it wasn’t a kiss. It was a favour. She lived boldly, and at the end she died boldly too. But I asked them to help her!”
His voice is thick again, and this time Aziraphale does take his hand, gently entangling their fingers together.
“Sorry, angel. I’ve gone all maudlin when we’re meant to be celebrating our survival, and the not-quite-the-end-of-the-world together, and-”
Aziraphale decides to live boldly. He kisses his friend.
Its probably not up there with the legendary kisses of Cleopatra and her Mark Anthony. Aziraphale’s not completely sure how these things work. And apparently, neither is Crowley, which might finally put to bed those rumours about him and the Egyptian queen. But somehow the two of them work out the rolling of lips and tongues into a dance that unfurls both their wings at the same time.
“Oh my!” Breathes Aziraphale when they part slightly. “Oh, my dear!”
Crowley’s smile is soft and somehow hungry at the same time. “Don’t worry, I’m only venomous when I want to be. You can kiss me quite safely.”
“Can I? Is it really safe?”
“Oh, angel!” Crowley near enough groans and pulls his friend closer against him. “Don’t stop living boldly just now we’ve started.”
But the next kiss is claimed by Aziraphale again before Crowley can even take another breath, and it has his demon humming. Although, if they go on like this, here, someone’s going to notice the black and the white wings at their shoulders, trembling slightly as they finally get to touch each other, running their hands over achingly familiar clothes.
He grabs at Crowley’s hand and leads him back across the road and down to where a locked garden square opens its gates for them. He’d comment on the irony of going back into the garden again, but he’s too busy drawing Crowley down to a bench where they can kiss and pet each other in the night’s shadows.
He’s so entranced that it takes a moment for him to realise that mixed up with the sweetness of the taste of Crowley’s lips and tongue is the bitterness of burnt salt. Aziraphale pulls back to see Crowley push away tears with the back of his hand, seemingly frustrated with himself.
“My dearest, sweetest, one. You don’t have to stop your tears!”
Crowley mutely shakes his head, so the angel lifts his glasses away from his face. There’s not much light here, but what little there is glimmers off of his wet serpent eyes. “Have I made you sad again?”
“Daft git.” Laughs Crowley, his lips turning downwards even as he does. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I’ve wanted to do this for so long… Centuries. Millenia. But I was scared.”
“You?!” The thought of Crowley being scared pushes away his surprise at his confession that he’s felt this way for millennia. But only for a moment. “Wait, how long?!”
Crowley smiles, sniffing a bit still though. “You only bloody well gave the flaming sword away. What did you expect?”
Aziraphale clasps both of Crowley's hands in his, his own wings taking up their gentle trembling again. “Since then?”
“Since forever,” whispers his demon, his own wings curling about them as they shake, covering them in a thicker, comforting, shadow made of feathers, “Forever.”
They don’t take the night bus home, of course. There’s no falling asleep and missing their stop, no eating of kebabs, nor any vomiting in a purse.
Just two figures flying in front of the moon, hand in hand, dropping the occasional feather on London as they pass.
|
The next night he did not see Rose. She figured this was one of the nights she skips to let him rest to which he was a little disappointed but understood. Last night was an amazing night for him and he was happy to find all the green stains had disappeared when he awoke. He decided to enjoy this night to himself.
He laid in bed watching TV contemplating whether or not to go to sleep. He was watching movie aliens which was a favorite of his eyes could not stay open and he eventually fell asleep.
Mark awoke in a dark room and his eyes were having trouble focusing. He suddenly realized he was standing upright but could not move his arms or legs. "What the hell?" He thought to himself as his eyes began to focus to a scene he never expected. He was in a hallway where the walls were covered with some sort of secretion that was holding him there. He realized he was in the movie aliens but this didn't make any sense to him. Why would he be in a sci-fi horror scenario with no sexuality in it at all.
He tried to free himself but he could no budge. He looked down at the floor and saw one of the eggs only a few feet away from him. He tried even harder to free himself but nothing was budging.
The egg began to make some sounds like something was moving around inside it. The top folded open and Mark began to panic a little as he wasn't sure what was happening. He saw a few spider like legs begin to wiggle out of the top as he still struggle to escape. He was very afraid as he didn't understand why she had put him here.
Rose had always created sexual fantasies so he wasn't sure if he was being punished or if this was just a sick game she was playing with him. The facehugger jumped out and crawled towards him. He closed his eyes and mouth and awaited the inevitable.
After a few seconds he had felt nothing and was starting to get confused. He opened his eyes and looked down to see the creature had climbed halfway up his body and stopped. It was then he realized that his face was uncovered but so was his crotch. He watched as the hugger hovered above his limp penis which was just hanging there before this tentacle began to stick out from its underside.
"Oh shit!" Mark said as he suddenly began to understand what was happening but wasn't sure if he was ok with it. The tentacle that would usually go down someone's throat to implant and embryo in his chest was slithering towards his cock. He struggled a little more before he said "okay Rose, very funny but this is a little to strange for me so cut it out... hello?... Rose?"
He felt something warm and moist start to engulf his cock which was starting to harden. He watched as the hugger seemed to be sucking on his penis and the strangest part was it felt very good. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as he had no choice but to let this little alien do whatever it was going to do. It curled its tail up and began to lightly caress his balls which made sensation even stronger.
"Oooohhh Fuck!"
It began to retract its tentacle but instead of removing it from his cock it moved closer until his cock was inside the its body and it continued to suck him more. Mark couldn't believe what was happening right now. That was a very strange fantasy but so far he was enjoying himself.
The rhythm began to move faster on his cock. He could see slime dripping from its mouth as it used it as lubricant to pleasure him. He could feel it dripping down around his balls and every little touch just added to the pleasure. He could not hold on much longer as he approached orgasm but was a little afraid as he did not know exactly what was going to happen when he did. He suddenly gave in and his cock erupted filling this creature with his semen as it clamped down and absorbed every last drop from his quivering member.
Once he had finished the hugger stayed there for a moment before falling off his cock seemingly dead. His cock was still covered with a thing slime the creature had left on him. He looked down and noticed that the creature had started to twitch a little. Maybe it wasn't dead but he wasn't sure what was happening as it started to grow a little. The 2 sets of front legs began to fuse together along with the 2 back ones on each side and stretch out. Strange things were happening as it suddenly stood up and looked almost humanoid.
Mark was in awe of what stood in front of him. It looked like some sort of female alien crossbreed or something. Her skin was human color but had some ridges, she had perfect breast's but her eyes were solid black and her mouth was small and rounded. She also still had the tail of a facehugger as she looked around a little. Her head came to a bit of a point and she had no hair. After a few seconds she looked straight at his cock which was still hard as if the slime on it was keeping him horny.
She lunged forward wrapping her small lips around his cock as she began to suck on him. He lips were tight as he felt something like a tongue wiggle around inside her mouth massaging his penis as she sucked even harder. Mark moaned out as the sensation was incredible. She grabbed his balls and wiggled them in her hand making his whole body squirm with pleasure.
Her tail seemed to extend as it wiggled in between his legs. He wasn't sure what she was doing at first until he started to feel it wiggle up between his butt cheeks.
"Oh shit wait... please doOOOOOnn..."
Her tail went inside him and put pressure on his prostate gland which suddenly made him cum even harder as she grabbed his wait and sucked every last drop out of his over worked cock. He yelled out his lust as loud as he could as the pleasure was almost too much.
Once he finished she released his cock licking up a few small drops that were still on his tip. She stood up and stepped back a little and he watched as she mutated a little more. This time her head changed shape and grew out blonde hair which seemed wet and untamed. The ridges of her body seemed to disappear as she crouched down as if in a little pain as the transformation completed.
A few seconds later she arose and opened her eyes which were no normal with a green color to them. She was absolutely beautiful as she stood in front of him. In fact she looked very familiar to him but he couldn't quite remember from what. She did not speak but after she looked him up and down she ripped off the stuff holding him against the wall and let him fall to the floor.
He was happy to be free and soon realized he was completely naked as he tried to get his bearings. It wasn't long before she crawled on top of him and took his still hard cock up between her legs.
"Oh shit wait!..." he said in protest before he realized her pussy felt great on his cock. He couldn't understand what was keeping him hard. He had just had 2 orgasms and was still ready to go as this sexy alien creature had her way with him. She rode him like a maniac only giving out little moans and grunts as she worked his cock. He couldn't help but touch her breasts and her skin as he enjoyed the attention he was receiving.
He suddenly realized why this woman looked familiar. The blond hair and perfect body, alien cross over. He realized she looked like Natasha Henstridge from the movie Species. He loved the movie and thought Natasha looked incredibly sexy in but he then had a thought, She killed all of her mates.
He was a little nervous at his realization but he pulled himself up kissing her on the lips to which she kissed him back. He grabbed her ass and tried to get in to it the whole time thinking "please don't kill me, please don't kill me!"
He felt his orgasm about to happen and held her tightly as she wrapped her arms around him. His cock twitched and he suddenly exploded again i side her to which she screamed out a primal lust that almost hurt his ears before he fell back to the floor with her still on top of him.
He struggled to catch his breath as she staid straddled on him thinking to himself "please wake up now!"
She looked down at him and smiled as he waited for the fantasy to end. She made a small moan as he looked down and saw her stomach begin to move and expand.
"Oh shit, Rose that's enough... it can end now! ROSE!!"
He looked up and saw her face start to change and her skin start to transform into more a green color almost scale like. her stomach got bigger and bigger and Mark closed his eyes and covered his face.
Suddenly he looked around and he was back in his bed. Natasha was gone and the movie Aliens had just ended. He didn't see Rose but he knew she had gotten what she needed and must have left. He laid back down and closed his eyes ready for bed but took a while to fall asleep as that fantasy left him a little freaked out!
|
"Do you remember when we were kids and we'd play on the slide? You thought it would be a great idea to go down face first without thinking about a proper landing. So when you got to the bottom you went right off and hurt yourself. The you back then just thought it was the funniest thing to be so daring."
Sitting on the bed next to Rei, Shinji nodded.
"You were really something, despite how you were treated. For a time, it was agonizing to watch you grow up next to me."
He wasn't surprised to hear that.
He looked over at her, and realized this was the perfect time to have a talk that was long overdue. And for that...he'd reached forward and placed a hand over hers, over his childhood friends.
Rei had to ask, "Why did you push me away?"
He sighed, looking up and to the ceiling. She'd taken his hand in return.
She smiled a little, "This is the first time you've reached out to me in a long, long time. Remember how often we used to hold hands? People would make fun of us and say we were a cute little couple. You'd get embarrassed, and I'd just tell them that I was your sister."
Shinji had to take some deep breaths as he started to think about the past. There were good times, just as there were bad times, just like now. For every time he was left alone at home, having to fend for himself, for every time his father was home and talked down to him like he was nothing, there was a memory of Rei's kind smile, kind words, her attention, and affection.
It was strange how a friend and former neighbor the same age as him could be looked at almost like a mother figure.
He hadn't always been afraid of touch. He and Rei had plenty of contact when making up their own adventures, when exploring the neighborhood bug hunting. He'd taken her hand to run when they'd accidentally broken someone's window during a rock throwing game they'd made up.
She taught him how to ride a bike. She was instantly a pro at it somehow, and let him borrow hers. He remembered her soft hand over his, and looking forward during her instructions, eager to give it that first try.
He'd also remembered, when he was very small, his father was more...absent than anything else. He'd felt so alone, experiencing loneliness for the first time as a small child because his father was too busy to even properly care for him. He'd first met Rei because she was on their lawn picking dandelions and he'd seen her out the window. He'd ventured outside because he'd never seen her before. He didn't know there were other kids in the neighborhood.
He didn't get to go outside much.
Gendo had told him this world was all fucked up.
It made him afraid to go outside, even when he was left all alone. Until he saw her.
He didn't hesitate to be so daring as a child. He'd let his curiosity bring him outside to join her.
Since he'd let himself go outside of the house to meet her, that loneliness receded. She was always there. To make things better, they were in the same class at school.
They became inseparable.
Shinji flinched, gripping her hand a bit tighter in the present. Thinking to himself of how he'd pushed her away after he'd found the box in his father's closet years ago.
The box was delicate looking. It didn't look like something his father would own. He'd reached and pulled it out, opening it carefully and widening his eyes. This had to hold his mother's belongings. Of course Gendo kept them. Neatly tucked and preserved in this box.
He'd pulled out a sundress. This had to be hers. He set it aside, going through the box one object at a time. Photos, there was a wedding album. There were so many pictures. There were some notebooks, cute looking bookmarks. There was a beautiful silver necklace in a very plain box. There was a ring with it. That must have been her wedding ring.
He didn't know why, but he'd tried the ring on.
He didn't stop there. He'd tried on the sundress. Perhaps he could be just a bit closer to his mother that way. He'd never gotten to know her, and yet holding something that belonged to her was comforting. Wearing something of hers felt the same, maybe even more so. Wearing a dress actually felt exhilarating.
A bad feeling settled within him as he'd heard a sound behind him.
He turned his head slowly to see his father staring at him.
"I never meant to push you away. It's just that, things got worse when we started junior high. It was difficult to not want to be alone all the time."
Rei nodded, "Although that's when you started to play the cello."
He had to think of better things to stop the sinking feeling inside from going out of control at the awful memories. Ever since the art gallery, the one thing he'd made sure to do, no matter how he'd felt...was to take his meds on time. Ritsuko had asked outright that night, and he’d promised. "The start of junior high is...when everything just got worse."
Rei nodded, "I know. But I should have tried harder to reach you, and for that I apologize."
He looked over at her, "What?"
"I am truly sorry. I felt I could have done more, or said more. And yet the one time someone told me that I'd done enough...it was Kaworu to say that actually. It surprised me."
He didn't know they'd talked about things like that.
Rei continued, "That's why...no matter what is going on right now, I want you to know that I support you both. I think a lot about the first day you showed up at the café. I should have told you then how sorry I was or how glad I was to see you again-"
Shinji hugged her tightly, and Rei hugged back.
Shinji closed his eyes, "I was stuck in my own head so much, I didn't realize how much you kept trying to be there even when I isolated myself. I'm the one who should be sorry...not you..."
Rei shut her eyes too. "When I saw you again, I should have hugged you just like this."
A silence fell upon them. They stayed in their hug for a good long while. Feeling that if either of them let go too early, the channeling of fragile emotions would somehow cease. He'd owed it to her to apologize for pushing her away. It was unfair that she'd felt guilty about anything that happened in his life.
"And yet, instead of it being me to really help you how you needed it, or Asuka, or Misato, or even your therapist, it's him that really did it. I told myself I'd never forget that, just like I told myself I'd never forgive him if his intentions were not good. But I can see how much he just wants to make you happy. He's happiest when you are. All of us can see that."
Hearing that from Rei solidified his resolve.
They finally pulled away from their hug, looking at each other.
"You can tell me what happened. I won't tell anyone else unless you want me to. You have my word."
It was dangerous, but dammit, he knew he could trust Rei. So he started to tell her everything, starting from the art gallery.
When he'd put on the skirt as Asuka's punishment, he'd had a weird feeling inside. It hadn't been his first time crossdressing. Yet he had a bit of the familiar sinking feeling when he'd thought of how Kaworu might react to it. It was embarrassing on the surface, a bit terrifying underneath, but he had to keep face, no matter what the outcome.
Oh, he was overjoyed with the reaction he did get. His boyfriend carried him out and took him home to screw as much as they could possibly take in one afternoon. Every love mark tingled in a good way, every lust-filled gaze sent a shiver down his spine. Getting off the wall and bending over for him with that skirt on made his heart race and his face flush. It wasn't just his partner who'd lost his mind to horny feelings that day, he had too. Kaworu's praises were turning him on to heightened levels and had absolutely become another kink.
He'd decided to ask him, after being asked if he could keep the skirt to wear occasionally, and goodness being called sexy for it, if maybe there were other things that he could wear. It was a conversation they'd come back to later.
He'd...ordered something just to wear for his boyfriend in bed. He'd made sure it went to his place so he didn't have to deal with anyone knowing about it.
He wore it for him not too long after he had the courage to confess, himself.
He'd been so happy that this other part of him was accepted after they'd talked about it. This desire at times to just...wear things designed for the opposite gender. Kaworu would hold him close and kiss him passionately while thrusting into him, whispering how it was such a turn on to see him like this. He'd clutched onto that silver hair and kissed back, moving against his lap, moaning into his mouth. The two piece lingerie was just between them, as were other things. Like it was nothing, another fear had been eased and turned into something they both could wholeheartedly appreciate. He'd listened to Kaworu whisper more sweet nothings while fingers danced along the rim of the underwear.
Kaworu had this unbelievable habit of turning all of his fears and insecurities into things they mutually enjoyed.
Kaworu often called him understanding, but really, this lovely man was just as much. So yeah, he'd wear women's clothing and let himself get fucked in it. He'd do it in a heartbeat just for his loving boyfriend. It was incredible that his crossdressing drove Nagisa Kaworu to the most one track minded state he'd ever seen him in. While the night he'd confessed to Kaworu was absolutely thrilling, since then, he'd felt safe enough to come clean about this secret of his.
He liked occasionally wearing women's clothing, and had felt disgusting for it since that was a part of what kickstarted the exponential growth in his mistreatment. Gendo had always been neglectful before then, only coming to him when he needed something, but that single day he opened Yui's box, something in his father snapped. He'd buried deep down that initial joy from wearing the sundress.
With Kaworu, he really could be himself, no matter what that meant or what it brought to the table.
Maybe it wasn't so...silly, to plan on asking for his hand in marriage.
Maybe it wasn't foolish to keep hope in the person he loved. To wait for him to explain that ugly truth. He'd be as patient as ever, and listen intently to what Kaworu would have to say. He'd continue to love and cherish him like he'd promised.
Someone who could turn every fear into a dream… that was someone not worth giving up on.
With Rei's help, he found himself able to go back to the café a few days later and wait for that letter.
He'd left his room, he'd checked how he looked in the mirror. He saw her waiting outside when he'd stepped out, having asked Asuka to open so the two of them could talk uninterrupted. He could face others now, but was glad he didn't have to face Misato right away. She was back on her trail, investigating Kaworu and Seele, it seemed.
Rei knew as much as he did now, and it felt good to have come out with it to someone in person. He wished he could meet Vagabond in person, since he actually knew who that was. It was surprising, but comforting. While the hacker never came out with their identity, something he'd said was a significant giveaway.
When he'd walked in the door, tears filled his eyes as the café was decorated with a welcome back banner. Hikari and Toji had worked together to make a cheesecake and Kensuke had the whole hilarious exchange on video.
He looked over to see Kaworu's abstract painting of songbirds still in place on the wall. He'd looked to see the voting box handmade by Kaworu still on the counter.
He wasn't here physically, but his presence was somehow felt, and it was absolutely comforting. Being here with friends felt like the warm embrace he needed without them doing a group hug, as that would be too much for him.
The letter came three days after they'd made their plans. Both he and Kaworu would say what they wanted and every letter was to be immediately destroyed after reading.
Toji discreetly handed it off to him in the locker room. Rei was on the lookout for anyone suspicious around the café.
He opened it and smiled at Kaworu's neat handwriting. He'd seen before that his lover was ambidextrous, but had a different style with each hand. It seemed this first letter was written with his left hand. He took a deep breath and began to read.
'My dearest love, how I ache knowing it is my own fault we can't be together. I fully understand it's my own past that is the trigger for current events. I have not been honest with you since we really started to get to know each other, and for that, I am deeply sorry. Please believe I have always been myself, despite the fact that I believed if you knew the truth, you'd come to loathe me. I still let myself be around you, become your friend, become your significant other, and then your lover while keeping the truth to myself. It is selfish of me to have done so, and you deserve better. You are the light of my life. Never doubt this. I've wished to tell you everything since you took my hand under the stars when I told you about my condition. We barely knew each other that night, but I could tell I had met someone special.
I'll start by saying that I do not actually know where I come from. I just knew I grew up in the same bleak room and facility as far as I can remember. Isolated and seeing people only when they needed to run some test on me or to teach me something. I'd try to keep myself entertained. For instance, I thought to sing myself a song to pass the time, but was shut down for doing so. It was a lonely existence. Often, it was very difficult to tell what was real from what wasn't, however. I'd see a person and be told they didn't exist. I'd see something horrible and try to tell myself it isn't real and be asked to describe what I saw.
One day, I saw an angel and that's when everything changed. All of the people who interacted with me directly, I supposed there were around 30 of them at various times during the days, weeks, years; disappeared at once. I don't know what happened to them. My father knows, but I asked him not to tell me, as I'd rather not know. There were two people in my room and this is where the main issue lies. What happened in my room is...difficult to describe. I will admit it is possible my own views are flawed, as it's impossible for me to tell reality from that day. Hidden in my apartment is a combination safe with the truth. You already have what you need to access it, just as you already know how to find it. Take a deep breath, steady yourself, and all I ask is that you continue to be as understanding as you always have been. It is one of the qualities that I love the most about you. I have faith you'll continue to love me as you have after you know everything. I hope to hear from you soon.'
Shinji brought the letter to his chest, holding onto it tightly. He felt...ashamed now. How could he ever have doubted that Kaworu loved him? He knew him better than anyone else after all.
Toji sighed, "You can't beat yourself up dude. When you have your reply, just give it to me and I'll drop it off."
He'd told Vagabond that he trusted his friends to help get the letters back and forth and the hacker seemed satisfied that only 2 people would be involved. He'd given them instructions on where to take the letters so he could get them to bring to Kaworu.
Vagabond wasn't saying how he was getting the letters to Kaworu exactly, but he trusted everyone in Operation Secret Love Letters to play their part.
He'd used his lunch break to write his response, making sure to put it in an envelope. Maybe it was a little cliché or silly, but he'd brought the letter up to place a kiss on it, hoping Kaworu would somehow feel it.
He had the key to Kaworu's apartment on him and he wondered if he should go there, but he'd hold off for today. It'd be a bit much. He needed some time to recoup himself.
Vagabond told him the letters must be destroyed after reading. Be it tear it up and throw it away, or shred it, burn it, whatever. Yet....Shinji just didn't want to. He was cherishing these words and perhaps against his better judgment, he'd hidden the letter in his bedroom.
'When we held hands and you said you wanted to talk to me, I was really scared at that moment. The only thing that made me feel better was looking into your eyes and holding your hands. When I was taken away from you, I was confused. I just knew one thing, the look you gave me hurt. Not because you gave it, but because you looked how I felt in the moment.
The week I spent without you, with no contact, was agonizing. I know some of the bad things said about you were out of emotion, or speculation, but I tried to defend you because I know you. I know you aren't some dangerous person. It didn't make sense. I want to be honest, I initially questioned everything. Myself, you, our relationship...despite how amazing you've been to me since we've met. I wholeheartedly apologize for that. I wouldn't want to not tell you about my doubts, because everything was so sudden. I needed time to myself. I took a week to think, and I decided that nothing you have to say will stop my feelings for you. Whatever I read that you left for me won't change anything. I promise.
Not knowing where you come from is okay. Where you were raised is strange, but I'll find out about that in time won't I? It's the lies that get to me. Who is Kaji to you? What was the appointment we went to? If he's not a doctor, what are the medications he supplies for you? Anything I should know about Makoto? Is all of his part true? How about after you left that place? Is all of that part true? Is it strange that the entire time I spent upset and hiding from everyone and everything, all I could think about was all the good you've done? I miss us sharing headphones, I miss showing you how to cook (I hope wherever you are has a decent rice cooker), I miss your hugs, your voice. I miss you showing me how to paint, playing piano together, I miss your kisses, and I'll admit I can't stop thinking about the things we've done at your place or in my room.'
Kaworu gripped the letter tightly, bringing the paper close and bringing it to his lips. He had to reply quickly, hoping to be able to increase the amount he could send in a day. Whenever he wrote one, he'd inform his outside contact. It was imperative that all of this stayed under the radar from Kaji, who often left to go check on what was happening at Seele for especially long periods of time. That was convenient, thank goodness.
He was so grateful he'd brought his sketchbook, and used those pages to write on. A small price to pay to maintain contact with his beloved. Shinji had every right to feel how he did. It was a miracle that he'd continue to love him and await a possible reunion when things calmed down. In the meantime, seeing his cute handwriting and reading these would have to be enough. He just hoped the truth wasn't too much for him to take.
Every day a new hallucination. Every day a headache, the feeling of being watched. The only thing to make him feel relief, his anchor, was the red thread around his pinky and wrist and now this letter. He went to reply in haste.
'Everything from after I left that place is true. Kaji is a bit similar in position to my father. They worked together to pull me out of that place. His job is to constantly check on me, or at least that's what he says. That place has a vested interest in my condition, which my medicine does help with. When we went to the session together, it was for me to update him of my progress, something I must always do.
You have a right to feel all that you have. I wish I could look into your beautiful sapphire eyes and answer all of these while holding your hands. I miss everything as well. I miss holding you in my arms, I miss how you'd comb your fingers through my hair, I miss how you'd lean on me. I miss how you'd hum to yourself in the kitchen, or while I showed you how to paint. I hope you haven't given up on your song for me. I truly look forward to that. Do I have the right to say that I've missed how you'd look at me when I'd be on top of you? Do not fret, I'd think about those times as well during my self reflections.'
Shinji blushed harder after reading the end of the letter. He felt the letters were about to spiral into more intimate words but he couldn't stop himself in his next reply. It was impossible to think of Kaworu and not think about their sex life. That part about how he'd look when Kaworu was on top of him...was definitely about that.
The one thing he'd made sure to ask at the end of his next letter, was how long they would be separated.
Unfortunately, they agreed there was no clear answer for that. Even Kaji wasn't sure. The goal was to keep Kaworu hidden until the leak of information stopped, but according to Vagabond, that wouldn't end with Misato and Maya constantly searching for more. Seele was in a frenzy, because they didn't want news about the missing people to go public nor anything about Second Impact or of Kaworu even being there.
"Alright so I'm gonna give you some instructions on how to keep sending letters without me. Tell one of your friends to follow these steps."
Shinji, at his laptop, was a bit alarmed, "Do you think they caught on to you?"
Vagabond replied, "I have no idea, but just in case someone does come for me. You guys should continue talking. Both of you seem a lot more cheered up."
Understatement of the year. The letters had him smiling, among a few other reactions he'd keep to himself. He had to think for a moment. He had the key to Kaworu's apartment and to the art studio, so it all came down to when he was ready to go in there. Yet Kaworu mentioned a combination safe, which he never remembered seeing at all. For safety reasons, he didn't elaborate either.
It was hot, and he'd picked up the hand fan gifted to him, studying it. He blinked as he'd realized a very tiny number etched into the keychain. "Oh...!" He looked around some more and it dawned on him that night Kaworu gave him the keys, he'd also given him something like this.
Kaworu really did trust him and want to tell him, even way back then. Now he had to think of where the safe could be. The obvious answer would be in the art studio, as that's the one place he'd never been. He'd decided he'd go to Kaworu's apartment on his next day off. He'd tell no one, just like he'd promised in his last letter.
"Hands where I can see them, scumbag!"
He sighed, raised his hands slowly, and thanked any lord he could think of that he hadn't been talking to Shinji on the doc at that very moment.
"Vagabond huh? If you go with another V tag, of course you'd get caught! Your old tag Viper was pretty infamous some years back", Maya Ibuki narrowed her eyes, "Now don't try anything funny. I'm taking you in."
"Man, I didn't do anything wrong!"
"Not true. You thought I wouldn't be able to track you down huh? You're not the only one with skills in this city. Now stand up slowly."
He stood up slowly from his setup, "For all you know, this could just be my gaming setup! Haha! Ooh you sound cute!"
"Can it! Now turn around and put your hands on your head. I'm armed."
He did as told.
Just as she thought. She had no idea who this guy was outside of the criminal record files she'd read, "Before you even think to try anything funny, know we’ve got your accomplice too."
"Huh? Accomplice? What accomplice?"
"Hyuga Makoto."
"OH SHIT! That's why he's not answering his phone! Fine. Whatever. I need to talk to him anyway!"
"This isn't a social visit! You will submit for questioning!"
"Yeah yeah. Now take me to him!"
Maya scoffed. The nerve of this asshole! Who does he think he is!? "Aoba Shigeru, I will now read you your rights and-"
"WHOA! AM I UNDER ARREST? FOR WHAT!? You can't take me back to jail! Fuck that!"
"It's just for questioning! You're not getting locked up! If you run, this will get ugly!"
"Dammit dammit dammit! I need to talk to Makoto. What'd you do to him!?"
Maya blinked, "Nothing. He came quietly when we approached! So let me take you to him and-"
Shigeru suddenly kicked over one of the monitors.
Startled, Maya accidentally pulled the trigger on her taser that she'd been pointing at him. Seeing the man go down from the shock, she panicked, "OH SHIT!"
After a few minutes, he just got right back up.
Maya screamed, "HOLY SHIT!"
Shigeru looked at her and held up a hand, "What the absolute fuck lady!?"
"How are you not unconscious!?'
"YOU SHOCKED ME!"
"NORMAL PEOPLE WOULD BE UNCONSCIOUS!"
Shigeru just shrugged, "I am not normal. I don't know what to tell you. But that shit stings. Do not do that again for the love of all things! I am not into that on Wednesdays."
"ON WEDNESDAYS!? THAT'S WHERE YOU DRAW THE LINE!?"
He looked around, "If you're gonna be questioning me long, can I bring my guitar?"
Maya wanted to scream. She had to take a deep breath, "No, you may not. This is a criminal investigation. You are coming with me for questioning. What the hell are you made of!?"
"Look this isn't my first skirmish with a taser, but that packs a punch, seriously lady!"
"Just.....just come with me....good gosh...."
|
Tony was bored. He was attending some gala for some random charity while he was here in London and somehow, nobody seemed to recognize him. Which wasn't bad, per say, but it was strange to not be at least somebody's center of attention. So he was standing at the buffet table, snacking and vacillating between wanting to eavesdrop on nearby conversations or see what he could build from the wide array of food products on the table.
A pretty woman with wild hair looking extremely stressed out approached the bar near where he was standing. "Fire whiskey, please," she told the bartender. The man behind the bar fixed it and though Tony didn't see him pull out a lighter when he slid it across the bartop to the woman it was on fire. Instead of blowing the fire out like any sensible person, she tipped it up and drank it down like a shot, setting the tumbler on the bartop with a heavy clink when she was done.
Intrigued, Tony sidled up beside her. Any woman who could drink her liquor like that was someone worth talking to. "Do you always shoot your whiskey?" he asked.
She startled slightly before turning to look at him. He watched her eyes appraise him, following the lines of the designer suit he wore and then back up to his face. He gave her his signature smirk and wink.
She shrugged and then nodded. "You'll do." She reached forward and hooked her arm around his, turning him back out towards the room.
His eyebrows rose up his forehead as confusion colored his expression. "I'll do?"
"Yes," she said in a no-nonsense, clipped tone. She seemed to be speaking out of the corner of her mouth. "We're dating."
"How long have we been dating?" he asked, tipping his head back. He could help out a pretty woman.
"A month."
"Two."
She turned to look at him and blinked, "What?"
"The invitations to something like this would have gone out at least six weeks in advance. You wouldn't have brought just anybody. Two months, at the least."
"Fine, two months," she agreed, facing forward again.
They started meandering between small groups of people and the dance floor and Tony asked her another question. "Where'd we meet?"
"Uh, at a bar."
"Too cliché. Class it up, do you really think you'd find someone like me in a bar? We met last October, at a masquerade. We ran into each other two months ago at a meeting."
"Really? That's your 'how we met' story?"
"It was a boring meeting. After some heavy innuendo, we slipped out and had sex in the elevator. Just couldn't get enough of one another after that." She snorted to stifle a giggle and he turned to look at her. "What?"
"That's ridiculous. No one who knows me would believe that."
He smiled. "Does anyone who knows you think you'd enlist a handsome, wealthy stranger as a fake boyfriend?"
She paused, thinking, before shaking her head.
"Then maybe they don't know you very well, hmm?" He was about to say something else when someone called out.
"Granger!"
She stiffened and her eyes went wide for a second before she plastered a fake smile on her lips and turned to the pale blond interloper. He was tall and thin and the woman on his arm was elegant in that cookie-cutter way well-to-do debutantes tended to be. "It's good to see you, Granger. Glad you could make it. I didn't know how you'd fare after that messy breakup that's been all over the papers."
"I'm just fine, Draco," she said stiffly. "I'm great, actually. I don't think you've met my boyfriend yet—"
"Tony Stark," he said over her, offering his hand to the man.
"Draco Malfoy," the man answered smugly, returning the handshake without an ounce of recognition. "Have you met Daphne Greengrass?" he asked about the woman beside him, and though the question was nominally for Tony, Malfoy had returned his attention to Granger.
She said in a voice he was sure could freeze glass, "We've met. If you'll excuse us, Tony and I were on our way to talk to Minister Shacklebolt." She turned and directed their steps away from the power couple.
"It might help if I knew your name, next time," Tony suggested as they converged on a tall, black man in a vibrant purple suit.
"Hermione!" the man called loudly at their approach, and she left Tony's arm to hug him. He kissed both of her cheeks before stepping back. "You're not letting the press get to you, are you?" He gave a cursory glance in Tony's direction. "I see you've got your own sort of revenge, huh?"
"Tony's not revenge, Kingsley. He just came back into my life at the right moment is all. Besides, I don't need it. The Greengrass bint can play musical eligible bachelors every week for all I care."
Kingsley looked back at Tony and his brow furrowed. Tony smiled and introduced himself again.
"Stark?" he asked, then looked back at Hermione, "Talk about eligible bachelors."
She looked at Tony and there was a question in her eyes but he just grinned at her. She and Kingsley exchanged a few more words and shortly thereafter, Hermione was leading them into what looked like a cloakroom.
She sighed and dropped his arm, turning on him to ask, "All right, so who are you?"
"Tony Stark? Genius, billionaire, playboy? Owner of Stark Industries? Any of this ringing a bell?"
Her shoulders slumped in something like disappointment. "Of all the men, in all the world..."
He shrugged, "What can I say? You've got great taste."
She rolled her eyes at him. "What are you doing at a charity event for St Mungo's?"
He took a step closer to her and brought his hand up to the small of her back. "Being your date. Now come here, to really sell this, we're going to have to look like we've been making out."
"What?" she asked, though she didn't step back out of his embrace.
"We snuck off to the coat closet, what else would we be doing?" He grinned and leaned down to kiss her thoroughly. She kissed him back.
|
It had been a few days since Mark had seen Rose. It was strange because he wanted to talk to her about what he had discovered but it wasn't like her to not come for more than a day. He wasn't sure how to feel, should he be angry, relieved, he truly didn't know. On the one hand he knew she could be more trouble than she may be worth but on the other he looked forward to seeing her every night. Even when she tricked him that first night it still felt amazing. The past few nights he waited at his computer for her to arrive but she didn't and he was almost starting to worry.
That night he waited at his computer with the window open. It was a warm night with a nice breeze but it was starting to get late and still now sign of her. He was getting ready to give up and go to bed when he thought he heard a flutter by his window.
"Rose?" He said as he walked over looking out in to the dark trying to see if she was there. After a minute he walked away from the window before turning around and almost jumping out of his skin.
"Surprise!" She said as she was laying on his bed full size in her little green outfit.
"Jesus! You scared the hell out of me, where have you been?"
"I had some stuff to take care of but I figured you'd be pent up after a couple days off so I've come and relieve some pressure if you know what I mean."
"Oh, it's just I've needed to talk to you."
"Something wrong?"
"Well maybe, I don't know."
"That seems vague."
"Yeah it's just..."
"Well why don't you just tell me?"
"I jerked off after you left the other night and my cum was white."
"You jerked off? Was my Enchantress not good enough for you?"
"No, that was amazing, I mean... wow, but I was still kind of turned on a little while later and it just sort of happened. But that's not the point, my cum wasn't green anymore."
"Oh... yeah that."
"Did your spell ware off?"
"Um... sure maybe that's it, want me to do it again?" She said with a wink and a smile.
"What's really going on here? If the spell wore off than why are you still here?"
"Do you want me to leave?"
"No, I just..."
"Just what? I thought you were enjoying my visits?"
"I did, I do its just I thought the change was permanent and now I'm just confused."
"Ok I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, I didn't do anything to your cock that first night."
"You didn't?"
"Nope, Honestly I'm surprised it took you this long to figure out."
Then why did you lie to me? What was that all about?"
"It was one of your fantasies."
"What?"
"Was it not an amazing night? Did you not enjoy it, the fear, the pleasure, knowing this sexy magical creature was using some sort of magic spell on you're cock and there was nothing you could do about it except enjoy the pleasure no matter what the consequences were?"
"It was pretty... but why did you lie to me then?"
"Do you know how hard it is to convince a guy to let a fairy have her way with him? Usually I just disguise myself as a super model and hook up with someone at a bar or something just to get a meal."
"Wait so... you do feed off me then?"
"Fairies feed off of semen, no extra ingredients added."
"Then why me? I'm sorry its just I'm a little confused right now."
"Maybe I just think you're cute."
"Seriously? you could have any hunk that probably can produce a hell of a lot more than I can."
"It's not about physicality, you're... different."
"Define different."
"You have an incredible imagination, the things that turn you on... I''ve never met a man like you. I mean you love beautiful women like any other guy but you also love the supernatural side of sex. If the woman is vampire, or possessed, or a demon, an alien it's just that little extra turn on for you because it's an unknown danger that might be worth the risk. Because of that you just taste so good to me."
"Oh... really?"
"Really, And you have these turn ons that nobody else has, things that nobody would think of, like that little Alien themed night, that just awesome."
"Wow that's, its just I've never been able to reveal that part of myself to anyone before."
"That's why I knew you'd love the Orgoblin, they don't get to feed off humans much, well except you and one of your neighbors."
"Yeah, i shouldn't have done that to her."
"Her? Oh no now I'm talking about that guy who lives down the hall, your Orgoblin escaped and almost killed him."
"Kill? How? I thought these creatures weren't dangerous?"
"They usually aren't but he was a virgin and the problem with that is it couldn't get enough satisfaction from him because he's never known the touch of a woman or anyone else so it would have made him cum to death if I hadn't saved him."
"Is he ok?"
"Yup he'll be fine. I had to take his virginity to save him but he wasn't complaining."
"Wait? You fucked him?"
"Yeah, it was the only way to get it out of him."
"But you just... you had sex with him?"
"I do it with you all the time?"
"I know but... you had sex with him?"
"Does that bother you?"
"Yeah I mean... I just thought that "
"Just thought what?"
Mark thought for a moment but there was nothing he could say. He had no right to be angry and he knew it but it still burned him a little.
"Never mind, it doesn't matter."
"What doesn't matter?"
"You're a Fairy that feeds off cum. I should have known better."
"You're really bothered by this aren't you?"
"No I'm not, it is what it is."
Rose rolled out of his bed and walked over to him. He tried not to look at her at all as he was very conflicted. He was angry that she had sex with someone else but he knew he had no right to be. This wasn't a relationship, she wasn't his girlfriend or anything like that. He was just a meal to her and he had to learn to accept that.
"Mark if that bothers you just tell me."
"Why? It doesn't matter."
"Yes it does! No I'm not human so I'm sure you feel like I don't care about you but I do."
"I'm just a meal to you."
"No you're not, you are the first guy I've ever fed off of more than once, and you're the first guy who wanted to have sex with me in my actual form."
"I don't believe that at all."
"It's true, every guy I've ever had sex with I've had to change my appearance to fulfill a fantasy for them and trick them. The first time that I gave you a choice you chose me."
"Who wouldn't chose you? You're... you're beautiful."
"It's the ears, the wings, the unnatural red hair. Like I said I'm not human and most guys want to fuck Kim Kardashian or someone like that."
"Please don't ever come here looking like her."
"But that's what we do, we fulfill fantasies to get a meal. Most guys think it's a dream."
"But, you could have never come back after that first night and I would have thought it was a dream."
"I couldn't stay away, your imagination is just... it's amazing."
"You're the only woman who would think so."
"I don't know about that, but if it bothers you that I fed off someone else then I will never do it again."
"I can't ask you to do that."
"Yes you can, If you want I will be yours and only yours, whatever you want from me."
"That would just be selfish of me."
"I'm just as selfish because I want you all to myself, so lets be selfish together."
"But, how would that even work?"
Rose stepped back and with a flash of light she changed, not by much but she suddenly was wearing jean and a t-shirt. Her hair was still red but looked more tamed and her wings were gone along with the pointed ears. She looked human but still looked like her.
"Wow, but I... I don't quite understand?"
"You don't like it?"
"No you look as amazing as you always do but what are you saying?"
"I'll be yours... if you want."
"Wait like... a girlfriend?"
"If that's what you want me to be."
"This is crazy."
"Why? You don't want me?"
"No I do but... you're a Fairy."
"Last I checked that was what you liked about me."
"Well yeah but..."
"But what?"
"I don't know anything about you."
"What would you like to know?"
"That's just it, I don't even know what to ask, it's not like I can ask you what your favorite movie or TV show is, or favorite band, favorite meal which is a silly question now that I think of it, it just seems like... I don't know."
"Well then you can show me."
"What do you mean?"
"Show me TV, show me music, take me out to dinner, I want to learn the things you like because I like you."
"That just sounds like I'm trying to turn you in to something you're not, it would feel selfish. What do Fairies like?"
"Well, I like flowers, I like swimming, I like watching the sunrise on a spring morning, I like listening to nature sing its song."
"Wow... that's... that's a start."
"Well why don't you start by showing me where you get some of your fantasies?"
"What do you mean?"
"Those movies where you got those amazing sexual ideas from."
"You mean like Ghostbusters and so on?"
"Sure, maybe if i see the source material I can create better fantasies for you."
"Well, yeah we could do that I guess."
Mark couldn't believe what she was saying. There was a part of him who wanted this so bad but he was also hesitant as she was still a fairy and this could lead to issues. He didn't know what fairies like or what they do for fun or anything, but he was willing to find out.
"Wait a sec."
"Now what's wrong?"
"Wouldn't it be cheating?"
"Cheating?"
"You fulfilling my fantasies, now I feel like I'm taking advantage of you."
"You humans are so silly."
"Huh?"
"One of the benefits of being a Fairy is the more crazy the fantasy I give you the better you taste. So don't worry about hurting my feelings."
"This is just... it's a lot to take in, my brain is scrambled right now."
"Well then lets get back to simple for now." She said pushing him down on the bed and climbing on top of him.
Mark was a little surprised at first but quickly understood what she meant. She placed a kiss on his lips before he returned her advance kissing her back. He slid his hand down her back grabbing her ass and pulling her up a little.
"Any special requests?" She asked between kisses.
"Not tonight, lets try normal."
"Well in that case you may need to examine my new human form closely, make sure I didn't miss any minor details." She said as she rolled off of him and laid down on the bed.
Mark looked her up and down before she took his hand and placed it on her chest motioning it around.
"You better feel me out and check for anything... unnatural."
He reached his hand under her shirt slowly sliding up her stomach and between her breasts before sliding it over across her nipple feeling it poke up at his touch.
"Here, let me help you." She said before removing her shirt and laying back down.
Mark was amazed by her body as there wasn't a blemish on her. Her breasts were perfect and her skin was soft and warm. He looked up in to her eyes which had an unnatural sparkle to them that amazed him every time he looked in to them.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, you're eyes."
"I can fix that."
"No don't, I love your eyes."
He leaned in and kissed her again before working his way down her neck sucking on her skin which had a very sweet taste. He moved on to her chest tracing his tongue in circles around her nipples making her moan at his touch. He lingered there for a while before continuing down her stomach. He unbuttoned her pants and slid them off slowly running his fingers along her legs tickling her a little as he examined them. Like the rest of her they were perfect. He looked down at a little pair of pink panties she was wearing with a heart on the front.
"Really? You rob a magic valentines day shop?"
She smiled and giggle a little before she shrugged. He slid them off to see the same beautiful pussy he had seen before.
"You like what you see?" she asked spreading her legs a little.
"I do but..."
"But what?"
"I think this needs closer examination." He said before lowering his head between her legs.
He lightly caressed her slit with his lips gently kissing it up near her clit. He began sucking on it a little harder every time before he stuck out his tongue and teased it a little more. Rose was moaning and writhing as he explored her with his tongue. It slid it inside her wiggling it around pushing it deeper inside her.
"Oh, I love it when you do this!" She said as she grabbed the sheets of the bed. Her motions and noises told him she was enjoying this immensely. she ran his fingers through his hair as he went to town on her pussy. "Oh shit!" she said as her breathing got heavier. "Wait wait, stop!"
"Whats wrong?"
"Not like this, you're just... you're just too good at that and I'm not done with you yet." She said grabbing him and pulling up towards her. "I want you to fuck me until I cum." She said as she shot out a little light out of her finger making his clothes disappear.
She pushed Mark over to her side and rolled on top of him hovering above his cock with a smile on her face. She ran her fingers along his shaft while licking her lips and smiling at him.
"Ooh the things I could do to this little guy, you haven't seen anything yet."
"Hey I thought we were going for simple today?"
"If that's what you want, but you're curious aren't you, right now you're wondering what pleasures I have in store for you."
Marks eyes rolled in the back of his head as she continued to play with his cock lightly caressing it with her fingers and then teasing the tip with her tongue a little. She began licking his cock like it was an ice cream cone. Every swipe of her tongue felt amazing against his shaft. She wrapped her mouth around it giving him a few good sucks. Mark moaned out as her lips slid up and down on his shaft lubricating it with her fairy spit. She suddenly let go of his cock and had a look on her face like she had just gotten an amazing idea. Mark looked down at her seeing a mischievous smile and began to worry a little.
"What are you thinking?"
"We haven't tried that yet."
"Tried what?"
She jumped out of the bed and grabbed the jar with the Orgoblin inside it.
"Woah woah wait a minute."
"No, this is gonna be amazing, watch." She said as she laid down next to him and opened the jar.
"This is going to be too much."
"Shh, watch."
He looked and saw the smoke pour out of the jar and begin to form above them. It seemed to be looking back and forth like it wasn't sure where to go. After a moment he watched as it lost its form and stretched out forcing its way inside him and her at the same time with a stream of green smoke connecting them both. They both felt a slight tug like they were being pulled together. Mark sat up and grabbed on to Rose pulling her into his lap as the smoke pulled their genital together sliding him inside her.
"Holy shit." He said after realizing they couldn't separate from each other. "Is this safe?"
"Do you want it to be?" She said with a giggle before they both started feeling their genital pulsing together. Neither on of them needed to move as the pleasure was being forced upon them and all they could do was hold each other as the Orgoblin made them both cum unmercifully together.
"Oh god, HOLY FUCK!" he said grabbing her ass as the feeling was incredible.
"Maybe...OH SHIT!...maybe this...FUCK!...is a little much." she said digging her fingernails in to his back as the pleasure increased.
Every few minutes his cock would erupt inside her letting her feed off of him while at the same time squirting her own womanly juices as her pussy throbbed around his cock. He kissed her and sucked on her breasts as they were both in such a state of euphoria they needed each others touch to get through the constant continues orgasmic delight they were feeling as green goo dripped out from between them. They both yelled out so much Mark was surprised nobody called the police.
After about an hour the creature finally had taken enough and evacuated them both in one finally amazing orgasm before returning to his jar. As the smoke poured from them both they both screamed as their genitals felt a release they didn't think was possible. Rose held on as she was in his arms breathing heavily as they were both dripping with sweat. Neither one of them could let go of the other as they sat in a puddle of green slime. Every time he tried to pull out of her it was almost too much sensitivity. They had both become so sensitive and and lubricated that every movement caused another small orgasm.
"Ok on the count of 3." He said in a breathy voice.
"Ok, ready."
"1, 2, 3!" He said finally, pulling himself out of her before his cock erupted one more time like it had to get rid of the rest of the green slime left inside by the creature. "Oh fuck, fuck fuck!"
"That was... a bit much." She said as she collapsed next to him.
"Yeah... but it didn't suck!"
"Oh heavens no, it was great!" She replied before resting her head on his chest and falling asleep. He thought about the mess on his bed but was too tired to care. he looked down at Rose who was asleep next to him resting against him and started to think.
"Maybe this could work." he thought to himself before he closed his eyes and fell asleep soon after.
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