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driima · 3 years

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Caught | Dabi x Captured! Pro Hero F!Reader

Title: Caught

Pairing: Dabi x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Dubcon, kidnapping, mild depictions of injury, brief depictions of blood, intimidation, biting, fingering

Note: aaa brain go brr, just enjoy some Dabi, idk

It was loud.

There were screams - terrified screams - all around you. Rubble was crashing down to the ground, creating loud explosions. Footsteps were pounding on the ground, reverberating against the city buildings, but the worst of it was the fire.

The flames burned with abnormal colors, not their typical orange, but instead a deep blue. With each flare they incinerated everything they touched, alighting everything in their path. It was chaos.

Your mind was snapped back into reality when someone fell before you. You crouched down, your gloved hands reaching for their trembling body, and you helped them to their feet.

“You’re okay,” you assured the young man, his wide and frightened eyes searching your masked face. “Keep running that way,” you pointed down the street. “Get as far away from the fire as you can. The heroes are here to help.”

The man nodded and began running in the direction you pointed, following the other scared citizens. You turned back to the fire, your brows furrowed. There wasn’t much you could do to tackle the fire. Your quirk, Cell Manipulation, allowed you to control and change the cells within any living organism. It was powerful, as it allowed you to regenerate faster by simply creating more cells. However, it was difficult against the flames as fire nuclei were cells you couldn’t touch. You frowned.

“(H/n)!” someone called out, causing you to turn your head. It was one of your fellow pro-heroes, Big Shot. He ran towards you, a worried look in his eyes.

“We have backup arriving in a few minutes,” he said. “Have you evacuated all of the citizens from the vicinity?”

“Everyone has been moved out of the streets. I cannot say for sure for those who are within the surrounding buildings, though,” you said. Internally, you didn’t believe anyone would still be alive in the buildings. The blue flames seemed to disintegrate anything they touched, and if it weren’t that that got to them, it would be the overwhelming amount of smoke. You turned back to Big Shot. “Do we have eyes on whoever started this mess?”

He nervously scratched his head. “We haven’t located them yet. However, our intel believes it’s the arsonist that’s affiliated with the League. The same one who is responsible for those smaller crimes involving cremated human remains. Be on the look out for anyone suspicious.”

You nodded. “I’m going to look for them. Judging by how the fire started from the left,” you pointed to a jumble of burning stores and alleys. “They must have come from around there.”

“Be careful,” was all Big Shot said before you ran off, your feet pounding against the ground.

You squinted your eyes, the ash thick as it wafted through the air. Blue flames licked at your hero costume, threatening to singe the suit, but you maneuvered around them easily. You paused momentarily, leaping out of the way of a melted traffic light that was falling from its post. You threw up your hands as it slammed against the sidewalk, narrowly missing your body. The force sent a slew of burning coals into the air, most of which nearing your body, and you backed up to avoid them.

Panicked, you spun on your heels, attempting to run down the alley behind you to escape the advancing flames but you were stopped as your body slammed into an obstacle that you swore wasn’t there before. Stumbling, you lost your balance and your body teetered backwards. You braced yourself as you crashed to the ground on your back, a pained groan leaving your lips as your head roughly smacked into the concrete.

You bit your lip, attempting to bite back the pain as your eyes cracked open. Your vision was swimming and your head throbbed from the impact. Above you, you made out a blurry figure. Panic ebbed at your heart as you felt yourself slipping in and out of consciousness, your vision blinking, your body unable to move.

Before you clocked out, the last thing you saw was a blurry hand reaching down for you, blue flames dancing from their palm.

•••

It took you several moments to come to. Your eyelids felt heavy. Your heart pounded in your ears. Your mind felt completely and utterly empty. It felt as if a hypodermic of adrenaline was emptied into your bloodstream but you could do nothing against it as you were still swimming in darkness.

That is, until it felt like someone had doused you in a cold bucket of ice water.

You shot upward without warning, eyes flinging open so wide each iris was a perfect orb of (e/c). You took in your surroundings, your eyes blinking rapidly as you tried to clear the fogginess from your vision.

You were in a room. A small, dirty room. The four surrounding walls were painted an ugly dark gray, some bits chipped here and there, other bits splattered with substances you didn’t want to know the origins of. To your left there was a tiny window, however the glass was intentionally blurry and it was tiny. Not to mention it had thick steel bars wedged between the window frame. Directly in front of you was a blank steel door, one that was probably locked. You frowned. Where exactly were you?

Shaking your head, you placed a hand on the wall and went to push yourself up but immediately ceased your actions when a wave of dizziness hit you like an incoming truck. You were still disoriented. Not to mention when you moved your leg, a small clank was heard, and you realized after glancing down at your ankle that a thick metal bearing was wrapped around it. You followed the rusting chain with your eyes and realized you were trapped against the wall with only several feet to move. The anklet, you realized, was cutting off your quirk. You let out a shaky breath.

“Think,” you told yourself, glancing down at your hands that were now in your lap. “Think.”

Your short attempts to create a plan were cut off as there was a painful buzzing in your ear, so loud that you groaned and brought your hands up to knead your forehead. Just how hard did you hit your head?

Your brows furrowed as you slowly brought your knees up to your chest, your head burrowing between them.

You didn’t know what to do.

•••

You didn’t know how long you stayed in that position. It felt like days. Your stomach was curling in on itself with hunger and your throat was dry. Your bladder felt numb as you had long forgotten about having needed to use the bathroom and your limbs felt stiff from not having moved in so long.

You were tired. Confused. Distressed.

However, you managed to push your emotions down to keep calm. There was no use in freaking out. It would only waste energy. You were busy trying to get yourself to fall back asleep, your eyes closed and your arms slack. You were just about to grasp that peaceful sensation when the sound of the door scraping against the floor filled the room and a light briefly flickered onto your balled-up form before it disappeared as the door was closed. You stiffened.

Part of you didn’t want to look up. You wanted to be defiant - to ignore your captor entirely - and stay in your ball. The bigger part, however, forced you to look anyway.

Standing above you was a man. He was tall, overbearingly so, and though he was slender, his body looked to be riddled with lean muscle. His hair was black and spiky. His clothes, a torn jacket overtop a white t-shirt and a dark pair of pants, were baggy. His skin, in most visible places, had a purple look to it, almost as if it was burnt. The scars ran along his body, held to his normal skin by shiny surgical staples. The most striking feature, however, were his deep blue eyes. They shone even within the darkness of the room, a deep aqua color that rivaled any blue moon.

“Well, well, well,” the man said, his lips pulling up into a smirk. “It looks like the big, tough hero didn’t save the day.” His voice was deep yet cool. It had a gravelly tone to it that you would have taken for attractive in any other circumstance.

You scowled, your gaze hardening into a glare.

He chuckled at your look, taking several slow steps towards your huddled form. He crouched down once he was close enough, the smell of ash and cheap men’s cologne filling your senses as he stared at you intensely. He had a full view for he, or someone else, had removed your hero mask and most of the armor on your costume. You were left in your underclothes, a plain black shirt and matching black tights.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. When you didn’t answer, he continued, “The League of Villains wanted to have a lil’ bit of fun but you bull shit heroes, if you can even call yourself that, got in our way. In order to commence with our plans, we need a bit of information and you just so happened to have fallen right into our hands. Now be a good little hero and answer some questions for me.”

Your lips curled back into a sneer. “If you think I’m going to answer a single question that comes out of your burnt, charcoal lookin’ ass mouth, you are mistaken,” you spat out.

He stared at you, seemingly processing your words. You were about to bark out another remark when he leaned forward ever so slightly, a hand coming up dangerously close to your face. Your eyes widened when his hand was suddenly engulfed in familiar blue flames, the fire so close to your skin that you could feel the baby hairs that coated your cheek being singed away.

“That wasn’t a request,” he said in a low voice and you made note of the threatening tone he had.

He was the one responsible for the bonfire in the city. He was the one responsible for all of the arsenic murders. He was the one the heroes have been tracking for months. And you walked right into his hands.

Your jaw locked in anger but you bit your tongue to hold back from anymore snarky remarks. You held his gaze as he drew back his hand, deactivating his quirk. He stared at you for a moment longer before he spoke again.

“If you do anything funny, I’ll kill you,” he continued. “The boy, the one in Class 1-A, the one with the explosion quirk. Do you know where his residence is?” he asked. You frowned.

Class 1-A? How were you supposed to know? It had been forever since you completed your hero training at UA High.

You shook your head.

It was his turn to frown. “It would be in your best interest not to lie to me,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I’m not,” you shot back heatedly.

You barely registered his next movements. Suddenly there was a large hand wrapping around your throat tightly whilst another was forcing your knees apart. He moved quickly, shocking you, as he was now kneeling between your legs, his face dangerously close to yours. You could feel his warm breath fanning down against you, causing you to involuntarily shiver.

“You’re making this difficult, princess,” he said darkly. “If you just tell me what I want to know, we wouldn’t be having this problem. If you just complied, I could make you feel a lot more comfortable.”

He relaxed between your legs, his thumb tracing lines along your neck. He stared at you, momentarily letting down his guard, and that’s when you saw your chance.

You whipped your head forward, your skull connecting with his harshly, knocking him backwards. Your teeth clanked against each other and he grunted in pain as he fell back. You used your feet to get a good kick in, though your assault was immediately halted when he grabbed your unchained ankle roughly, his eyes reconnecting with yours. You gulped as he moved towards you in an aggressive manner, his eyes aflame with anger.

You fucked up.

He kneeled before you, back between your legs, but this time a lot closer. His chest roughly pressed against yours, his hips pinning your body against the wall. One hand slammed against the concrete next to your head, the sound making you flinch, whilst the other gripped your chin painfully tight. He brought his face in close, too close, his hand tilting your head so that your eyes stayed connected with his.

“You know, I enjoy a good challenge,” he mused, tilting your face slightly to the left so that your neck was exposed to him. “But there are other ways to get what I want.”

Before you could question him, you felt a pair of warm lips against your neck and you let out a startled gasp. He left a trail of harsh kisses along your skin, something that would usually make you swoon but in this circumstance, it made your stomach churn. Your breath hitched when he sank his teeth into a particular spot against your neck, an action that nearly caused you to moan aloud. He chuckled as he heard your panicked breaths, his lips moving further up your neck until they were dotting along your jawline.

He paused, moving upward until his lips were ghosting yours. He stared into your eyes, a smirk on his face. “Tell me what I want to know,” he said sensually, the hand he had on the wall moving to rest tightly against your waist.

“I already told you,” you snapped back. He simply hummed in response, and before you could protest, he had slammed his lips against yours and had whisked away the air within your lungs.

His lips worked feverishly against yours, not in a kiss of passion or romance, but in a kiss of lust and hunger. He pressed his tongue along the seam of your lips, asking for entrance. When you denied him, he dug his nails into your waist harshly, causing you to involuntarily whine, and he took the opportunity to shove his tongue into your mouth. It was a sloppy kiss, the smell of burning logs exchanging with each breath. You were the first to pull away, an action that caused him to groan in frustration and arch against your chest.

Your eyes were wide and you panted, heaving for air. You stared at him incredulously as he licked his lips, smirking at your flustered state.

“You taste good, princess,” he purred, enjoying the red hue that was spreading across your face.

He returned his lips to your neck, moving further and further down. His teeth grazed along your skin, sinking into your flesh here and there as he trailed bites along your collarbone. You squirmed under his ministrations, letting out a breath of air as your hands tightened into fists.

“Enjoying yourself?” he whispered against your skin, an edge to his voice.

You grit your teeth and snarled, “You wish.”

In return, he bit down on your collar hard, his teeth digging into your flesh. You let out a pained whimper as his teeth broke your flesh, hard enough to draw blood. You trembled as he lapped it up with his tongue, his being sighing contently when you winced in pain whenever his tongue brushed against your wound.

He trailed his tongue upward, bored with the trail of blood that dribbled from your collarbone, until his lips brushed against your ear.

“Are you ready to tell me what I want to know, princess?” he murmured against your ear.

“There is no way in hell I’d- Ahh-“ you were interrupted by him when his hand swiftly snaked under your shirt, his palm tightly pressing against your chest.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you,” he whispered into your ear, all whilst he was palming your left breast. You shut your eyes tightly, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip to keep you from letting out any embarrassing noises.

His fingers hooked between the middle of your strapless bra and he went to forcefully pull it down when you shot your hand to his wrist, stopping him. He glanced into your eyes, pausing his movements.

“No,” you told him through a shaky breath. Your hand was trembling against his wrist, your nails digging into his skin through the material of your shirt.

He smirked, moving his face closer to yours. “No?” he mused. “But it seems like you’re enjoying this as much as I am.”

You went to retort when suddenly your hand began to heat up and you hissed, yanking it away from his wrist quickly. His palm lit up like a torch and you could only watch in horror as both your bra and shirt crumbled to ash atop you. His smirk widened as he brushed away the ruined remains, his eyes lazily raking over your exposed top. You moved your arms to quickly cover yourself when he caught your wrists with his hands, pinning them against the wall on either side of your head.

Your lip trembled as he shuffled his body downwards, his eyes taking in every inch of your skin. You could feel his breath fanning against your bare chest, the sensation giving you goosebumps. He leaned forward, his lips grazing over your skin, and he said quietly, “Tell me what I want to know.”

You choked back a whine as you breathed out, “N-No.”

He grinned, moving forward so that his lips could wrap around one of your rosy, pink nipples. He sucked gently, his tongue flicking against the bud. Your head tipped back against the wall, your body stiffening as he gently bit down. Your mouth fell open and you moaned softly at the action, something your stomach twisted at when you realized what you just did. He chuckled against your skin, his lips detaching from your nub with a loud, wet plop.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he murmured quietly, his tongue dragging over his lips as if you savor the taste of your skin. His hands dropped your wrists, landing on your waist instead to toy with the hem of your pants, his eyes boring into yours.

“Don’t,” you pleaded with wide eyes.

He smiled as he admired your trembling lip. He brought one hand up to cup your cheek, a gentle move, his thumb brushing gently back and forth as if to soothe your nerves. He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours as he stared into your eyes.

“It can all be over if you just tell me what I want to know,” he said gently, his voice laced with false reassurance.

“I already told you,” you whimpered out.

He clicked his tongue in disdain before he pushed his lips onto yours once more. It was a softer kiss, not as forceful as the first, but the only reason he was doing it was to distract you whilst he hiked down your pants.

You could feel them growing. The tears. They were building up in your eyes, threatening to spill, and you let out a feeble sniffle. He shushed you against your lips as he helped your legs out of your pants, leaving you in nothing but your plain underwear.

You didn’t want this. At least, you thought you didn’t want this. Your mind was running wild, and though your brain was screaming for this to stop, your body was heating up with want. You couldn’t suppress the growing slick between your thighs, as sick as it sounded.

Almost hesitantly, he moved his hand away from your cheek and you found yourself missing the warm, tender sensation. He dragged it down your body, tracing your neck, skimming over your chest, resting against your stomach before it landed on your inner thigh. He traced circles there with his fingers, moving higher and higher towards your clothed core.

He paused, his fingers skimming the fabric of your panties, and he glanced at you. You held his stare, his eyes trained into yours. It was almost as if he were searching for something.

“Do you want this?” he asked after a moment.

What?

No.

You don’t know.

You stared at him, your lips parting slightly. Did you? Did you want this? It was wrong. It was entirely wrong and you know it. You were a hero. A pro hero. He was a villain. He was with the League of Villains. You couldn’t possibly want this.

“Yes.”

His bright blue eyes clouded over with unadulterated lust. His fingers pressed against your clothed core, your breath catching in your throat, and he smirked devilishly.

“I may be a villain, but I won’t take you unless you want me to,” he mused. “I’m shocked, hero. Saying yes and all. But I shouldn’t be. This wetness between your legs explains everything.”

He hooked a finger into the fabric of your panties and pulled it to the side, revealing your glistening heat to him. He admired you for a moment, his eyes raking over your lower half, before he pressed two fingers against your folds. He spread them easily and you shivered, embarrassment flooding through you as you realized just how exposed you were to him.

He caught wind of your flustered state and he chuckled before a finger dipped between your heat, sinking into you swiftly.

Your head tipped back and you moaned in pleasure, your eyes screwing shut tightly. He kept his finger buried in you for a moment before he began to move, pistoning it in and out. With each movement he went deeper and deeper until your walls nearly enveloped his knuckle.

You shuddered. You shouldn’t be doing this. You knew that. But it felt so good.

Your eyes shot open when you felt another finger being pushed into your core. You whimpered as it was even tighter than before, his long fingers stretching you out. He waited a moment for you to adjust before he began to pump them again, his pace faster than before.

Your breaths were becoming more and more labored as he worked his fingers within you. His pace was quick and he smirked when he looked down at you, admiring your flushed cheeks and the sweat that was beginning to form along your forehead.

The hand around your waist tightened when he added yet another finger. He grit his teeth when he realized just how tight your walls were, your heat constricting around him as he pumped his fingers within you. You moaned, your legs beginning to shake as pleasure shot through your body.

It felt good. It felt so good.

After a few moments, you gasped out when he curled his fingers within you, your eyes squeezing shut. “So close!” you whined, your words being followed by a sensual moan.

“Come on. Come undone on my fingers, little hero,” he purred.

Your mouth fell open in a silent cry as your body convulsed, your walls tightening around his fingers. Your orgasm washed over you in pleasurable waves, your body going numb for a few seconds, all the while he pumped lazily into you to help you ride it out to the fullest.

As you slowly came to, your half-lidded eyes watched as he retracted his hand. He studied the fluids that coated his fingers, his eyes briefly flickering to yours. He stared back at you as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his lips wrapping around them. His eyes never left yours as he sucked on them loudly, making sure to give a loud ‘pop’ once he was done. Your mouth gaped open as he smirked at you.

There was a moments silence, albeit your loud breathing. Finally, he shuffled, and you watched as he got to his feet, his lean form towering over you. Despite your recent euphoria, your pleasurable state was soon replaced by an uncanny sense of fear as his blue eyes bore into yours.

“Dabi,” he said.

You blinked in confusion.

When you didn’t respond, he said, “My name is Dabi. Remember it, princess. You’ll be screaming it next time I visit.”

With that, he sent you a wink and turned around, his boots clicking on the floor as he opened the door with a loud creak. You could only watch in stupidity as he left you alone, naked, and confused in the room.

Shit.

#dabi x reader #dabi smut #yandere dabi #dabi #touya todoroki #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha smut #bnha smut #tw: noncon #tw: injury

211 notes · View notes

dimigex · 3 years

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Beautiful, Perfect Disaster - KakaSaku

A03, FF

This is an old piece that has been waiting on me for too long. I've decided to start lightly editing the mostly finished pieces I have to clear out doc. Also, @birkastan2018 I believe we talked about this story once, and you wanted to see this whenever I finished it!

The sun sank beneath the horizon, gold and orange deepening to purple or blue as stars fought their way through dusk. Kakashi sat at his desk with a stack of paperwork beside him; the words had begun to blur together. He stubbornly refused to admit that his vision wasn't what it had been ten years ago. Thirty-three and already an old man, Kakashi thought. He blamed it on the stress of raising genin, then leading the village; it had nothing to do with age.

Truth be told, Kakashi should have gone home hours ago. The summer sun set well after the end of the day for most office jobs, but he wanted to try and get ahead of his workload. It kept his mind from wandering to all the things that he didn't have. There was no one for him to rush home to, no one who cared if he spent an extra three hours working on reports, or even stayed at the office all night.

Popping his neck, Kakashi rose and removed the Hokage's robes. The hat rested on an empty chair on the opposite side of his desk. He only wore them when necessary, but hadn't bothered to change back after his last meeting. Even the newly designed jonin armor felt more natural, though he wasn't wearing that beneath the robes today. The charcoal grey pants and undershirt were comfortable enough since he'd planned to be at his desk all evening. It wasn't as if half a dozen Anbu wouldn't appear at the first sign of danger, anyway.

With one glance at the work still piled on the desk, Kakashi turned toward the door. He started to open it, then stepped back in surprise at finding a figure in the shadowed hallway. Sakura glanced up at the sound, lip caught between her teeth and eyes puffy from crying. Kakashi did a double take, hating the way his chest tightened at the sight of her. When he said her name as a question, the girl forced a fragile smile onto her lips. Then, her facade crumbled, and a single tear slipped free of her left eye.

The protective barrier shattered, and Sakura threw herself forward with a sob. Kakashi managed to catch her awkwardly, if only to keep them from falling to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Her arms curled around his middle, body achingly warm in a way that had nothing to do with the summer heat outside. Belatedly, Kakashi realized that Sakura wore jonin blues and no armor over it. He struggled to suck a breath around the lump in his throat. "What happened?"

Tears spilled out of Sakura along with broken words. "Sasuke said I'm too clingy and needy, that he's already told me that we'll never work together. And he has, I shouldn't have tried to get him to spend time with me when he was back in the village. I shouldn't have-"

The next words were muffled when Sakura hid her face against Kakashi's chest. As the dampness of her tears bled through his shirt, hot anger stirred in his gut. Kakashi normally prided himself on his ability to divorce emotion from his life, but not this time. Sakura's hands tightened, and his heart hammered hard enough that he feared Sakura would be able to hear the sound. He struggled to draw breath through his constricted throat.

Thankfully, heartbreakingly, Sakura pulled away and wiped her eyes with trembling fingers. "I'm sorry. You must think I'm being terribly childish."

"Not at all," a voice that sounded very much like Kakashi's answered. Then, it continued. "I think he's a fool who never deserved you in the first place."

Sakura's green eyes widened. She pulled back until they stood half a dozen feet apart: Sakura shy and embarrassed and Kakashi conflicted by the truth he hadn't meant to say.

Her eyes searched his, looking for Kami only knew what, then she nodded. "Thank you for saying that."

"It's true." Kakashi had more control over his voice this time, but barely. "What you have with Sasuke isn't love; it's not supposed to hurt this way."

Heat flared between them, and Sakura closed the distance to glare up at Kakashi. "And you're an expert on it?"

Of course not, Kakashi thought. Look at how poorly I've handled this. For months, I've felt something, but I refused to admit it until it came spilling out like poison. Kakashi couldn't say that. Sakura's anger wasn't directed at him, anyway. He could bear the brunt of her fury if that's what she needed. He could bear a lot of things. "I know enough to see that this isn't it."

Kakashi knew that he'd made a mistake when Sakura looked at him with a mixture of pain and disbelief. The room spun, and he thought that he might be sick. He fought the nausea down and took a half step in her direction. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Sakura spat. Somehow, she drew herself up, towering over Kakashi in her fury. "For lecturing me about something you don't understand? For acting like you cared about me? For-"

"For falling in love with you." The words hung between them for a moment, louder than the echo of Sakura's anger.

Kakashi had never looked squarely at the thought, never viewed what was happening between them as more than general protectiveness. But now, he knew it for what it was. He let out a breath and closed the distance between himself and Sakura. "I'm sorry, but you deserve someone who won't put you second or third or fourth every time."

"And, that better is you?" Sakura's voice changed in a way that Kakashi couldn't quantify. It had a breathy quality, an uncertainty, but he couldn't read the tone over the buzzing in his ears. "Is that what you mean?"

Kakashi forced out a humorless laugh at the suggestion. "No."

"You're just like Sasuke," Sakura accused, stepping into Kakashi's space. "You throw that word around so easily that it doesn't mean anything."

"I am nothing like Sasuke," Kakashi ground out, biting off each word. Icy numbness and burning anger surging through him in turns.

Could Sakura honestly believe that Kakashi would say something like that to make her feel better if he didn't mean it? That he'd make up a lie to help her forget the stupid boy who had never loved her or protected her the way that she deserved? Sasuke had always been more empty words and broken promises than anything else. Kakashi had broken only one, one that he made to himself months ago.

It would be easy to cross the line now, everything was falling apart anyway. Kakashi could pull Sakura back against his chest and show her how inadequate words were. Except, he couldn't bring himself to do so. He's already said far more than he should have, more than he ever thought he'd have the opportunity to say.

Sakura looked up at Kakashi through teary lashes, eyes red and puffy. She didn't speak at first, didn't respond to the venom in his voice. Then, she challenged him with her stare. "Did you mean it?"

The hope in Sakura's voice made Kakashi ache and his lungs clench. "I can't-."

Before Kakashi could finish his thought, Sakura scoffed and turned away. HIs hand caught her wrist, gentle enough that she could pull free if she wanted to. Then, a voice that sounded so much like Kakashi's spoke without his permission. "You deserve more than I could ever give you."

Sakura exhaled and leaned in enough for Kakashi to feel the residual heat from her body against his. Her hands came up and brushed Kakashi's cheek, pulling a soft sigh from his throat. Emboldened, she hooked her fingers in the fabric of his mask. Sakura paused at the whispered warning of her name, fingertips slipping away from the fabric, then asked, "did you mean it?"

Kakashi couldn't deny the truth, not with those brilliant green eyes shining up at him. "Yes."

Rising on her tiptoes, Sakura pressed her lips to Kakashi's, the fabric of his mask between them. The tentative brush made his knees weak, especially when her hands slipped down to his shoulders. Closing his arms around her felt like the most natural thing in the world as the room tipped around him.

Kakashi waited for some sign that Sakura felt the same, some indication that everything had changed, but she didn't speak. He took courage from the fact that Sakura didn't pull away at least. Kakashi raised one hand to trace the delicate curve of her lips and felt the shiver that raced through her body. He couldn't breathe through the fabric of his mask, so he lowered it.

Sakura's eyes remained squeezed shut when Kakashi lightly kissed her forehead. He whispered against the skin, hardly recognizing his voice. "I didn't mean to make things more difficult. If you don't feel the same, we can pretend like this never happened."

"Can we," Sakura asked Kakashi's chest, head dropping forward to rest against him.

When Sakura's eyes didn't rise to meet his, a swirl of anxiety twisted through Kakashi. His heart pounded hard enough to break his ribs when he hummed in agreement. "If that's what you want."

The words came easily, but Kakashi didn't know if they were true. He had only recently started to realize that the anger and fury he felt when Sakura talked about Sasuke went beyond friendship. If she turned away from him now, he would accept it, but things would never be the same. He feared what the kiss had done to their relationship, even as he longed to pull her closer.

Kakashi didn't push Sakura for an answer. He waited without speaking until she lifted her gaze. Sakura paused, taking in both the familiarity and foreignness of the face that she'd seen through a mask for so many years. Kakashi forced himself to smile like his entire life wasn't hanging on her answer.

Sakura's hand came up a second time, tracing the bare skin. It took every ounce of self control that Kakashi possessed not to pull her tighter. Then, with aching slowness, she rose to kiss him. Colors exploded behind Kakashi's eyelids at the warmth of Sakura's lips against his. The curve of her body beneath his hands, the touch against skin so unused to it-everything left the room spinning.

They parted slowly, just enough to draw a breath but Kakashi couldn't stop the way his head tipped back toward Sakura's. He tasted her breath on his lips and almost crossed the line a third time. In that instant, he knew that he would never be able to go back to just friends. This moment, no matter what came from it, would be cemented in his memory forever. He would never be able to look at Sakura without remembering the soft curl of her hands in his shirt or the pattern of freckles he'd never noticed across the bridge of her nose.

After a moment, Sakura let out her breath in a whoosh that made Kakashi's knees weak. Then, she looked up and smiled so beautifully that it made his heart skip a beat. "I want to know if it's ever more than empty words."

A dozen flippant replies rose in Kakashi's throat, but he quieted them at the memory of what drove Sakura to his arms in the first place. None of his replies would have been enough to convey the depth of what he wanted to say. He raised one hand to brush her cheek, then slid down to tilt her chin. Sakura sighed when Kakashi met their lips together a third time, a breathy uncertain sound that knotted his stomach.

For a moment, Kakashi felt trapped on the edge of a precipice with logic and safety on one side, the unknown spanning below him. He tightened the arm around Sakura's waist, pulling her closer as he surrendered to the dizzying emotions spiraling through his chest. If Sakura needed something more than words, he could offer actions.

Kakashi poured every ounce of withheld longing into his touch, dropping his walls in a way that he'd never done for anyone else. Sakura melted against him, every perfect inch of her body pressed against his. Kakashi threw himself over the edge and plummeted through the heartstopping freefall.

It took Kakashi a moment to realize that his hands had drifted low enough to lift Sakura from the ground, and a longer second to realize her legs were wrapped around his waist. Electricity pulsed through his body as he stumbled back toward his office until she bumped into the edge of his desk. Sakura's fingers tangled in Kakashi's hair, inviting him to follow her backward.

Bracing his palms on either side of Sakura's hips, Kakashi pulled back to gasp in a desperate breath. The space gave him the clarity that he needed. He wanted Sakura more than he'd ever wanted anyone else, more than anything. And, he knew that was the exact reason to stop, before he didn't have the strength to do so.

Kakashi leaned his forehead against Sakura's, surprised when she didn't object to the sudden stop. He drew another shaky breath before attempting to speak. "I don't want this to be tangled up in your relationship with Sasuke. I don't want to be the one you run to when it's bad only to have you promise me that everything's better the next day. I don't want-"

Sakura pressed a finger against Kakashi's lips. "I know."

Darkness poured through the windows behind Sakura when Kakashi turned his gaze toward them. She drew him into a gentle kiss that held only a flicker of the earlier fire. "I don't know what to say," she confessed in a soft whisper that made bile rise in Kakashi's throat. "I never expected you to say these things, I never knew that I wanted you to say them."

The woman glanced away, a blush coloring her cheeks as she continued. "I just-can we take things slow? I don't want any of the things you mentioned either, but I know that I don't want to leave this room not knowing if I'll ever feel this way again."

"What are you saying," Kakashi questioned, leaning more weight on his hands. He would take whatever Sakura gave without a hint of disappointment, at least until she left. Only then would he allow himself to feel the pain. He braced for the truth, that she wasn't ready for more or that she'd just gotten caught up in the moment.

Sakura raised a hand to run her thumb along the scar that had taken Kakashi's original eye, tracing the path the mask normally hid. He fought the urge to pull away when she followed the curve of his cheek, and turned instead to lightly kiss her palm. The blush on her cheeks deepened. "I'm asking you to dinner later this week," Sakura finally answered.

Kakashi couldn't stop the chuckle that rose in his throat. None of her words even remotely suggested that, but he wanted it enough not to care. "Only if you'll allow me to walk you home tonight." The corners of Sakura's lips pulled down, but Kakashi quickly added, "just to the door, I promise."

Snorting softly, Sakura nodded and Kakashi offered a hand to help her jump down from his desk. Fire scorched through his entire body at the connection but he forced himself not to react, especially when her fingers threaded through his. By the time they'd reached the street, Sakura pulled away and walked beside Kakashi like she'd always done. But, he couldn't shake the thought that nothing would ever be the same again.

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devilbat · 5 years

Text

The Visit

Tom Hiddleston x reader

Warning: fluff and implied smut

My girl @darkprincessloki92 requested Tom/Loki 5-9-10 smut and fluff

So I went with Tom and it's implied smut..

5 Am I your lock screen?" "You weren't supposed to see that."

9 Sleepover? Please?"

10 Can we stay like this forever?"

Ah, New York City, how you have missed this, the sight the sounds the tall buildings hell even the smell and that giant rat was dragging a slice of pizza the same size as itself. Surely he had four grown teenagers. This was the town you felt at home here, even if your home was back in London. You arrive only moments ago for a short vacation, and somewhat of a surprise. Your best friend was here. Doing what he does best, theater. Unknowing to him, you were here even after you had been talking to him throughout your day like nothing was being plotted against him with one of his co-stars and fellow marvel castmate.

You were armed with a key to Tom's home away from home. You stepped inside, knowing Tom wasn't due back anytime soon. You sighed at the state of the place. He was usually well kept and tidy, but when he was away. Well, that was another story. Setting the few things you brought with you for the night. You started to tidy up the place. Your suitcase with Charlie, who had picked you up that morning, stating that he would take it to the hotel you were going to be staying in.

You were finishing up with dinner when you heard the door open a small happy bark from Bobby as he ran right into the kitchen. Tom was still trying to get his coat off when he heard a noise in the kitchen after Bobby barked. ’What did that dog do?’ He thought as he made his way into the kitchen, kicking off his shoes as he went. Tom jumped a bit when he saw someone standing in his kitchen. Bobby was happily wagging his tail, looking at the person. It took him a few to realize who it was.

"Bloody hell woman, you scared the dickens Out of me." Tom hissed before his hands wrapped around your waist, hugging you tightly. His head was resting on top of yours. You giggled with a smile. You could feel Tom relax as he stood there hugging you, longer than he probably should. "How, when did you?"

"Hi to you too, mister. And I got her this afternoon Charlie picked me up. He was also the one to give me a key." You hummed patting his hands as you stirred the noodles into sauce. Bobby was eagerly waiting for you to drop something on the floor. Even if Tom frowned upon anyone giving Bobby people food, he could never really say no to you.

"Remind me to thank him." Tom finally removed himself from you, standing against the counter next to you. "I've missed your cooking; that is for sure."

"That is all our friendships is to you? Me cooking for you. I see how that is." You teased as you grabbed the plates from behind him.

"Hey, now I've cooked too." Tom defended himself.

"One time, and that was before you found out I could cook." You pointed the sauce cover spoon at the man. Tom just gave you that sly grin and that damn eheheh. Curse him for being so damn adorable.

"I'm happy your here, though." He smiles once more before grabbing the plate you handed to him. Head towards the small couch. Both of you at watching your favorite tv show.

Tom had relaxed more that you were here, and now he found himself being plastered with some kind of torture device. How you convinced the man to have you put a charcoal mask on beats the hell out of you, but here you were standing in front of him as he sat on the counter of the bathroom applying black wet goo on his face. You tried not to get any in his beard. But if he didn't stop moving, you were going to do it in spite. Tom's phone buzzed; you looked over to his phone.

"You have a message from Charlie." You stated finishing the last bit of mask. Lucky for you, you had already put yours on. Tom grabbed it and replayed quickly, setting it back on the counter as you moved from between his legs. "Am I your lock screen?" You had spied the picture before the screen went to black. Tom rubbed that back of his head with his hand giving you that damn laugh. Curse him again. You hated that laugh, really you did. It always did a thing to you.

"You weren't supposed to see that." He chuckled, shoving his phone in his pocket. He moved to stand up. "I liked the photo. It's a cute one."

"A cute one? A cute one? Tom, I'm covered in flour, because your mixer decided to explode on me. Hell, there was flour where flour shouldn't be." You threw your hands up in the air as you walked after Tom, who decided to start walking into the bedroom.

"When can I take this stuff off." Tom changed the subject as he laid on the bed his back against the headboard.

"Until it drys." You sighed, moving to the bed next to him. Tom flipped through the channels until he found something to watch. He was touching his face ever so often. "Tom, stop messing with it. You'll know when it's dry." You smacked his chest playfully. Twenty minutes later. You started pealing yours off. Tom did the same, only complaining.

"Owe. Damn it. Y/n." Tom whined. "You got it in my beard." His hand fell to his side.

"Oh my god, you big baby." You moved to hover over Tom. Your hands worked the mask off. Tom hissed. "Thomas, if you don't stop complaining, I'm going to rip it off. And give you something to complain about."

"Why do you put yourself through this Torture." Tom hissed, Your body stretched over his part of your chest in his face.

"Tom," You sat back on your legs look at your dork of a friend half of his face coming off. "Suck it up, take it like a man and rub some dirt in it.

"Fine, you can finish. I will stop my "complaining, " besides I was quite enjoying my view." He purred, you looked at him confused before you went back to working on the mask. "Can we stay like this forever?" Tom spoke to himself, mostly. You looked down as you did realize what he was referring too.

"Pervert if only your fan knew the True nature of Thomas William Hiddleston." You teased before you ripped off the mask with no warning causing the man to yelp in pain. Tom was glaring dagger at you, and you laughed at him. His face a bit red from were you, with great force, pulled the mask off. Holding it up to Tom. "Oops, I think I may have left a bald spot in your beard." Laughing harder without warning, you were on your back with Tom hovering over you. Your hand pinned above your head, your chest heaving into Tom’s as you tried to catch your breath.

"You, my dear, or in a bit of trouble." Tom purred.

"Yeah, and what are you going to do about." You panted out, sticking your tongue out. Wiggling around in his grasp. Calling his bluff, thinking he wouldn't do anything like other times, you both playfully wrestled. Even if you desperately wish he would.

"This." And without another word, his lips were on yours kissing you slowly with so much passion behind each movement of his lips. After the bit of shock, your lips moved in tuned with his. His tongue danced along your lips, asking that silent question. Which you answered, parting your lips, allowing his tongue tangled with yours.

Tom held both your wrist in his one large hand while the other roamed over your form, exploring uncharted territories he had only hope and too eager to discover, the only time he left your lips was to catch his breath. Both of you were panting heavily. Moaning out his name as his free hand cupped your covered breast, filling his hand perfectly. His body pressed against yours, letting you feel the weight of him over yours. His toned chest pressed nicely against the soft mounds of your breasts. The feeling of his growing need for you pushing against your heated core both excited you and frightened. He was not a small man in any way. Tom’s name left your lips when he started grinding against your fabric covered core, giving both of you some friction. Your body moved on its own accord. Want nothing more than to feel him.

Tom’s hands moved under your shirt, making you gasp at the feel of his fingers, touching your parched skin, pushing the fabric up, wanting more access. You nipped at his kissed swollen lips, your lips needing more attention from his, which he happily gave. Though something had other plans for the two of you, as medium-size chocolate Burnett bound onto the bed pouncing on his father's back. Tom groaned and huffed from the weight of the dog even if it wasn't much. You giggled as you watched Tom gently push his four-legged fur baby off from his back. Bobby, with his tail wagging, wiggled his way in between you, his wet tongue swiping across your face happily.

”Bobby, you were to be my wingman, not steal the girl.” Tom sighed, moving to pick up Bobby setting him down on the floor. You moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

”I think that's my cue to get going.” Trying to convince yourself you needed to slow down even if you didn't want to.

”Sleepover? Please?" Tom pouted his hand, cupping your cheek before placing a light kiss to your lips. ”I quite enjoy kissing you.” Making you blush a bit. Tom gave you the cutest puppy look he could muster even Bobby did too.

”Well, that was rather nice happy to see you.” You giggle, standing up. ”If I stay, are you going to keep your hands and mouth to yourself long enough to talk about the small elephant in the room?”

”On which elephant are we referring to?” Tom hummed a sly smirk spread across his handsome face.

”Well, I wasn't referring to little Tom. He can wait.” shaking your head, trying not to smile like an idiot.

”How about this? We make out some more than talk and then deal with the other elephant before he turns blue. As you always seem to do even if you don't realize it.” Tom stepped forward, closing the gap between you two. His arms were wrapping themselves around your midsection. Your hands were holding on to his Biceps. Though you couldn't help but kiss his exposed neck, that was in desperate need of your attention. He hummed at your touch, walking you back before his head moved down again, taking your lips and following you back onto the bed.

”Fine, we will talk about this in the morning.” You gave into him. What wouldn't you do for this man?

#tom hiddelston imagine #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x you #tom hiddleston fluff #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston au

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theveryworstthing · 5 years

Photo

i have a guide for y’all today.

How To Prepare A Rabbit. A Simple And Peaceful Guide To Traditional Island Funerals As Led By Vultures Respectful Of Rabbit Culture With Perfect Customer Service Records Pertaining To Never Being Cursed Or Tortured By Vengeful Restless Spirits.

The Body Is Found. A crowded bedside, an open field, inside a room who’s door was still rusted shut until we broke it down how in the world did they get in there??? Somewhere on the island, a rabbit’s body is found and sometimes they are attended to by vultures. Some vultures prepare the dead a little differently, but these are the steps taken by senior priestesses Fifteen-Stab-Wounds and Irresponsible Botany and so are nearly identical to traditional rabbit-led funeral customs.

You’ll know when we get to the bit rabbits usually don’t do.

Steps Are Taken. A special tincture made of wine and charcoal is applied to the soles of the feet (if they still have them), which are then gently pressed first onto a piece of cloth and then onto a piece of edible rice paper. The cloth is the ‘second to last step’, and is kept for the funeral display. The rice paper is the ‘last step’ and is left where the body was found as an offering to any malicious spirits or persistent sorrows that were hounding them to the very end. This is supposed to be a symbolic gesture to give the soul the peace it might need to leave for The Rest instead of lingering out of worry or fear but something is eating those things the moment the body is gone and no one is looking, and something flattens the grass in interlocking circles outside of the morgue if the offering is forgotten.

To be fair this last part could be urban legend and asshole teens but something is definitely eating those dang rice papers.

Identification. The body is identified through necromancy or other ghost conversation if possible(making sure that the rabbit confirming their identity is the real deal and not…something else). This process, known as opening the left eye, also seeks to find the definitive cause of death (at least from their point of view) and secure final wishes before the soul begins their connection fast. This fast is a period of time where the dead should not be contacted. This is a time for reflection, adjustment, and mourning for the living, as well as a settling period for the dead. Fresh ghosts are a little volatile if they don’t pass on to The Rest very soon after death and can become trapped in the living world though their attachment to a person. After the soul is safely in The Rest loved ones are brought over for a second identification, known as opening the right eye, and real prep begins.

Cold Storage. The body is refrigerated above ground in specially built storehouses(the dead should not be brought underground into a warren or burrow), inspected one last time (careful notes are taken), gutted, cleaned with island fresh water(or any salt water), and readied for the funeral soon after. Well, some of the body is readied. The head, arms and feet are preserved and prepped for the funeral but the rest is put back into refrigeration (except for the heart, which is burned or thrown to the bugs asap) since rabbits consider it cleaner and only really care about those ‘main bits’ unless the dead had a very specific request. And even then it depends of the rate of decomposition. The less contact an entire group that lives in close quarters has with the majority of a rotting corpse that might carry disease, the better,

There is an exception for kits. They have their innards removed but are kept whole and are ‘fixed up’ as much as possible. It makes things…less worse.

Portraits And Dressings. Floor length death masks are made by painting a portrait on a circle of canvas, sewing it to the mask, and draping it over the face of the dead. These portraits can be very simple, putting eye color, fur patterns, and notable scars inside a general rabbit outline or they can be beautifully lifelike likenesses. It really depends on the customs of your warren and the artist in your local funeral home. In the past people with the means and access to good artists would go to get their portrait drawn every year just to have something nice to pin to their death mask (plus people just like having pictures of themselves). In modern times this is still done, but now the few that have gotten their hands on cameras have photographs as an additional option.

Bodies are displayed suspended on round yellow straw mats made to resemble the sun. The head, arms, and feet are arranged around a false body of flowers, dried fruit rinds, straw, and smoking incense. A brightly colored cloak is draped over them, allowing the flesh and fur bits of their ‘body’ to show. Flowers, pretty stones, and precious items are tucked in beside them and on top of them to further the illusion. The cloth with their ‘second to last step’ lies beneath their feet and a line of ash mixed with tiny jagged stones or thorns leads from it to the nearest doorway. The line symbolizes a kind of path to their death that they don’t want you to follow. You do not step on it.

The Service. Close family enters before the service to view the body if they wish and kind of just privately mourn. During the service mourners walk up to the body one by one after an attendant paints vibrant pigments onto their palms(choosing the color and amount of pigment that best represents their relationship with the dead), and briefly grasp the trailing edge of the death mask. You are not supposed to speak during this ritual. There is no one there to talk to anymore. This is just letting go.

This is all fairly quick unless people linger.

Food. When everyone who wants to has had their turn a memorial meal is served in the nearest warren dining hall. The death mask is taken to this meal and draped over a stand in the brightest area of the room. This is the real service. This is where, after staring out into space for fifteen minutes before someone hands you a drink and the remnants of chalky paint on your thumb smears ‘friendship’ on the glass that the pain hits. During this meal people grieve and sing and cry and fight and tell stories about the dead. It’s very chaotic and rowdy compared to the beginning of the funeral. It has to be. Everyone has to prove to themselves that they’re ready to keep going.

Food. Rabbit funeral directors will usually stay the whole memorial meal, which can last all night. But unless they personally know the person, vultures like the esteemed Fifteen and Irresponsible with arrive for the first toast and leave about an hour after the kits go to bed. Nobody talks about why they leave so early.

While the revelry continues, the body is back at the funeral home being butchered and skinned by the priestesses. Ears, distinctive bits of fur, and tattoos are all set aside for the grave slab. Everything else is mostly sliced off the bones, which have holes carefully drilled into the ends so the bugs can retrieve the marrow without trying to gnaw through them. The meat and previously refrigerated viscera is thrown into a big pot with some of the flowers and smoky herbs from the funeral, doused in boiling water, and left to stew a little. The bones (and any meat that can’t possibly be cooked or eaten that day) are taken to the bug kennels where carrion beetles and maggots make them shiny and clean before sun-bleaching.

And the priestess’ meal is delicious. A little sad at times, but delicious. Fifteen still cries just a little, just a tear drop, every time her wife holds her talons and presses their foreheads together over the steaming stew as they pray for the rabbit inside it. She can’t help it, she’s sentimental. And also, to both of them it’s just…a wonderful process. By making sure that the body is consumed by life, useful and beautiful in the end, they honor that person and acknowledge that death sometimes creates a fear and grief so tangible that all you can do is eat it or transform it but mainly get it out of the world before it hurts people more (the rabbits’ memorial meal is the same principle really, just not as eloquent and with more angry weeping about how the deceased still owed them a solid.)

Grave Slabs. When the meat is gone and the bones are cleaned, bleached, and prepared then the grave slab construction begins. Bones, ears, tattoos, significant trinkets, etc, are arranged in a mold by suspending them in layers of crystal clear (sometimes colored) resin. They are particularly careful with the skull, making sure to coat it with a layer of protective resin but leaving the jaw hinged and exposed since after their connection fast is over necromancers can use it to contact the dead. They are also very careful with the ears, as they must protrude from the resin mass as if still attached to a living rabbit or at least be posed inside the mass in a natural way. Skulls are a link to living people, but ears are seen as a link to their experience in the living world. Both are very important.

When the grave slab is ready it is delivered to whatever grave area the family desires. These areas are always sunny, above ground, and very rocky or laid with cobblestones. While some grave slabs are simply propped up on simple stand, others are bricked into low stone walls, making some old family plots glimmering bone mosaicked monuments. Once the grave slab is secure and the family is satisfied you’re done.

And that’s how you prepare a rabbit. Serves everyone.

Eventually.

#rabbits of downtrodden #long post #death mention #child death mention #funeral #i was weirdly afraid to post this. i'm trying my best lately but it doesn't seem to be good enough but i gotta get over that!#finished is better than perfect! i need to defeat this weird art anxiety/self doubt!

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teaandcrowns · 4 years

Text

Whispered Truce

Chapter Five: Diplomatic Solution, part ii

(beginning)

_____________

The moon rose, half-full and shrouded behind drifting, ephemeral clouds. Two shadows slipped through the streets, their movements driven and in tandem.

Zuko followed close behind the waterbender, a host of questions crowding the back of his mind. Now was far from an appropriate time to ask any of them, but he had no issue in pushing them aside. He could feel the anger rippling out from her in steady waves, and felt them echo within himself. When he brought her to the last house, he hadn’t quite known what they would find, just that quite a few of the trails he’d been following during his time in the town converged there. She’d told him she wanted to find the cause of the sickness sweeping through the denizens here, and insinuated she—and presumably the Avatar—would be leaving the area soon. While he hadn’t been looking for the source of the illness like she was, he suspected that somehow the corruption he’d been trying to root out and the cause of the illness were intertwined. He had no evidence of a connection, just a gut feeling, but the Blue Spirit didn’t speak, so he avoided having to explain himself.

Luckily, his instinct about her had been right: even though not related to her goal, she immediately pursued this new avenue. With admirable fervor, he silently noted, still following in her wake.

She turned down a set of narrow alleys, then stopped suddenly. Zuko’s quick reactions were the only reason why he didn’t barrel straight into her, but he saw what had frozen her in her tracks.

Before them lay the still body of a woman, with half-unrolled scrolls scattered haphazardly on the ground around her. Though it was dark out, the ground beneath her was even darker, confirming the waterbender’s guess that she’d been killed. Zuko’s mouth pressed into a taut line as the girl in front of him stepped forward. He heard her make a soft, sympathetic noise when she crouched by the body, and she reached out one hand to gingerly close the woman’s eyes. Her head bowed as Zuko walked past them to the open storehouse.

The inside was as much of a mess as the scrolls strewn about the ground around the woman, with torn open sacks of rice spilling their contents across the hard floor. There were other broken jars of fermented foods, filling the enclosed space with an unpleasant tanginess that threatened to turn Zuko’s stomach. He was glad more than ever for the barrier of his wooden mask, even if it couldn’t keep the stench out entirely.

While the waterbender was still occupied outsides, Zuko picked through the storehouse. While there were sets of shelves that held all the food in the front part of the little building, they also concealed a second set that were designed to hold scrolls. Half of the compartments were empty, so he picked one at random and partially unrolled it to skim its contents. It was a record of exports and the accounting for the percentage of profits made that went into the town’s general fund as well as were sent off to the Imperial coffers.

“I don’t think you’re going to find anything helpful,” the waterbender said, her carefully even voice coming from the doorway.

Zuko looked up.

“Whoever killed this woman probably got what they wanted already.”

The despondency in her voice tugged at the bottom of his lungs. He knew the failure she felt like an old friend. She was probably right, but something kept Zuko from setting aside the scroll in his hands and dismissing the rest. Maybe, he could determine just what the mayor wanted from export records a five years old. He looked back down at the scroll again, studying the characters and numbers like they would whisper their importance to him if he listened hard enough.

When he didn’t move, he watched the waterbender join him out of the corner of his eye. He picked up another scroll and unfurled it. It was the exports from another year—mostly the same items, even—and again, the percentage of those profits that were kept for the town’s fund and the percentage that was sent to the Imperial coffers. Before he discarded that scroll, some of the number caught his eye. They weren’t exactly the same—which he expected, as taxes and costs fluctuated from year to year—but something about them didn’t seem entirely right to Zuko.

Again, he picked up another scroll, this time handing the first two off to the waterbender, ignoring her questions. There was something here that was wrong. He went through several more scrolls of exports, until it all at once clicked into place in his mind. His eyes widened a little, and he turned one of the scrolls over and snatched up a charcoal pencil from a compartment that held writing supplies rather than scrolls, and did a few quick calculations. The waterbender leaned over him, close enough behind the curve of his shoulder that he felt the heat coming off her and smelled the slight salt from her hair. He shuffled that unintended observation aside and focused on the scroll again. The mayor was skimming from both the town fund and the Imperial coffers. This was recent, though—three scrolls that had been from a decade ago were more consistent in their distribution. Then, suddenly, six years ago it all started to shift. There must have been a change in mayor. Zuko would bet good gold that the present mayor orchestrated the removal of the old one—maybe even permanently. His gaze flicked from his calculations to the body of the woman lying outside. She must have discovered the same thing that Zuko did.

If he could piece this together from just a couple scrolls, he couldn’t imagine what kind of damning evidence had been in whatever scrolls the assassin took. Zuko rolled up the scroll he’d written on, then glanced back to the waterbender. Beneath the translucent veil she wore, he saw her mouth set in fierce determination. Appreciation welled within him, that he didn’t have to figure out how to explain what these numbers all meant to her and waste time.

With a sweep of her dark robes, she straightened, the scrolls he’d handed her clutched tightly in her hand. He stood as well, watching her, waiting to follow her lead. It was a strange compulsion that settled naturally in his chest, deferring to her in this moment.

“It’s not an answer to the sickness,” she said, her voice tight, “but we have to do something about this.”

He nodded. Now he moved first, and she was immediately at his side, easily keeping pace while still letting him lead. The shift in deferral from one to another between them was unspoken and unquestioned. Even without him saying anything, he got the sense that she trusted he knew where he was going. That felt like a good sign to Zuko. Maybe that meant the rest of the Avatar’s group would accept him—at least in some capacity—to train the Avatar firebending. Of course, a sharp voice in his mind reminded him, she didn’t know who he was behind the mask. She could just as easily attack him as not once he revealed his identity.

Minutely, Zuko shook his head. A bridge to cross when he came to it.

He wove his way through the dark alleys of the town, toward the market. If the waterbender following him questioned where they were going, she kept quiet about it. Zuko stopped in the deep shadow of a building just on the edge of the open market square. A soft rustle of fabric heralded the waterbender joining him. He looked back at her, then pointed to a building almost entirely across the square—the hawk mews.

Though the veil obscured her face, he could still see her expression scrunch. “Messenger hawks?” she whispered, and he could see her slide all the moving parts into place in her mind. “You’re going to send these to—”

She never got to finish her sentence, as the sound of footfalls crunching on the dirt street reached Zuko. He stepped closer to her, his arm brushing against hers, the lifted gloved fingers to her mouth. As one, they both pressed further against the wall of the building they stood beside, willing themselves to become just another part of the shadow. A few moments passed, and then a pair of guards passed by. Fortunately for Zuko and the waterbender, the guard furthest from them was the one carrying the torch, and neither looked at their hiding spot as they passed by.

Zuko waited several moments longer, until the guards vanished from view, before lowering his hand from the waterbender’s mouth. He nodded to her, and they both rushed across the open square. They had to be quick, as there was no cover between the building they were at and the messenger hawk mews. But, they were also fast; Zuko found himself appraising the waterbender’s speed with appreciation. He knew she could be quick, of course, from their fights in the past, but he’d never worked in tandem with her. It was surprising how well they worked together, he mused as he started toward the lock on the door to the mews. The waterbender cut him off before he could reach it, guiding a small orb of water to encase the metal lock. She breathed on it and it froze. He took his cue and slammed the pommel of one of his dao down on the frozen lock, effectively shattering the mechanism inside and popping it open.

The sound of it scattered into the night, but before anyone could think to look at the source, they slipped inside and shut the door behind them. They wouldn’t be here long.

The second floor was the topmost floor, with the remainder of the building taken up with nooks for hawk nests. Zuko searched only momentarily for a volemouse to entice a nearby hawk down onto his arm. The claws from the raptor dug immediately through the cloth and into his skin, but he pushed back the pain with a clenched jaw and fed the hawk the carcass while he handed the scroll to the waterbender. She took a little longer in her search for a tube large enough to fit all four scrolls they’d gathered, but eventually she found one and attached it to the hawk’s back harness while it finished its treat from Zuko. He motioned to the stack of ribbons, then pointed to the black ones when she reached them. Zuko watched as she secured all the scrolls to one another with the black ribbon, then held the hawk steady as she worked the bundle into the carrier tube, leaving a length of the ribbon hanging out.

She opened the shutters of one of the windows as he followed her, and then sent the hawk flying out into the night. He leaned on the wooden pane for a moment, watching the hawk spiral up and then vanish into the dark sky. His arm throbbed from where the claws had dug in, and he felt wet trail down toward his wrist, but it didn’t matter. This was the best he could think to do for these people, though even that didn’t guarantee a better replacement once the mayor was ousted by officials—and it certainly wasn’t going to happen quickly. But, it was one problem hopefully solved.

“That’s done,” the waterbender said softly, echoing his thoughts. “But, what about the illness? We still don’t know what’s causing it.”

Silence stretched between them. He hesitated, unsure of what to tell her. A niggling instinct in his gut whispered that the mayor was also linked to the sickness, but he had no real evidence of that, and no real inclination if it was true or not.

A creak crept up the stairs from the door below, and they both froze, breaths held, listening. At the sound of heavier steps from someone trying to be quiet, they both surged into motion. Without sparing much thought, Zuko leapt through the window. It was on the second story, but it wasn’t so high up that he couldn’t salvage a landing. A quick glance up told him the waterbender had the same thought, and she was in the air seconds behind him. They both hit the ground rolling, then were sprinting toward the safety of the alley shadows as soon as they regained their footing. It struck him again how easily they worked together, as if this had all been planned between them, or that they had the same protocols to fall back on.

Zuko slowed, intending to stop and reassess, but the waterbender didn’t follow suit. She kept moving past him, and he had no choice but to follow. Well—he did have a choice, but discovered that he wanted to follow, anyway. Even if he hadn’t been trying to join up with the Avatar’s group, he’d started this thing with her, and wanted to see it through. Zuko wasn’t in the habit of leaving things unfinished.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that she was headed back to the records keeper’s storehouse. He could guess why; he, too, felt a pang of guilt for leaving the woman’s body there like that. Traditionally, Fire Nation citizens had a funerary pyre, but simply setting her body on fire didn’t sit right with him. The family should decide when to hold that particular ritual.

While the waterbender did what she could to clean and reposition the body, Zuko searched the storeroom again, only this time for cloth or something they could use as a shroud. There was no way he was taking this poor woman back to her family home and just deposit her, as is. He would never be able to live with himself.

After a few moments’ search, Zuko found a stack of cheesecloth. He pressed his lips together. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best he could find. He glanced back at the waterbender, and saw her holding something in her hands with reverence, like a delicate object that would shatter if she handled it carelessly. What it was, he couldn’t begin to guess, so he turned back to his own task and gathered a sizable armful of cheesecloth. As soon as he moved it, though, a stench rolled out from the space he created that threatened to roil his stomach enough to make him retch. He dropped the cheesecloth and coughed, taking several steps away.

“What is it?” The waterbender’s attention snapped to him immediately, and she was on her feet.

Instead of replying, he lifted on arm to cover the nose holes of the Blue Spirit mask and did his best to not breathe in too deeply as he inched back to investigate. Coming up to where he was, the waterbender gagged a little on the smell now lingering in the air, and covered her nose and mouth.

“Did something spoil?”

It almost smelled like rotten food, he had to admit, but there was something… off about it, as well. Spoiled food other than meat usually had a particular stench, and meat had another that was solely its own, and this didn’t truly smell like either. Airways covered as best as they could be, Zuko approached the space where he’d gotten the cheesecloth. There was a partially opened jar, only a little bigger than his hand, sitting in a nook behind the remaining cloth. He reached out and sealed the lid, then picked up the jar. It trailed the awful stench with it, despite being closed, and and turned the jar to see if it was labeled.

“Nam-Pla?”

The name rolled oddly off the waterbender’s tongue as she read it, but Zuko recognized it immediately. Of course—he’d seen similar jars in the kitchens of the palace and on his ship: it was a common fish sauce used in a variety of Fire Nation foods. But this—this was definitely not how it was supposed to smell.

“Something’s wrong with this,” he said, his voice scraping both from disuse and the powerful reek he’d been subjected to only moments earlier. The waterbender started and looked up at him, her eyes wide and fixed on his mask.

“I didn’t know you could talk—” She shook her head and cut herself off. “You know what? Now’s not the time. We’re running out of night, and we still have more to do. Is this what’s rotten?”

“It… doesn’t smell like rotten food should. I think it’s something else.”

The more he spoke, the more curious and calculating her eyes on him became. Zuko felt his cheeks flush behind the mask, but there wasn’t anything for it, now. He’d opened his mouth because it was more convenient than scrounging around and writing down what he wanted to communicate. Besides, she was right—they didn’t have much time left before dawn.

“Let me see.”

He handed it over to her, then watched as she set the jar on the ground, then cautiously held her hands on either side of it. Her eyes closed.

“It’s… oily,” she murmured. “Is it supposed to be oily?”

“It’s supposed to be thick,” he said. “Fish are oily.”

She frowned. “This isn’t thickness from fish oil. I know how that feels, and this is different.” Her hands drifted up and down the length of the jar, and he imagined she was slowly manipulated the little water that might still remain in the sauce. All at once, her eyes flew open and locked onto his mask. “This has been poisoned!”

Now it was his turn to be startled. “How can you tell?”

The waterbender worried her lip, and he tried to not let his gaze linger on her mouth. “It’s… hard to describe. It feels different. We have a lot of fish sauces and fish-based oils in the south, so I can extrapolate what this is supposed to feel like, and there’s been something added to it that doesn’t…” She paused again. “It feels like it’s diluting the purity, I guess is the best way to put it? It feels wrong. I can’t explain it any better, I’m sorry.”

Zuko crouched opposite her, one knee lower than the other, to look down at the nam-pla jar. Realization flooded his face, eyes widening. “The illness.”

He looked up from the jar to the waterbender at the same time she did the same, reflecting him. “That’s why so many people were getting sick. I bet this came from a bigger batch that was all contaminated.” Her brow furrowed. “But, it smelled so bad. Why didn’t anyone catch on?”

“It was open,” Zuko explained. “I bet it reacts to prolonged exposure to air. This sauce is soup base—”

“So it would be cooked fairly quickly, and then the rest would be stored away again,” she finished for him. He nodded. “This was lucky.”

It was very lucky, Zuko thought. If they hadn’t come back here, if he hadn’t found that cheesecloth and decided it would make do for a funerary shroud—there were a lot of factors that had been left up to chance, and fallen in their favor.

The waterbender gathered the jar and got back to her feet; Zuko followed suit. She looked back out at the body of the woman, lying with her face up, and her arms folded carefully over her chest. Zuko watched the waterbender’s mouth set into a taut line, her jaw resolute.

“Come on,” she said to him, not sparing him a glance. “Let’s take care of her and then deal with this poison issue.”

He had no idea how she planned to get word out about the nam-pla being poisoned, but he followed her back out of the small storehouse, bringing the cheesecloth with him.

#zuko #katara #zutara #atla #avatar: the last airbender #my fic

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laurelsofhighever · 5 years

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Chapters: 45/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Chapter Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Fereldan Civil War AU, Romance, Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort

Chapter Summary: Something’s happened to Rosslyn.

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The dog lay with his head in Alistair’s lap, boneless from the sedative the horsemaster had given him, with only the occasional twitch of an eye as a broad hand passed soothing strokes over his ears. His wound had been treated with charcoal and merrybud oil to draw out the poison, and more oil had been rubbed along his gums so that the rich blood supply there might also be purged. Amell, the healer who had tended both Alistair and Teagan after West Roth and had travelled from South Reach with Rosslyn’s house guard, had offered hope that Cuno would recover, had murmured that if he had been smaller, or slightly longer away from medicine, the outcome might have been different. She had left only moments ago, with an apology that she couldn’t do more – venom was tricky for magical healing, because of the way it acted on the blood, she said. That left only Alistair under the canvas roof of the picket lines, curled up in enough straw that he hardly felt the cold, with one leg numb and his mind far enough away that he barely noticed anyway.

Rosslyn looked harder, sterner than he remembered, dressed formally in embroidered split skirts that matched the elegance of court attire with the practicality needed for the field, with cavalry boots and riding breeches underneath that clung to the shape of her legs. He shouldn’t have noticed. She had barely glanced at him, and when she had, the set of her eyes in her summer-tanned skin had retained all the snap of winter, the aloof cold that had set them so far apart at Aeylesbide, that spoke of worse things than mere offended pride, and that was, at least this time, entirely all his fault.

No, he reminded himself. Not mine. Eamon’s. He had thought himself angry when he confronted the arl in Orzammar, but having seen Rosslyn’s pain with his own eyes, the way she stood out of reach and contracted in around herself as if his very touch might burn, the urge to inflict that same pain on Eamon had curled tight in his fist and surged through his veins.

“At least she had you,” he muttered to the dog, and chuckled. “Although you certainly picked your time to be dramatic. I was this close to telling her everything.”

Cuno slumbered on, oblivious. His nose twitched.

Alistair smiled, his fingers idling in the loose folds of the dog’s ruff. “I can’t let it be like last time,” he confessed. “And I can’t lose her. I can’t –”

A rising tide of noise outside distracted the line of his thoughts. At first he thought the commotion must be some disagreement or excitement among the ranks, but as he listened, he recognised a tinge of alarm in the shouts, and a whisper of dread breathed across the back of his neck.

“No…”

Carefully settling the dog in the straw, and glad he hadn’t been given a chance to remove his sword, he emerged from the lines and set off towards the source of the noise. Others had been roused, too, but he ignored them. The grip on his sword hilt tightened. His pace quickened, until a distant, panicked shout broke him into a run, heart pounding, and he skidded to a stop in front of Rosslyn’s pavilion. The place blazed with light, the entryway thrown open with soldiers prowling about its insides like hounds casting for a scent.

“Your Highness!” one of the guards cried when he was spotted.

“What happened?”

The woman, one of Rosslyn’s house guard, shifted on her feet. “Her Ladyship’s gone, Ser. Someone cut through the back of the tent wall. Looks like there was a canny right ding-dong, but they took her.”

“Where were the guards?” he snapped, already storming through to eye the evidence for himself.

“Drugged, Ser. We’ve put out the word – nobody leaves the bounds of the camp until Her Ladyship is found.”

Alistair had stopped listening. Panic rode high in his throat but he squashed the sick coil of his gut and forced his mind to focus. The back wall of the pavilion sliced; bedclothes scattered over the floor, in a trail towards Talon. The sword lay on the floor next to its stand, half out of its scabbard, as if someone had lunged for it and been interrupted.

And then he spotted a gleam of something underneath the food of a blanket, and his heart stuttered. His dagger, the one he had given her, discarded in the middle of the fight with a congealing line of scarlet along one edge of the blade. Beneath the surge of hope it gave him to see she had kept it, his ears rang, and bile crawled up his throat.

No. No no no no no…

He grabbed a torch and strode into the dark, following the trail of blood.

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

“If you scream, I’ll cut that pretty throat of yours,” the assassin promised, in an accent delicate but unmistakably Orlesian.

Rosslyn snarled. “Why haven’t you already? unless you’ve realised that I’m your only insurance for getting out of here alive.” The words were slurred, a match to the unresponsive drag of her limbs, and the sweet taste in her mouth that remained from whatever paralytic powder her attacker had blown in her face.

Around them, the camp buzzed like a nest of kicked ants, bristling with stings and shouts, and yet somehow the small, slight woman at Rosslyn’s back was managing to stay out of sight, her arms pressing daggers against Rosslyn’s neck and stomach to stop her crying out, the stolen scout armour sharp through the single thin layer of her nightclothes. Feeling was returning, but she pretended otherwise, exaggerating the flail of her arms and the wobble in her legs – her captor was fast, it would take surprise and opportunity to be free of her.

The dagger at her side bit deeper.

“I suggest you be quiet, ma petite,” the assassin hissed.

“You’re the one who poisoned my dog.”

“How clever!” The assassin gave a brittle chuckle. “My employer warned me I could not touch you with that infernal animal on guard, and so I took steps to get it out of the way. Be grateful I am more used to human targets.”

Drizzle collected on Rosslyn’s hair, sheened her face like a cold mask as she swallowed her rage. They would know by now that she was the target, and people would be looking – dogs with her scent – even if the assassin made it to the edge of camp, going further would be near impossible.

“Baudrillard?” she tried, aiming for distraction.

The dagger poked her again. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Marjolane!”

The assassin froze. With precise deliberation, she spun around, dragging Rosslyn with her sharply enough that the blade held at her neck nicked the skin. Ten feet behind them, A figure stepped onto the path from behind a tent, bow nocked and draw-arm half pulled back, ready to loose.

“Ah, Leliana,” the assassin crooned. “How lovely to see you again, chérie.”

“I recognised your trick with the dog,” Leliana replied, casually, though her eyes were trained on Marjolane like a cat’s. “Though I am certain you meant the dosage of the viper’s sting to be lethal. You must be getting sloppy in your dotage.” She drew her arm back further. “Let her go.”

Marjolane chuckled again as she backed away. “Not even you are that good a shot, chérie. I would move her into the path of the arrow before it had a chance to reach me.”

Rosslyn stayed silent. She watched Leliana for any sign of movement, any indication that she would act, but forced her body to remain unresisting, heavy, a burden to her distracted captor, and all the while she measured the slow creep of the tingles up her arms as feeling came back to them.

“You would be left without a bargaining chip,” Leliana pointed out. Her draw arm was starting to shake.

“Perhaps,” the assassin answered. “But your desire for her survival is much greater than mine. You would not dare chance it. And nor would any other fool here,” she added, as another figure came barrelling into view through the nearest row of tents.

Alistair halted behind Leliana when he saw what was happening, his knuckles white on his sword and his face thrown into flickering relief by the torch he held aloft in his other hand. The snarl that contorted his features when his mind processed the details of the scene in front of him sent a shiver down Rosslyn’s back, but when she met his eye and shook her head, he held back.

“Good boy.” Marjolane had turned to him, was still backing away, but with her attention split in an extra direction, her options for escape were thinning.

“Where are you going?” Leliana called. Her blue eyes still burned, but the expression around them had crumpled into something almost desperate, the tension in the drawstring faltering. “You do not seem to realise, we have a score to settle. You framed me, had me caught and tortured. Why did you hate me so much?”

“Hate you?” the assassin repeated. The daggers at Rosslyn’s neck loosened, imperceptibly. “I never hated you. But did you think I did not know where you were, that I watched you? ‘What is she up to?’ I asked myself, as I saw you scrabble around in this country that smells of wet dog.” She snorted. “And then, of course, you wound your way into the confidence of this Falcon of Highever, and I saw – I saw that you planned to use this influence to set yourself against me.”

Rosslyn caught Leliana’s eye, a warning not to be baited, a signal to be ready.

“How fortunate it was that I found another who shared my concerns,” Marjolane continued, smug with her success. “Once I have delivered her to my employer, I will be free once more, and you will be free to crawl out of this filthy mud hole and come back with me, back to the life you were made for.”

Leliana shuddered, but swallowed her resolve. “I came to Ferelden to be free of you. Now I see my mistake. You’ve caused too much pain for too many people, Marjolane. It ends here!”

In an instant, Rosslyn dropped, twisting, her weight an advantage against the smaller woman. Above her, she caught the dull thud of an arrow hitting flesh, the breath of someone knocked back. A dagger came into her hands and she surged upwards again, driving the blade hilt-deep into the cavity beneath the ribs. An eternity passed and Marjolane clawed at her, gasping, her dark eyes wide with confusion then fury by turns, before finally she slipped off the steel and collapsed unmoving in the mud. Silence fell. Rosslyn stood and let the dagger fall from her hands. Her pulse roared in her ears, her breath a laboured rasp, as if her body couldn’t quite believe it was still working, and when she brought her hand to the sting in her neck, her fingers came away sticky with blood.

A sob roused her from her shock. Leliana had sunk to her knees, her shoulders slumped and shaking, one hand over her mouth, leaning on her bow like it was the only solid thing in the world. She barely seemed to notice when Rosslyn knelt beside her to coax her into an embrace, and only wept harder at her stilted, murmured assurances that everything would be alright.

“It’s over,” she repeated, again and again. “She’s dead. She’s dead.”

“Come on, we can’t stay here.”

Half-entreating and half-hauling her friend upright, Rosslyn finally took stock if where they were. Her limbs still felt heavy from the poison she had been given, the lack of coordination unhelpful given she now supported Leliana’s weight as well as her own, but adrenaline steadied her, and she grit her teeth as she began leading the way towards the healer’s tent. Something warm fell around her shoulders as she took the first steps – Alistair’s cloak. She had forgotten him in the heat of the moment. His hands lingered just a little as he made sure the fabric covered her properly, his eyes tight at the corners, but to her relief he said nothing, only fell into silent step behind her as she led Leliana away. When the first guard found them, he took charge and ordered the man to find somewhere to keep Marjolane’s body, and again she was grateful.

Amell greeted them at the entrance to the modest infirmary, though whether she had been roused by the commotion or just hadn’t gone to bed was impossible to tell. She didn’t say a word as the three of them emerged from the gloom, only hustled them inside and laid gentle hands on Leliana’s shoulders to guide her to the furthest and most private pallet from the opening. The sobs had subsided now, and only the shining tracks across her pale cheeks betrayed the loss of composure.

“She’s had a shock,” Rosslyn explained as the mage ran a brief check of her patient. Without any occupation for her hands, she drew the edges of Alistair’s cloak closer, taking comfort in its fastness and the warmth of his scent on the collar, however much her better judgement warned her not to.

“Someone should send out, and fetch Captain Morrence.”

“Well it’s not going to be you,” Amell replied in clipped tones. “You’re not going anywhere until I look at your feet.”

“My…?”

She was barefoot. She hadn’t noticed before, with the combination of the knife at her throat and the soporific she with which had been dosed, but looking down now, every sensation crowded in at once; her toes burned with cold, her soles were bruised and bleeding, and to top it all, the loose trousers she wore for sleep were caked halfway to the knee in mud. Dazed, she accepted the healer’s fussing without complaint and sank to the nearest pallet, though she had to stifle a hiss as her feet were first rubbed clean of the worst of the dirt, then dipped into a bowl of warm water sharp-scented with herbs and vinegar.

“No lasting harm done,” Amell informed her with a smile as she sent a healing spell twining up her legs.

She was too tired to answer, the pain and the dregs of her resolve stolen away by the magic. “Will Leliana be alright?” she asked instead.

The healer shrugged. “Depends what happened. I gave her a draught so she won’t have to deal with it until the morning, at least.”

The chantry sister’s form, distinguishable only by the red shock of her hair, was already curled under the covers of the farthest bed. With a sigh, Rosslyn turned away and watched in silence as Amell cleaned the worst of the cuts in her feet, trying to ignore the faint headache growing behind her eyes that might have been the day’s stress or the paralytic, or even just the bright wisp-lights of the infirmary. After a moment or two, she realised Alistair had left, and berated herself for missing him. She said nothing, and Amell, satisfied with her work, went to discard the muddied water.

“Oh, Your Highness!”

Rosslyn turned. Alistair stood sheepishly in the opening, with a pair of boots in one hand and some spare clothes thrown over his arm. From what she could tell, he had had a narrow escape from the contents of the bowl

“I think they’re too big,” he apologised when he saw her looking. “But the quartermaster was very grumpy at being woken up. They should do, at least as far as, uh…” his smile faltered as he set them next to her, and she dropped her gaze.

“Thank you,” she said. “And you, Enchanter. It was lucky we brought you along.” Twice over, she added mentally, as her mind drifted to Cuno, resting under the horsemaster’s care. She didn’t dare ask if he was otherwise.

Amell smiled again, a pretty expression that brought out dimples in her cheeks. “I enjoy the excitement, though by all accounts of luck you should’ve had enough for a while. You’re cured, by the way. Off you trot.”

“I’m –? Oh, thank you.” She stood and tried her feet. They were still tender, but the lingering magic in her veins would probably take care of that by morning. The mud caked onto her clothes stuck unpleasantly to her skin, however, and her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“If Your Highness would like to excuse himself?” Amell prompted.

“What?”

“Her Ladyship needs to change.”

“I – oh.” He froze, eyes bugged wide as he gulped back his embarrassment. “I’ll, um – of course… But if I could – I mean, Teyrna Rosslyn should really have someone to escort her back. See she gets there.” His hands twisted together, and he peered at her through hopeful lashes. “May I?”

Her mind was too fogged to craft a proper refusal. She nodded.

And yet she took her time getting changed, making sure the boots were laced with proper tightness in case they slipped and gave her blisters, until she could no longer put off going out to meet him. He was waiting for her in the pool of light outside the tent, and fell into careful step beside her without a word, respecting the space she put between them. Even so, his gaze burned hot against the back of her neck, adding to the weight of the silence with every step they took, but she didn’t turn. When they finally did reach her pavilion and the guard posted outside, she might have cried with relief, because it marked the point where she could get him to leave, to drop her back into her certain loneliness where her actions were prescribed, the requirements of her easy to meet.

One more day, just one, and I’ll suffer through whatever I must.

Servants had tidied away the mess, all the evidence, as if her fight with Marjolane had never happened. Talon stood in its sheath, back in its stand by her armour, with the scattered blankets once more laid neatly over the bed and the shadows chased into the corners by the steady light of lyrium glowstones. Even the tear in the wall had been mended, patched up with neat stitching like a darned sock.

Alistair still hovered behind her.

“Of course,” she realised. “Your cloak.” She shrugged it from her shoulders, ignoring how cold the air suddenly seemed without it, and kept her gaze on the floor as she held it out. “Here – thank you.”

“Maker’s breath, I don’t care about the cloak.” He all but lunged across the space, taking the garment only because it was in the way. “How could I think about that when you might’ve been… Are you alright?”

Startled, she leaned away, shrugged, swallowed back tears. “fine.”

He inhaled as if to say something, but his gaze fell to the line on her neck where the assassin’s blade had broken the skin. Seemingly without thinking, he reached out to touch her, but she flinched away, the graze of his fingertips a shock that brought heat surging to her face. Her head felt squeezed, pressed in a vice, with her throat closing and her limbs held taut to keep from shaking. She couldn’t meet his eyes. She wanted him gone. She wanted to sleep, or to throw herself into his arms, or cry, or run screaming down the mountain that she couldn’t do this anymore, or –

“I’m fine,” she managed for a second time. “A little choked, is all. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

His hand still hung in the air where he had reached for her. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.

Her patience snapped. “I already know.” Grief corded into a jagged lump at the back of her throat and she reeled away to put her desk between them, teeth clenched to calm the rage boiling hot enough to turn her stomach. “I know. Cailan isn’t exactly… reserved with his expectations, he’s made everything about it clear. And… you don’t need to worry, I – I understand. You owe me nothing. I’ll hold you to no obligations.”

The sigh of her name, uttered with a tenderness as if it had been waiting on his lips for months, set like a lance in her gut. But she stood her ground. South Reach had been worse than this, and she had endured.

“Rosslyn,” he said again, firm. “I’m not getting married.” When she didn’t move, a breathy, half-hysterical giggle slipped his tongue. “At least, not to Valesh. Really, I should have worked out sooner that’s what was planned but… well, if I’d gotten your letters…”

“What?” Her mind couldn’t focus, whirled with the chorus of an entire flock of starlings, so bewildered that when he eased a cautious step towards her, she forgot to pull away.

He swallowed. “Your letters – they were intercepted. I didn’t realise until I read the one you sent with Duncan, and then, well…” He turned, and brought something out of a back pocket, a pristine stack of papers tied together with ribbon, which he held out as cautiously as a traveller might offer an apple to a wild deer. “I left as fast as I could to find you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Eamon.” The name escaped as a growl. “He was trying to separate us, for the good of Ferelden, apparently. I am so sorry that I didn’t realise sooner.”

Questions tripped over themselves on her tongue. Uncomprehending, she traced the lines of her name written in a broad, meticulous script as he handed the package to her, as if the action might bring the clarity drowning in the blackened landscapes of her brain. So much had already happened. Her legs wobbled at the end of their strength, so she staggered like a drunkard to the bed and collapsed onto it without ceremony, still marvelling at the treasure in her hands. At least a dozen letters in his hand, hidden away, never sent. She had fortified her heart against his indifference, wrapped it in barbs and palisades and strong iron shields, and yet this one simple revelation was enough to bring the walls of her castle shattering to the earth.

Alistair followed her.

“All this time,” she croaked as he knelt before her, as his fingers brushing tentative across her wrist, the other warm on her thigh. “You wrote all these… even though you thought I wasn’t writing back.”

He smiled like blossom in spring. “I did.”

“You didn’t get my letters?”

“None since the darkspawn attack.”

“I wondered, that’s why I –” She looked up. “And… and you’re not betrothed?”

This time, he laughed. “No – no, I’m not.”

What little air remained in her lungs left her in a lightheaded rush. It didn’t matter which one of them moved first, only that in an instant, she had her arms around his neck, wrapped in an embrace tight enough to block out everything but her relief. The scent of his skin hadn’t changed, nor his warmth, the softness of his hair against her cheek. She dropped the letters as she tightened her grip, buried deeper into his shoulder, because what did they matter next to having him here, real, holding her like he had ached for her just as desperately as she had for him? Her cheeks were wet but she didn’t care, it didn’t matter, he had never stopped writing at all.

“I’ve missed you,” she breathed. “I’ve –”

His breath caught. “I’ve missed you, too. So much.”

She wanted to laugh. “Why do I always end up crying on you?”

“I’ve just got one of those faces.”

She denied it, shook her head, but still the tears kept falling. He hummed and stroked her hair, the most beautiful sound she had ever heard even through the dampness she felt trickling onto her own shoulder. Her breath shuddered. Time stopped. They rocked together in the thin confines of the pavilion, settling into one another’s breathing and the play of idle, self-assuring touches, sagging like winter branches laden down with snow with the weight of what had so nearly been lost. At last, everything lay quiet, and by degrees her grip on him relaxed, soothed along with the fear that he was no more than a wisp of smoke, bound to disappear again. Guards clanked past outside, rain pattered down, and still they didn’t move.

“Rosslyn?” Alistair asked eventually. “Are you asleep?”

For a moment he thought she might have drifted off, but then a tiny headshake and a mumbled no brushed against his pulse, and he had to remind himself where they were.

“You probably should be, it’s so late,” he replied, and pulled away. His hands went to steady at her waist.

Pushing her hair out of her face, she sighed and tried for a smile, but it faltered as her eyes flitted to the patched side of the tent, where the blade of her would-be assassin had first cut through. “I’m not sure I could,” she confessed, and dropped her gaze to her hands twisting in her lap.

“Hey…”

“Will you stay?” she asked. “Please? I – I don’t want to be alone right now, and Cuno…”

He laid a hand against her cheek, torn between wanting to offer comfort and knowing that the entire camp would hear of it by morning if he stayed.

“Please,” she repeated.

He couldn’t stand the sight of the tears on her cheeks. “If you’re sure, I have one condition,” he told her, covering for his uncertainty with the most officious voice he could muster. “You have to promise to get a decent amount of rest.”

She smiled back, but her attention darted to the wall again. “I can promise to try.”

“I suppose that will have to do. Here –”

Carefully, he reached down and unlaced the boots he had borrowed for her, nudging his cheek against her knee when a warm hand landed on his shoulder, and when she was barefoot, he guided her up the bed and under the covers. Their fingers brushed as he retrieved the letters to place on the desk and he smiled at her as she thanked him. After that, there’s was nothing to do but draw the curtains that divided the main area of the pavilion from the sleeping quarters.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He ruffled a hand through his hair. “Uh, do you have any spare blankets?”

“Why do you…?” Her eyes widened. “No. You are not sleeping on the floor.”

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” he argued.

“That’s a lie.” She sat up straighter, with the covers bunched in her lap. “You’ll catch your death this far up in the mountains. And besides, it’s undignified.”

“I’ve slept on the floor before.”

Her expression darkened. “Not when you were Prince of Ferelden and had a perfectly good bed available. If one of us is going to sleep on the floor, it should be me. You outrank me.”

“And you were nearly killed tonight!”

She flinched. Too far. The gap between them yawned again and he yearned to cross it, but the thought of what that might mean left his stomach tying itself in knots, doubting, giddy, terrified of stepping too far.

“It seems we’re at an impasse,” she said, reading the flustered colour blooming across his face.

“You and your damned protocol,” he huffed. “I don’t – I wouldn’t want to compromise…”

“People will talk no matter where you sleep,” she pointed out, with a blush of her own. She even shuffled sideways to make room for him under the covers. “You… might as well be comfortable. Unless – if you don’t want to do that, I’d understand, forget I said –”

“Hey.” He was by her side in an instant, the touch to her shoulder light but reassuring. “I don’t want to leave you alone. But… are you sure there’s room?”

“Cuno manages, and I swear he doubles in size when he sleeps…”

“He’s alright, you know,” Alistair said. “Just sleeping off the worst of it, I promise. The horsemaster said he’d make a full recovery.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots, then unbuckled his belt and the quilted jacket that had seen him warm from Orzammar – any more would be excessive, but this way he wouldn’t overheat, and there wouldn’t be any stray edges of metal to dig into Rosslyn’s skin. When he finally turned, he found her looking demurely away, as if he were taking off more, and for the first time the desperation of seeing her again was subsumed by the possibility of all the things he had imagined in her absence, everything he wanted to say but did not dare. Still, she made room for him, sidling to the far edge of the pallet and waiting for him to lie back on the overstuffed pillow before closing the space once more.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

He smiled. “Come here.”

The bed really wasn’t made for two people. Designed for light storage and travel, it creaked as they settled themselves, Alistair on his back with Rosslyn tucking herself as best she could into the gap under his arm, her ear settled above the pulse of his heart and her fingers tangled in the loose folds of his shirt. When she finally stopped wriggling, he plucked up the courage to lay his own hand against her waist. She didn’t move away.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

“Mmmm…” She was looking at the hole in the wall again; he felt her held breath.

“You know I won’t let anything happen to you, right?” he murmured. “If something else is stupid enough to come after you tonight, they’re going to have to get through me.” He threaded their fingers together with his free hand, quietly enthralled by the way her body fitted against his. “And I promise they won’t get through me.”

Some of the tension unwound from her limbs, and quiet seeped into the space around them, the drum of the rain and the dull scent of mud soothing after the fraught hours of the day. Alistair tried to stay awake and be vigilant so Rosslyn might feel safe, but his eyes were scratchy and the weight of her at his side already succumbing to sleep lulled him towards the Fade, and somewhere between one slow blink and the next his last thoughts slid away into slumber.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #da:o #the falcon and the rose #alistair theirin #rosslyn cousland #cousland #alistair x cousland #anti-eamon #dragon age au

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mizmahlia · 5 years

Text

Birds of a feather watch horror movies together

Summary: It’s Halloween in Gotham and the Misfit Robins have to stick together.

AO3

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One moment, she totally had the upper hand in the fight between Spoiler and a handful of gang members who weren’t much older that she was. The next, she was on the ground on her hands and knees, choking and gasping for breath as the tell-tale green cloud spread through the empty lot in the Narrows.

The muscles around her eyes and in her cheeks started to twitch, and she desperately reached into her belt for the auto-injector pen full of anti-toxin. The pouch with the pen was in the back by her right hip, but her movements were hampered by shaking hands and an injured shoulder, preventing her from reaching behind her.

When the laughter began to painfully contract her abdominal muscles, the tears came, too, and she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to smother it. She would not go down this way. There was no way in hell her story would end with her dying of Joker toxin on Halloween, alone in the shadows of a desolate high-rise apartment building. She hadn’t even had the chance to say anything quippy or clever before her demise.

Not that there was anyone around to hear it, of course. But whatever.

With one last surge of adrenaline, she wrenched her injured arm behind her and into the pouch, fingers clasping around the pen. A laugh, mixed with her painful cry, burst from her chest and echoed into the night with a sickening wheeze. Before the laughter made it too hard for her to think straight, she twisted the cap off the end and jammed it into her upper thigh. Thankfully, the needle was long enough to penetrate the tough fabric of her uniform and her thumb pushed the button down.

She collapsed to the ground, curling into a ball. The anti-toxin burned like acid as it spread through her veins. But within about forty-five seconds, the laughter died down into chuckles, then into giggles before wilting into sobs deep within her chest as it was neutralized. Another few minutes passed before the muscles in her face relaxed, and she ran her fingers over her aching cheeks.

Breathing was still a struggle, though she knew that would be the last to get back to normal because it was the first thing affected by the gas. But she was already light-headed from the laughter and wheezing, and drawing in a steady enough breath was next to impossible. In a last-ditch effort to speed up the process, she ripped her hood and mask away from her face, rolling onto her back. Her eyes closed as the cool night air touched her face and she waited for her airway to open fully again.

After waiting for what felt like much too long, she rolled over and climbed to her knees. She rubbed a hand over her chest and tried not to panic; a panic attack right now would be seriously bad news. Her lungs were irritated enough from the gas and the cold air hadn’t helped at all, only making it more difficult to breathe. So despite every fiber of her being hating her for what she was about to do, she reached up and tapped the ear piece that was still somehow in her ear.

“Spoiler?”

Stephanie closed her eyes in relief upon hearing Oracle’s filtered voice.

“I-“

Her upper body curled in on itself as she coughed almost violently enough to be sick.

“I’m tracking your location, Spoiler. I’m sending the closest person your way. ETA three minutes.”

She coughed again and her vision darkened at the edges, sending her to down to her forearms on the asphalt. There wasn’t enough time between coughing fits for her to breathe and she knew three minutes would be too late.

A second filtered voice entered the conversation, immediately silencing the flurry of panicked voices.

“Oracle, belay that request. I’m thirty seconds out.”

As everything went dark and she collapsed into a heap, the voice spoke again but without the distortion of the voice filter.

“Hang on, Blondie. I’m almost there.”

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

The bed she woke up in was insanely comfortable and that’s how she knew it wasn’t hers.

Hers was alright, of course- but it was a little too soft, a bit too lumpy.

But the bed she was in was the perfect combination of soft and supportive, with the added bonus of having super soft sheets.

She opened her eyes and the room was dark, but there was enough light from the streetlamp outside the window for her to get a good look around. The room was large, but cozy. A few nice pieces of furniture were spread throughout- a dresser near the door, two matching nightstands and a large chest at the end of the bed.

There was a small lamp on each of the nightstands and she leaned to the one closest to her. She shut her eyes to prepare herself for a too-bright bulb, but was surprised when the soft glow barely went past the edge of the nightstand. There was a small machine on the table, and a clear tube going from the machine down to the floor before it traveled back up the bed to her face. She touched her fingers to her cheek and felt the cannula under her nose.

A portable oxygen concentrator.

The encounter with Joker toxin.

Jason came and got her.

Wait.

This was Jason’s place?

She crawled to the other side of the bed and turned on the other lamp. With the added light, she took another look around the room and could see bits of Jason all around her. The headboard behind her was chock full of books, both hard-bound and paperback. She ran her fingers along the spines and read the titles. He had a great mix of the classics, science-fiction, and espionage thrillers, with some true-crime thrown in for good measure. There was another bookcase under the window and from what she could tell, it was full of textbooks. Organic chemistry, forensic psychology, microbiology, and criminal psychology, among others.

The décor was simple, but tasteful. The sheets were grey while the duvet was a deep shade of navy, and the extra blanket at the foot of the bed was a shade of red not unlike the color of his helmet. That thought made her laugh, which made her chest hurt and she coughed. It felt nothing like earlier, thank god, but it was loud enough it got someone’s attention.

Jason knocked quietly on the door, more to announce his presence than to ask for permission to enter, and he opened it, the concern on his face easy to see even in the semi-darkness.

“You okay?”

Stephanie nodded and cleared her throat, wincing as she did.

“I think so. I didn’t actually cough up a lung, so that’s a plus. Right?”

He nodded and approached the bed, stopping by the end and crossing his arms, still watching her.

“Any trouble breathing or swallowing?”

She shook her head and brought her knees up.

“Any hallucinations, fits of laughter or nausea?”

A chill rushed down her spine and she clutched a pillow to her chest, remembering the sound of her laughter and how awful it was. Her arms were covered with goosebumps and she shook her head again.

“No.”

He sat down on the end of the bed, still watching her closely. Gone was the Red Hood outfit- he was wearing charcoal-gray sweats and a dark green Henley, and his wet hair was beginning to curl as it dried. She must have slept longer than she thought, if he’d already come back from patrol and showered. But before he could ask her anything else about what happened earlier, she beat him to it.

“So this is your place, huh?”

Jason nodded and glanced around.

“It’s nice.”

She couldn’t help but notice how much he relaxed at her comment.

“Thanks.”

“Where are we?”

He looked down at this hands, then out the window, avoiding her face.

“Just north of the Knights stadium, about a mile from where I found you.”

She recognized the neighborhood and waited long enough to catch Jason’s gaze to give him a knowing smile. He’d picked a place that was centrally located between Leslie’s clinic, Amusement Mile, and the Narrows- the areas of the city that didn’t ever seem to have enough of a police presence despite the crime rates. Red Hood was frequently seen patrolling in those neighborhoods, more so than the “nicer” parts of the city.

In other words, right smack in the middle of where he was needed most.

“I didn’t realize they had such nice places in Otisburg,” she said hoarsely, wincing at the soreness in her throat.

He shrugged.

“It’s an up and coming neighborhood. At least that’s what they told me when I bought the place.”

Her eyes widened and she sat forward, chucking the pillow at him.

“No way! The apartment, or the building?”

He sighed and pretended to be insulted, throwing the pillow back at her. She dodged it and it hit the headboard with a quiet plop.

“Bruce is the one who buys entire buildings. I only wanted a place where I could have some peace and quiet.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but he held up a hand.

“Promise me you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. No one knows this place exists, except you and Roy.”

“Cross my heart.”

Seemingly content with her answer, they sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes until the pain in her chest was too much to ignore any longer. She removed the cannula.

“You have any Tylenol or something? It hurts just to breathe.”

Jason climbed off the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with barely a sound, and he held out a hand to her.

“I’ve got something better. Last time I got dosed, Leslie gave me some medication you take in a nebulizer. Helps with the pain and the inflammation.”

She grabbed his hand and let him pull her out of bed, still feeling a little woozy. He put a gentle hand against the middle of her back as they walked down the hallway. Something smelled absolutely heavenly as they got closer to the kitchen and there was a small pot on the stove.

“Go find a spot on the couch,” Jason said over his shoulder. “I’ll get the medication ready and bring you something to eat.”

“What’d you make?”

“Chicken rice soup.”

Jason’s living room was just as cozy as his bedroom. There was a couch with a chaise lounge on one side and on ottoman in front of the other section, both of which were covered in a soft tan fabric. He’d clearly been sitting on the lounge part because he there was a pillow, blanket and a tablet there, so she left that spot alone and nudged the ottoman closer so she could reach it. The coughing spell began as she sat down.

“Here,” he said, appearing behind her and handing her a small plastic device with a mask on it attached to a battery pack. “Flip that switch and hold it to your face. Breathe through your nose.”

She watched as a mist fogged up the mask before doing as instructed. Her eyes closed as it began to work, and she felt his presence behind her. She tilted her head back and glanced up at him, smiling in relief. He smiled affectionately in return, squeezing her shoulder as he leaned on the back of the couch.

“The anti-toxin stops the effects of the gas, but it still damages the lining of your lungs. Give it a week or two, and you should be fine.”

Steph nodded and slouched until she was comfortably settled in. A blanket appeared to her right and she grabbed it, nearly disappearing under it apart from her head and the hand holding the nebulizer. When the machine turned itself off, Jason returned with two mugs of soup, nodding to the couch next to her. She put the device down and accepted the mug, though she gave him a weird look.

“Too easy to spill if it’s in a bowl.”

He lowered himself onto the couch, being careful not to spill anything, and pulled his own blanket around him. They both ate in silence, watching a maniac in a hockey mask chase after the occupants of a summer camp. She finished her soup and started to sit up when Jason held out his hand. She bit her lip to stifle her protest, already feeling like she was imposing. Being waited on was something she’d never get used to.

“You don’t have to-“

“Steph, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

She handed him the mug and he disappeared once more before gracefully leaping over the back of the couch and settling into his spot. She felt herself smile tiredly when he turned and grinned at her.

They lapsed into another easy silence. And as much as she enjoyed cheesy horror movies, she just couldn’t focus enough to watch it. Her thoughts were stuck on what happened earlier and how scared she’d been.

Jason was staring at the TV, but his attention was focused on Stephanie. When it was clear she was lost in her head, he adjusted the volume and turned to look at her.

“Wanna talk about it?”

His tone was casual, despite the seriousness of the question, and she knew he’d actually listen if she wanted to talk. But after everything that happened, she wanted to shove into the deep recesses of her brain for the night and try to forget about it. She wasn’t looking forward to the nightmares she’d likely have later.

“Not really, no.”

He nodded and looked back at the screen, not saying a word.

A few minutes later the movie went to commercial and Stephanie turned to him, still hiding under the blanket.

“Sorry I ruined your night,” she said softly. “But I’m glad you were there to save me.”

He propped himself up on an elbow and stared at her, shaking his head and smiling ruefully.

“First of all, you didn’t need saving. You fought it long enough to give yourself the injection, which is something several of us have failed to do. You did everything right. And two,” he said, waiting until she looked at him to continue. When she did, his tone softened, as did his eyes. “You haven’t ruined anything. I stayed here after I knew you were okay because I wanted to. Despite the fact we all dress up on a nightly basis, I don’t actually care for Halloween all that much.”

She looked past him out the window for a moment, processing what he’d just told her. The longer she remained quiet, though, the more concerned he got.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

His question pulled her out of her head, and she tore her gaze away from the window. She’d been expecting a lecture about the myriad of things that went wrong earlier, not a pep talk. Granted, she would have told whoever lectured her to piss off, but still. She’d prepared for a fight and now that she wasn’t going to get one, she had no idea what to say.

Jason hauled himself upright and shook his head.

“You were expecting me to give you a hard time about tonight, weren’t you?”

She nodded, her face turning red.

“Thought so.” He reached over and rested a warm hand on her shoulder. “The ‘this is how you fucked up’ speech isn’t something you’ll ever get from me, alright? We carry around enough guilt as it is, we don’t need anyone else adding to that.” He squeezed her shoulder and she looked at up. “We good?”

“Yeah, we’re good.”

He nodded once and reached for the remote.

“Good. We misfit Robins have to stick together. Now, let’s find something better than this crap. Netflix has to have something scarier than Jason Voorhees.”

He flicked through his account and they argued for a little while until they settled on a movie about a zombie outbreak on a train. Something Jason said earlier was still on her mind and she had to know.

“Jay?”

“Yeah?”

“What could you possibly have against Halloween?”

#Whumptober 2019 #Whumptober Day 10 #Stephanie Brown #Jason Todd #Spoiler #Red Hood #MizMahlia's Fanfiction

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kensboytoy · 5 years

Text

The Classifieds Ch. 1

Title: The Classifieds Fandom: Beetlejuice (Movie) Pairings: Beetlejuice/Reader Ratings: Explicit Chapters: 1/? Summary: A curious leaflet falls into your possession on the day you move into your new place. You decide to call on the services of one 'bio-exorcist' and realize that you might be crushing pretty hard on a dead guy. How seductive can a sleaze like Beetlejuice really be?

Continue Reading or Read on AO3!

Moving into a new place was already a pain in the neck. Moving all by yourself? The worst. Well, except when you donated all your furniture to Goodwill because you knew that you weren’t strong enough to lug it up the teetering second story floor where your new place was. So, three big poofy comforters, several dozen pillows, stuffed animals, and many, many boxes full of weird 80’s toys later… Well, you collapsed in your makeshift nest and enjoying the rest of your busy evening in total silence.

The only lights you had were battery-powered string lights because the electric company hadn’t turned the power on yet, so you made it a lazy, comfy space all your own.

But without power, you couldn’t sit down and edit on your laptop or even use your phone (you’d need it to be on power-saving mode until the lights came on.) So you tried reading. That worked until the sun went down and your shitty vision was impaired. Then you tried sleeping but every creak of the apartment settling gave you a fright.

You idly flipped through the leaflets you had gotten in the mail around, squinting to see if there were any coupons to use. A small business card fell into you lap:

Betelgeuse: The 'Bio-Exorcist'

Call BETELGEUSE, BETELGEUSE, BETELGEUSE!

You snorted. It was cute! Maybe you wouldn’t throw it away. But… there was no number on the back? You flipped it around and held it to the light. Nada.

“Pft. Like a dorkier version of Bloody Mary.” There was a smile on your face and you folded the paper up neatly to put in your wallet.

With a yawn and a stretch, you arose from your nest and waltzed into the bathroom to brush your teeth. The only light you had was a pocket flashlight you had gotten along attached to a rape whistle from some medical center long ago. You stared into the mirror for a moment as you patted your face with a warm towel.

“Bloody Mary, I don’t believe in you. Bloody Mary, I don’t believe in you. Bloody Mary, I don’t believe in you.”

You waited. Nothing. You shrugged your shoulders. That myth had been scary when you were younger but it never yielded any results.

As you started brushing out your hair, you continued.

“Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice…”

Another yawn and you closed the medicine cabinet before you changed into your nightgown and waltzed back into your bedroom. You flopped into your makeshift bed and stared at the card once again.

“What the hell is a Beetlejuice?”

Had you been looking at the mirror for a moment longer, you would’ve seen Bloody Mary, hair done up in curlers and charcoal face mask covering her very surprised expression before flickering away the moment you began to speak the words for the other spirit.

He was… stronger? Maybe that was the wrong word. Mary only had a passing interest in terrifying people, whereas Beetlejuice?

He thrived on it. Hell, almost got off on it, if he was honest. There was something delicious about scaring the living shit out of breathers.

So, Mary never stepped in when it was clear that the person had moved onto summoning him, instead. It’d be rude.

And summon him you did.

The lights flickered for a moment before shutting off, throwing the entire room into a pitch-black darkness that shouldn’t have been possible. Some of the light outside should still have been filtering in, or at the very least there should have been moonlight. Something. Anything. but all you got was darkness.

Darkness and the faint feeling that you were no longer the only one there.

After a brief moment, there was the distinctive sound of slithering and something crawled across your foot, wrapping around it as the lights flickered back on to reveal a… guy?

Well, a slob. He was normally built everywhere except for his stomach where he was decidedly bulky enough with a round beer belly. His hair was wild and all over the place - you couldn’t decide if his hair was white, blond, or green from the moss covering every inch of him. He looked like a bad Halloween decoration you’d leave on the porch to scare neighbors away from trick-or-treating.

“Why hell-o there, sweetcheeks,” he purred, voice somewhere between when you inhaled a fat cigar and the flush of a toilet. “You called?”

You yelped, flinging your blanket off you in a state of panic before grabbing your phone and fumbling to turn the camera light back on. You didn’t have a chance. The lights came back on to illuminate the figure in front of you and you shrunk in your seat.

And then you squinted.

“What the fuck?” you managed to gasp. “What the ever-loving fuck.”

Your hands instinctively reached for a pillow to cling onto for dear life and to use as a potential weapon if he got any closer.

“Holy fuck, there’s a fucking crazy homeless man in my fucking house and he looks like Riff-Raff from Rocky Horror fucked a pile of moss. What the fuck.”

Had you not been completely terrified, you would have said he was kinda cute. Kinda. If you were into creepy corpses with shit-eating grins.

“I understood-” Beetlejuice paused, counting on his grimy fingers for a moment and having to think about what he was about to say. “More than half of those words, I think. But I’ll go ahead and treat ‘em like compliments, babes.”

There was a wide grin on his face that displayed his crooked teeth and showed off some of the most prime real estate for bugs that existed in this or any other plane of existence. It would have been charming to a certain type of people, but as you had not taken any hard drugs in your life, the chance of you being one of those types of people was slim.

Spitting into one hand and using it to slick his hair back in a manner that usually turned a few stomachs, the ghostly, grody apparition leered down at you in what could almost be likened to a man leering at his hangover-curing breakfast after a long night drinking.

“Beetlejuice, at your service. Bio-exorcist and professional haunter since the late black plague.” He swiftly bowed and smirked. “What can I do for ya, little breather?””

“Oh, you’re Beetlejuice? I mean, I guess… that makes sense.”

You paused and sat up, staring at him over and over again, your heart still racing. He certainly made the place smell damper than an apartment in this neck of the woods usually was.

“Uh. Your ad - well, I found your ad in my mail. It was pretty vague. It just said to call your name three times-”

You reached out and touched his leg and then quickly recoiled. Oh, he was real. You were not dying.

“What the fuck. Am I really seeing you? I swear to God I don’t use coke or anything weird and - holy shit - you’re real.” You poked at him. “You’re actually here and not some Hatsune Miku hologram what the fuck is happening.”

You scrunched your face up and furrowed your brow.

“Bio-exorcist? …Living exorcisms?” you frowned. “Shouldn’t it just be ‘exorcist’?”

Pursing his dangerously chapped lips, the poltergeist frowned at you and let his bushy brows furrow into a look of confusion, mimicking your expression.

“I’m real, dollface. What, you didn’t think my business card was serious?”

Oh, now that was worrying. He’d spread those out as much as possible during his last visit to the world of the living, and what if people were just calling him up for no reason other than thinking it was just some prank?

“Just ‘cause I ain’t flesh and bone doesn’t make me any less real.”

Then the subject of bio-exorcism. Oh, one of his favorite topics, aside from how good he was with his tongue and how easily he could drink anyone in any dimension under the table. Despite the fact that sometimes, he did drink under the table.

Not a lot of bars liked that. Wasn’t really a good party trick either.

“I'm here for spirits, y’see? If some living jackass moves into their place, I chase ‘em out. Keep the crib empty. Make sure no one’s tryin’ to regular-exorcise them.”

You frowned.

“Well, like I said, it was pretty vague. Slipped in with the coupons you usually think you’re going to use but never end up using.” You took out your wallet and removed the slip before handing it over to him. It was one of his more vague cards that left out the specific details of his gig. “There was something about it that just made me… I dunno.”

You, being the sweet young thing you were, blushed and cleared your throat gently.

“I’m really sorry - honestly I am. But I… Well, how to put this very gently and in a sincere way… I personally don’t believe in ghosts. Not saying they can’t be out there, especially not after that crazy weird stunt you just pulled.”

You held up your hands defensively, trying to show that you didn’t mean any harm.

“If I did, I think that’d open a lot of gates to my already hard-to-deal-with trauma.”

Then, you sighed and slumped back in your big cushion of a bed to stare up at him. You were studying him in what little light there was now that it was back on. He didn’t really look like he was fucking around.

“But I guess this might shake that idea up.” Your eyebrow perked up in inquiry. “Are you some sort of ghost advocate? Like… their protector?”

“Their… protector?”

Beej stared, open-mouthed and slack-jawed for a long moment before leaning back and slapping a hand across his knee as he let out the world’s loudest hoot of laughter and fell into hysterics.

Oh, first you didn’t believe in ghosts, and now you thought he was there to protect them? That was absolutely rich.

Just because he worked for them didn’t mean that he was suddenly their protector.

Tears of absolute mirth rolled down his ghostly cheeks, the spirit having to try a few times before he could actually stop laughing. Chuckling and wheezing a few more times before he could actually calm down enough to answer you, he glanced down at you and let his face fall utterly blank.

“No.”

A wave of his hand and a cloud of smoke, a pair of reading glasses appeared perched upon his face along with a booklet in his already outspread palm.

“I am solely here to facilitate the removal of pre-mortem nuisances from the property of any spirits, hauntings, or those of the ghostly persuasion,” came the weirdly educated, prim and proper voice before it dropped down a few registers to rock tumbler. “I boot living folks out of ghost homes.”

You shrugged, not fazed by his childish behavior. Sure, you thought he was weird and yeah, it was freaky to have a stranger in your house. But for all you knew, he was harmless. Annoying but harmless.

“Well, I’m not a ghost and there ain’t one here, my dude. I don’t think I need your services…” You frowned and opened up your wallet again, this time grabbing a couple twenty dollar bills and handing it to him. “I feel like an asshole for calling you. I was gonna use that for take-out but I think you should have it. Y’know. For showing up to perform your services of, uh, removal. Like a cancellation fee you gotta pay if you fuck up.”

You thought for a moment. And then uttered words you never thought you’d ever say:

“Or you could hang around here for awhile. Lights aren’t on and there’s no cable… But I could order that food for two-” Wait. “Uh, if you eat? Sorry. I don’t want to seem ignorant. I just. This shit is a lot to process.”

Annoyed at yourself, you rubbed the bridge of your nose.

“What I’m saying is that even though there aren’t ghosts, you can kick it if you don’t want to go back to wherever I summoned you from. Can’t imagine it was pleasant.”

“No ghosts, huh? What 'm I, chopped liver?”

As if to prove his point, Beetlejuice kept very steady eye contact with you as he reached into his torso and stuck a hand out the other side, the other moving to yoink off his head and alas-poor-Yorick with it.

Practical effects were good. But to do that on the fly? And as convincingly as he did?

That wasn’t really… something possible.

Beetlejuice pulled his hand back through and replaced his noggin as he stared right at you, one grimy brow lifted as he wordlessly pocketed the bills. Even if he didn’t typically use living money, there was still bartering worth in the paper. He could always sell it to some sentimental dumbass who missed the green of the living world.

Which were… far more people than most thought. Most would assume that the first thing you’d do when you died is embrace socialism.

But apparently not.

You grimaced. Not because the sight was scary to you - you had grown up on horror movies. It was just the suddenness of his motions that unnerved you. You ran your fingers through your hair and shook your head before he continued.

“And we do eat. it isn’t something we need to do, but it’s… fun. Little reminder of breather life.”

“This is nuts. I’m talking to a dead guy on my first night in my new place. Who the fuck even prepares you for this shit?” You sighed and moved towards the edge of your bed. “Look, man, I’m going to play the dumb living human card a lot tonight and I’m sorry but…”

You eyed him up and down again curiously.

“I didn’t even think there was a God or an afterlife - to me this just feels like some drug trip. But… you’re real.” You stood up to walk around him. Your hand gently touched his lapel, fingers sliding down the fabric before you pulled away. “I’m having a fucking existential crisis with some zoot zuit wearin’ - pimp? - showing up because I said his fucking name three times.”

Your eyes locked with his briefly.

“I’m guessing say it another three times send you back to - Hell? Purgatory? So I won’t, ‘Juice. Unless this is painful to be here.”

Annoyed at the situation, you rubbed your tired eyes. Without another word, you unlocked your phone and pulled up a Chinese delivery place's menu.

“Well, dinner’s on me. I promise not to ask you anymore super stupid questions if you stay. Lord knows I’m too dumb to get this shit. But, uh. Company would be cool. If you want.” You blushed. It wasn’t like you were asking him for a date. But you were curious if you could learn more. “Or I could send you back to whatever bliss awaits you. Uh. Dealer’s choice?”

His face contorted at the mere mention of the other side. Sure, it wasn’t eternal damnation. but it also wasn’t blissful. It was… mostly like being alive. Paperwork and jobs and having to still deal with money.

Capitalism didn’t stop along with someone’s heartbeat. No, the fucking system stuck around post-mortem. Perhaps there was some special place where the really exceptional people went - to some sort of good place - but Beej’d be fucked if he ever saw it or even heard mention of anything like that.

“Eugh. No, the longer I can stay topside, the better, dollface,” he grimaced, one eye following you as you walked around and examined him. And sure, he tried to look his best, puffing out his chest and sucking in the gut he had. After all, he did that around any pretty little thing he saw, on the off chance that… well…

That you’d wanna hitch a ride on the B.J. Express. First and only stop: Fucksville.

Christ, that line was probably why he never got laid unless it was through the exchange of some cold, hard cash. He nearly owned a huge stake at Dante’s at this point.

“I'll stay with you,” he proclaimed, then as if he could read your mind, “Consider it a date. I'll pay ya back for this.”

“A date?” You didn’t sound repulsed like a normal person should have been. No, you were more perplexed. “A cool ghost pops into the world of the living and wants to go on a date with some random human - no wait, what did you call me, a breather?”

You laughed softly and handed your phone over to him, the menu pulled up. You rested your chin on your hand as you looked up at him quizzically.

“Not trying to presume anything, but, uh. I heard demons and shit were hot, right? I mean, you guys can have orgies and orgies without fear of STDs or baby-making. Plus, again, demon girls are hot. Now you’re stuck on a date with a breather?”

Figuring it was a joke, you shrugged.

“Whatever floats your boat. You don’t gotta pay me back. Like I said, I could use the company.” You flashed him a smile. “You are pretty cool, after all. It’d be nice if you stuck around…”

“Oh, yeah, no. Don’t get me wrong, succubi are great. They’ll ride you until you can’t see or walk straight. But, uh.”

Rubbing the back of his head, he tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t be an outright lie, but that wouldn’t make him seem like too much of a creep. After all, most folks didn’t go for creeps. And those who did? They were usually into the stereotypical “hot stalker” creep. No, he couldn’t blow this shit with his usual molestation and upfront attitude. He might actually have a chance here.

“They don’t tend to be my type. Waaaaaay too aggressive. I prefer to be the one in charge,” he said, glancing at the living human to see what sort of reaction that would have on you. To see if you scoffed, turned red, or both.

To see if you would be into banging.

You blushed. Well, you had asked so you couldn’t be mad. Not like you were. Beetlejuice seemed gross and weird but… no alarm bells were ringing yet.

“So I was right about the pimp suit?” you chuckled. “Well, if you wanna live lavishly like a King then by all means, order whatever you want. Just be careful ‘bout the duck. It’s the fanciest thing on that menu but…”

You waved your hand flat out as if to say so-so.

“Not worth it. The kung pow chicken? Super bomb.”

You relaxed back in your cushions and waited for him to place his order.

“I get more of a switch vibe from you, Juice. But I’ll believe you. I’d be confident with a cool suit too.” You pursed your lips for a moment. “Did you die in that suit or do you get to pick your outfits in the afterlife?”

A switch?

Oh, that was entirely true. Hell, if anything Beej could be a pushover if someone batted their eyes and pursed their lips in the right way. But would he ever admit to it outside of either regular or sexy torture?

Never.

...well, maybe. But he’d have to be either overwhelmingly drunk or high to do so. He didn’t like to admit that there was any part of himself that was anything other than a smooth-talking, dominant, seductive casanova, but he knew that secretly there may have been something that wasn’t wholly dominant about him.

However, he wasn’t about to let this pretty young thing know. Not unless there was a whip or stilettos involved.

“Nah, doll. I'm all daddy.” He thumped his chest at that, shooting you his best smile. Which was more like looking at a pane of broken glass.

“And this old thing? Buried in it, but can change if I want. I just think it adds a certain charm, don’t you agree?”

You giggled, delighted that this old dirt bag used such a trendy title. Sure, older gals used to call men Daddy all the time, but the way he said it wasn’t exactly in that context. It was more like the horny millennial fad.

“You must have been fucking some younger spirits to get that lingo, Daddy-O,” you teased, purposely using the outdated version of the name.

At his narcissistic question, you decided to indulge him just a little bit.

“I like it. Not everyday someone pulls off stripes so well,” you complimented to boost his ego. “If only I could see you properly, but all these little lights can only show me just a little taste.”

Maybe he could light up the room. If you goaded him with compliments… Free utilities were free utilities, man.

“I guess a Daddy does need a suit. Maybe a nice belt…”

Oh, you hoped it was too dark to see your clever little smirk. You liked playing this game with a dead man.

“But it depends on what kinda Daddy you are, Juice. The word is so carelessly used nowadays. So many wimps using it to sound cool.” Woah, hello sudden confidence. It was nice to feel like you weren’t some meek geek. “There are lots of ways to wear the name up here in the living.”

Oh, but he wasn’t going to fold just like that. Even if you were acting so confident, Beej still had enough ego to topple civilizations. Granted, had you taken the lead and pushed him over, that would be a completely different story.

But as it was? He could deal with words.

At least until you either started pointedly giving commands or begging for his cock. Either of those - anything that was explicit and couldn’t just be mistaken for simple flirting - and he would be a goner.

With a snap of his grimy fingers, the lights buzzed and came on. Not with their usual electric glow, but with what almost seemed like candlelight from within. He wasn’t really turning the power on - he was using them to conduct a different light source.

And from there? His suit was all the easier to see. Along with the very obviously hard cock that pressed against the front of those striped slacks.

“How’s about it, dollface? Like what you see?” he purred, running a hand down his body for either your amusement, or for your enjoyment. Depended on whether or not you were just teasing to be a tease, or if you would actually go for a roll in the hay. “Does Daddy measure up to what you were thinking?”

You gawked. You stared! Your eyes were round like dinner plates. That blush burned your face so suddenly that it was an obvious tell. And your heart nearly skipped a beat. That was very unexpected, despite you explicitly trying for this very result.

Beetlejuice was gross. But in a very, very attractive way. A slob with charm.

“O-oh wow,” you murmured. Bashfully, you looked away and grabbed the pillow you were holding earlier. You bit your lower lip. You didn’t find it wrong to embrace being dirty, but part of you felt like it would be too ‘slutty’ of yourself to start flirting harder. The ghost just met you - would you really want to mess with someone who would hit it and quit it?

“That and more,” came the soft reply. “You sure I called a bio-exorcist and not some other dirty line?”

Cautiously, you sat forward in your seat and looked up at him. God, he was cute.

“I can see lots of us living folks calling you up.” You wet your lips eagerly. Then, you paused. And blushed even harder.

It was then that you realized that you were only in your pajamas. No underwear underneath, nada! Just the thin fabric of your shirt and pants. It was pretty revealing in this light if you could look at yourself the way he was leering at you.

“I-I feel very underdressed compared to you… Um. Sh-should I change into something nicer? I, uh, don’t want you to think I look like a trash goblin.”

Oh, he could instantly see that you were hardly wearing anything once the lights flickered on, his eyes doing a full sweep of your body and taking in your warm, plush form as he felt his cock twitch. Hell, it was probably something that was very visible.

A slow grin spread over his face, Beetlejuice leaning in and reaching out to touch your thigh as he gave his lips a long lick. Entirely done just to draw attention to how long and talented his tongue looked. Just wanting to spur you on and encourage the little slut to get up and climb over and onto his lap.

“Oh, not at all. I think you look good enough to eat, babes.”

Slut? Was that already what he was thinking of you as?

Well, given that some of his favorite folks were sluts? Including himself? He thought of slut as a term of honor - the way some folks might call their pals bastards.

Almost immediately, the hand on your thigh slid further inwards, pressing against the clothed flesh of your cunt. Straight to the point. After all, as much as Beetlejuice did love himself some good bush, he hated to beat around it.

His thumb set to stroking you through the thin fabric of your pajama bottoms, the lights beginning to dim a bit more. Grow hazier. Grow more seductive. in line with his mood and actions.

“In fact… I think i could forego dinner for somethin’ sweeter.”

You stared at that tongue for a moment and let your face feel hotter. It was clear you liked what you saw. There was a small piece of your mind telling you not to let some creep get it on the first date, but...

He was cute. Gross. Very, very much so. But he was a poltergeist just looking for fun.

When he touched you, you gasped involuntarily. Your back stiffened along with your now hardened nipples and you froze. What should you say to that bold statement?

“Do you do this to all the humans who summon you or did I catch you in a mood?” you breathed. It wasn’t a denial or a refusal. And from how the thin fabric clung to your wet self, that very much indicated that you were already turned on from the sight of him.

“You haven’t even been here ten minutes and you’re already so handsy.”

You tried to be as playful as you could despite being so nervous.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna skip foreplay and try and get to it… Why, that would be no fun at all, Daddy.”

Oh, you were playing with fire now.

“Well, when I see such a cute little doll, surely you can’t blame me for being so eager to get to know you,” he purred, fingers slipping past the fabric as soon as he could see that you wouldn’t put up a fight and plunging knuckle-deep into your soaked little cunt. Getting a good feel for what he’d be fucking later.

And then you insinuated that he wasn’t gonna give you any foreplay. Beetlejuice didn’t take kindly to that. He may have been a pervert, a scoundrel, a knave, a bastard, a…

He forgot where he was going with that.

Oh, right. he may have been all of those things, but he was also an egotistical prick. Meaning that if he could have someone begging for his cock after being teased for hours, then he would put in the extra effort.

So one of his striped tentacles slipped forward, curling up your shirt to wrap around your tits and mimic fucking them.

“Are you gonna be good and let me have what I want, babes? Or does Daddy have to take it?”

With your cunt throbbing and body aching for his touch, you moaned abruptly as soon as he entered you with those dirty digits. You squirmed and let your tight hole wrap around him, tightening as he played around. The tentacle was what really caught you by surprise. There was a small squeak from your lips and you tensed up before allowing him to continue.

Oh, was he threatening you?

“Well… what happens if I struggle?” you asked curiously. It was clear you were a little freak who enjoyed the idea of both. “Will that tentacle make sure I join you in the afterlife?”

You were pouting a bit up at him. Your body wanted him to continue, that was clear. But you wanted to know which side of the dice to roll.

“I wanna know what Daddy’s capable of - if he’s mean or if he wants to be playful…”

“Depends on how you act, sweetheart. Daddy’d love to just be playful, but if you don’t behave…”

He leaned in at that, rancid breath blowing in cold clouds along your skin as he chuckled to himself. Wondering what your reaction to his next words would be; if they would repulse you, or if you’d be hornier than ever.

Thankfully, he was already buried knuckle-deep in the best lie detector there was when it came to something like that.

“Daddy’s fucked dollies that were unwilling before. That fought and screamed and cried.”

Oh, he didn’t even touch on if he would kill you for not behaving or not. He was a vengeful spirit, of course he would. He knew that there was life after death, so dooming a toy to forever have to be fucked by him? Essentially creating his own undead sex slave? It’d be like heaven for him. honestly, it was kind of a wonder he hadn’t done it yet. Well, he did like it when they were warm, after all.

“But Daddy knows best.”

Your heart started to beat faster at that. You weren't scared - no… quite the opposite. Thrilled? You were playing with a powerful being now. One that could kill you in an instant but was deciding to indulge your dirty fantasies. Maybe he could sense what freaky shit you were into. The more likely thing was that he hadn’t had a proper fuck in awhile and now had a prime toy to test out.

Your cunt constricted around his fingers, being the dead giveaway that he needed that you were indeed a little freak.

“What does Daddy like best? When they cry or when they give in easily?” You watched him closely for a response, your teeth raking over your bottom lip. “I…”

You were very embarrassed at the next words that fell from your lips:

“Wanna make sure ‘m good enough for you and can keep up..”

Beetlejuice grinned at that. Because even if he did enjoy forcing himself upon people and watching as their will slowly drained away until they were nothing but pliant little fuckpuppets… He had to admit to being charmed by obedience. It was pretty rare that people actually begged for him. Most were disgusted by, well, all of him. The only good lays had been at Dante’s and those were paid for. Having a willing, breathing slut? Oh, that was priceless.

And so, he stroked your hair. Rewarding you for being so good for him so far. Good enough to make his cock throb and leak. Leak a nasty green, glowing ooze.

Ectoplasm. It wasn’t just something that the dead produced on their flesh when trying to scare the living. No, since their bodies technically couldn’t produce real cum, it made do with the closest thing it had.

“I like both. but you’re being such a good doll for Daddy. I'm thinking being willing’s gonna be the hottest thing you can do.”

You could see the bulge in his pants, your eyes widening like two full dinner plates. Eagerly, you wet your lips. His fingers were still curling and uncurling in you that you almost found it so unfair that you couldn’t see what he had in his pants. Your imagination was running wild! Was it a tentacle like the one groping your tits? Or maybe it was something even more peculiar? Dude was a straight up ghost! He could have anything.

Whatever it was, you were eager to have it be inside you.

So you sidled up closer to him and gently sat on his lap, not wanting to crush the poor poltergeist under you. You had no idea what his limitations as a now corporeal being really was so you played it safe.

Shyly, you fiddled with his tie and bit your lip, worrying the skin until it broke. How was one supposed to flirt with a ghost that was knuckle-deep in your pussy? God, he was so handsome…

“Good,” you murmured, mouth so dangerously close to his. “I wanna be good for you, Beej.”

#Works of Oz #Writing #Beetlejuice #(Yes I plan to do ALL versions of Beetlejuice for my fics soon!)#Fanfiction

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charcoalmaskclub-blog · 4 years

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welcometothepenumbra · 5 years

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JUNO STEEL AND THE TIME GONE BY (PART ONE)

SOUND: WIND BLOWING. FOOTSTEPS.

THEIA: Caution: radiation detected at. Fatal levels. Turn back. Turn back.

User safety tip: this is. A very bad idea. Suggestion: activate Theia Global Map. To search for shelter.

Caution: I cannot act without user permissions. User permissions are needed. Awaiting user permissions.

JUNO: (GRUNTS)

SOUND: PUNCH.

THEIA: You appear. To be punching your own face. Would you like. Some help with that?

JUNO: Just… shut up… (SIGHS)

SOUND: RUSTLING, THUMP.

THEIA: For your safety. I do not recommend. You lie down. In this location.

THEIA: Reporting potential threats active as of last user scan. Threat one: a massive sandstorm. Threat two: fatal radiation. Threat three: this area of the desert is recognized by the Martian Wildlife Foundation as a protected breeding ground for. Peepers.

JUNO: I said shut up!

SOUND: CHIRPS.

THEIA: Playing previously-downloaded information on peepers.

JUNO: (GROWLS)

THEIA: Native only to the northern deserts of Mars, peepers went uncaptured and unresearched for several centuries after their discovery.

SOUND: MORE CHRIPS.

Above ground, peepers resemble colonies of small, tunneling creatures. Which pop into and out of the ground and make a noise not unlike Earth’s groundhogs or meerkats.

SOUND: MORE CHRIPS.

Researchers assumed these creatures to be individual organisms until three hundred years ago. When the first peeper was successfully brought into captivity. And those small rodent-like structures were discovered to be the sensory organs of a much larger subterranean predator.

SOUND: CRUMBLING, DEEP ROAR.

JUNO: Enh, took you long enough.

SOUND: ROAR, BLASTER SHOT, SQUEAL. QUICK FOOTSTEPS DEPARTING. WIND BLOWING, FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING.

VOICE 1: Hey. Hey, you.

JUNO: Go away, I’m busy.

VOICE 1: Hmph.

SOUND: FABRIC RUSTLING.

JUNO: Hey– hey, what the hell are you doing? Put me down, you– what the hell? I-I know you.

VOICE 1: A correction: I know you. I have been told it is important to speak accurately when beginning a business transaction.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Brown jacket; tough skin, broad shoulders; dark, hard eyes that looked like they’d draw blood if you got too close. This guy had been stalking me since what felt like a lifetime ago, back in Hyperion – and if I’d been scared of him then, seeing him up close only made it clearer how easily those big, scarred hands could snap my neck.

My name’s Juno Steel. And I’m… (SIGHS) just a guy who wanders into near-certain death in the desert and then gives the glad eye to his probable killer.

Y’know, saying that out loud, a lot of criticisms I’ve taken over the years suddenly make a lot more sense.

VOICE 1 [BROWN JACKET]: My hovercycle’s radiation shield is only active when the engine is running. Which means I’m going to go now, and you’re going to come with me.

JUNO: You were watching me… before the museum, and b– and before the subway, you were watch—

No. No, look, I’m done. If you want to spy on me that’s fine, but I don’t care. I’m doin’ this on my own.

JACKET: Dying?

JUNO: That’s… not necessarily the plan, but if that’s the last move I can make solo, then sure, that.

JACKET: (AFTER A PAUSE) He’ll find you, you know.

JUNO: What?

JACKET: The one who gave you that eye. Have you activated it recently?

JUNO: Not for a few hours, but—

JACKET: Then he has your location. He will find you – and whatever’s left of your mind, once the radiation’s done with it.

Unless you come with me.

JUNO: Yeah? Why should I?

JACKET: I know how to remove that cyber-eye from your head. I know how to set you free.

You can get in the sidecar when you’re ready.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS DEPARTING.

JUNO: (GROWLS)

JACKET: Good. Be sure to strap in.

JUNO: Not until you tell me where we’re going.

SOUND: RUSTLING.

Of course! Another man of mystery. Listen, I’ve really had enough of these, so if you can’t even tell me where we’re going I’ll– oof!

SOUND: THUD.

JACKET: I’ll tell you. I was just looking for a helmet in your size.

JUNO: What the… how many helmets do you keep in this bag?

JACKET: Bike safety is important.

SOUND: ZIP.

We’re going to see someone about a job.

JUNO: Very specific, thanks. (HUFFS) Where?

JACKET: Where all of the most important jobs on Mars happen. The Cerberus Province.

SOUND: WHOOSH. ENGINE STARTS.

MUSIC: STARTS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): To be honest, I still wasn’t convinced my mind hadn’t gotten roasted. They say after one hour uncovered from the radioactive sun you start hallucinating, and after five it’s time to say bye-bye to a good chunk of your brain. I’d been out there… well, somewhere between those two options. My watch said it had only been ninety minutes, but on the other hand I wasn’t wearing a watch.

JACKET: So. Do you have a good reason for walking out in the desert? Besides your death wish.

JUNO: Besides my what?

JACKET: It’s well-documented.

JUNO: Documented where?

How long have you been watching me? Is that how you found me out here?

Hello?

JACKET: Hello.

JUNO: (SLOWLY) How long have you been—

JACKET: We are almost at the Cerberus Province. Buddy will answer your questions when you speak with her. If this job is not to your liking, well… back into the desert with you, and you die a free man.

JUNO (NARRATOR): So it was out of the frying pan, into the biggest hideout of thieves and murderers and outlaws in the solar system, I guess.

(SIGHS) We saw the volcanoes first. A ring of ‘em, dusty and dormant. And then, at the center of that ring…

JACKET: The lighthouse.

JUNO: What?

JACKET: The lighthouse activates at night, to guide ships to the spaceport beneath it. I hear before it was installed more ships landed inside volcanoes than was acceptable.

JUNO: So, like… one ship?

THEIA: Would you like to research the number of ships—

JUNO: (MUTTERING) Shut up.

JACKET: I will not. Are you done throwing up, now? It cannot be helping your radiation sickness to stay out here.

JUNO: I think—

JACKET: And if you vomit on my hovercycle I cannot be held responsible for what happens to you next.

JUNO: (SPITS) I think I’m good.

JACKET: Get on, then.

MUSIC: ENDS.

SOUND: WHOOSH. ENGINE RUMBLES.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The lighthouse was huge; an intricate crossing of plates and pipes that looked like somebody had spun a spiderweb from gold, then grabbed its center and pulled it up to scratch the clouds. It was even beautiful, for a minute. Then I wondered if you could see the Piranha’s body from up there, and it just made me feel sick.

The lighthouse wasn’t what I expected from the myths about some ramshackle pirate hideout hidden underneath the desert. According to the stories, the Cerberus Province was more meeting place than city – a non-stop crime convention to trade business cards and thermonuclear weaponry. It didn’t have a Dome, after all. Living there long-term would’ve been suicide.

But the lighthouse didn’t line up with the stories. Neither did the Cerberus Province itself, once we slipped underground to see it.

JUNO: What the hell are all those?

JACKET: Do you mean the buildings, or the tents?

JUNO: I-I don’t know, both?

JACKET: Well. Some are buildings, and some are tents.

JUNO: I-I know that! I mea—

Look, that lady’s drying sheets on a balcony. That’s a grocery stand in a brick house. That guy’s taking his clothes out of a laundromat!

JACKET: It is very dusty on Mars.

JUNO: Wh-why do they live down here? Nobody lives down here. Nobody.

JACKET: Not by choice. When we land it is imperative that you stay close to me and not look too long at anyone else’s property.

SOUND: ENGINE STOPS. CROWD NOISE, MUSIC FADES IN.

JUNO (NARRATOR): When he was done parking we walked out into the street. The buildings and tents I’d seen from above were thick here, people packed elbow to elbow, vendors shouting into the streets.

CROWD VOICES (IN BACKGROUND): Peepers! Getcha pickled peepers over here! Plutonian candy! Delicious Plutonian candy, Plutonium extra!

JUNO (NARRATOR): You get so lost in a place like that you forget you’re part of it, until it reaches out and grabs you.

VOICE 2: Please.

JUNO: Ah!

VOICE 2: Please, you will help me. You will help me. The teecket they give me, the teecket, it is false!

JUNO: Uh-uh, ticket? I-I-I don’t—

VOICE 2: I have moneys. On Susano-o I am doctor, do you know this place? Bank account, years, interest thirty, I have… I have… Please, please, Tammono, you will help me, you will help me!

JUNO (NARRATOR): The woman was wearing a mask, but I’d knocked it crooked in my surprise, and… underneath…

Her skin, it… (SIGHS) God, it looked so painful. Big plates of cracking charcoal crust on a plane of soft, raw, red and gray. She looked burned, or… melting, or both. Long-term radiation damage. The kind of stuff they showed us in old academy videos and promised we’d never actually see. Th-that you’d have to be crazy to stay outside a Dome long enough to get it.

All of a sudden I noticed there were people all over the street wearing masks like that, people by the dozens that must’ve been covered in those burns, and if that many people needed those masks, maybe crazy wasn’t the problem.

Then Brown Jacket grabbed me by the shoulder and kept me moving.

JACKET: Juno. We have to leave now.

VOICE 2: Moneys I have, sir! Please, your vehicle, your vehicle!

JUNO: …What?

JACKET: I told you not to look too long at anyone else’s property.

JUNO: P-property?

JACKET: That bulge beneath that woman’s sleeve? A blood filtration bracelet – what some call a debtor’s tag. She is serving an indentured servitude to pay for her healthcare. If you attempt to do as she says, her treatment will end, and she will die.

JUNO: But… you’re just gonna let that—

JACKET: I have no choice. That woman is finished. She took an illegal ride to the Solar planets, became ill, and sold herself to live a few years longer. It is a common mistake.

JUNO: But her skin… how long has she been paying?

JACKET: I have seen similar surface-level symptoms manifest within two years.

JUNO: Surface-level. Yeah, sure, that sounds great.

JACKET: Not five hours ago getting too involved in a city’s politics nearly killed you. Do you really want to make the same mistake so soon?

JUNO: I…

No. No, I guess not.

JACKET: Good.

Now please. Get in this dumpster.

JUNO: What?

JACKET: I’m afraid I must insist.

JUNO: H-hey, put me down—

SOUND: THUD. PLASTIC RUSTLING, BOTTLES CLINKING.

Ah! What the hell was that for?!

JACKET: Have you used any of your eye’s special functions since we entered the Cerberus Province?

JUNO: What? I ha– I haven’t—

JACKET: In the interest of fairness, I should tell you that if you have, I will be forced to crush your head with this dumpster lid.

JUNO: How is that any fairer— whoa, whoa, whoa, there! No, I-I haven’t used it. You said that’s how Ramses is gonna track me, right?

JACKET: That is good. And yet we are being followed.

JUNO: What?

JACKET: Quiet. Listen. There is a figure behind me, slight, wearing a black hood. Do you see their face?

JUNO: No, it’s… covered by a scarf. They could’ve just come in from outside. They’ve got sand all over—

JACKET: Their clothes have sand – but not their boots. It’s a disguise. We may have to relocate our meeting.

I am going to step into this shop and buy a large decaffeinated Jovian tea with two sugars. You will stay here and watch to see what they do.

JUNO: Wait, is th– is the tea some kind of code? What does it mean?

JACKET: It means I am thirsty. It is large because I am very thirsty, and decaffeinated because I have a predisposition to addictive—

JUNO: Okay, yeah, I get it. Just go get your stupid tea, I’ll watch the road.

JACKET: Thank you.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I had to hand it to Brown Jacket: he was right. As soon as we stopped moving our hooded tagalong stopped, too.

SOUND: BELL JINGLES.

She sat at a roadside stand and looked over the menu, flipping pages too quickly to read ‘em. I knew a tail when I saw one.

Jacket came back out a minute later sucking down something that smelled like gasoline with two sugars.

SOUND: BELL JINGLES. FOOTSTEPS.

JACKET: The deed is done.

JUNO: What deed?

SOUND: SMALL EXPLOSION.

CROWD VOICES: (YELLS) Sintoloo ga voo?! The hell?

VOICE 3: Baweebis! Baweebis!

VOICE 4: What the hell are they trying to say?

VOICE 5: They’re saying hood, hood! I think they saw whoever planted the bomb!

VOICE 3: Gawoosh! Baweebis, baweebis!

VOICE 4: Is that them? Is that the low-life that blew up my store?

VOICE 3: Baweeeeeeeeeeebis!

VOICE 4: Outer Rim bum! Learn to talk right!

Hey, she’s getting away! Get her!

JUNO: …Wow.

Did you pay them to say that?

JACKET: No. I paid the other customer to translate anything they said as ‘hood.’

JUNO: But if this place has so many people from the Outer Rim—

JACKET: There are too many languages spoken on the Outer Rim to keep up with. We have large communities from Balder. Yama.

JUNO: Susano-o.

JACKET: Indeed. And besides: they lost. Now take these.

SOUND: KEYS JINGLING.

JUNO: Keys?

JACKET: When the commotion settles, you will remove yourself from the garbage, go down this alley, and take your second left. You will look for the analog lock that matches this key, and you will wait for me there – at the lighthouse.

JUNO: The lighthouse? Really? You have the key to that big tower—

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS DEPARTING.

Hey! Hey, where the hell are you goin’?

JACKET: (FADING) To ensure the area is secure. Now be silent. Dumpsters cannot speak in the Cerberus Province.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I did what the big guy told me to do. Waited a few minutes for the dust to settle, and when I was pretty sure nobody was watching me I went down the alley.

The lighthouse was on the edge of town, and the closer I got the more radiation-ravaged the place looked. But there were no warning signs, no public health notices, just an advertisement:

VOICE 6 (FROM SPEAKER): Feeling itchy? Hearing things? Gamma rays got you down? Visit the Cerberus Board of Fresh Starts for your Blood Filtration Bracelet today! No down payment required!

JUNO (NARRATOR): The, uh… lighthouse came soon after.

SOUND: KEYS JINGLE. DOOR CREAKS.

The inside was a bar: dark wood, plush cushions. Even the dust looked nice, which was good, because there was a hell of a lot of it. I helped myself to an unmarked, extremely potent-looking bottle behind the bar and took a seat to examine it more closely with my eyes, mouth, and liver.

JUNO: Here’s lookin’ at you, lighthouse. Seems like both of us are back from the grave.

SOUND: ICE CUBES CLINK.

VOICE 7: If you keep stealing my wares, darling—

JUNO: (CHOKES)

VOICE 7: —I’ll return you to that grave myself.

SOUND: CLUNK.

That’s ten thousand creds of fine liquor you’ve just spilled. A life like yours, I’d think you’d be a little more careful about putting yourself into debt with a stranger.

SOUND: MECHANICAL WHIR.

MUSIC: STARTS.

JUNO: (CHOKING) Who the hell are you?

VOICE 7: The person you’re here to meet. Now go get yourself a drink. I’ll be taking this one.

JUNO: Hey, that was mine—

VOICE 7: And now it isn’t.

SOUND: ICE CUBES CLINKING.

It’s nothing personal, darling; I just have a natural tendency towards envy and I’ve always believed in doing what feels natural. Like now, for example: it feels natural for me to say I’ll pay you the ten thousand creds you owe me if you shut up and get yourself a drink.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The woman who’d just taken my drink was a bombshell. By which I mean she looked extremely dangerous and made a hell of an entrance. She had big plumes of flame-red hair trailing over her neck and half her face, and a dress so avant-garde I would’ve believed her if she said she got it next year. The first thing she did when she sat down was put a blaster on the table in front of her and, in the process, reveal she had another one, two knives, and what looked like a grenade strapped to her leg.

She looked ready for a war. Hell, she looked ready to fight on both sides.

SOUND: BOTTLE UNCORKS.

JUNO: So you’re the big guy’s buddy?

SOUND: CLUNK. LIQUID POURING.

VOICE 7: That’s what he called me? His buddy?

JUNO: I’m sure he’ll be disappointed to hear you disagree.

SOUND: CLUNK.

VOICE 7: I don’t. It’s just funny of him. Fine, you can call me the same. Buddy.

JUNO: Seems a little early for that.

VOICE 7 [BUDDY]: I’m friendly.

JUNO: And him?

BUDDY: He’s not interested.

JUNO: No, I mean, what’s his—

BUDDY: Besides, we aren’t here to talk about him; we’re here to talk about you. Juno Steel: ex-cop, ex-patsy for Ramses O’Flaherty, currently extremely unemployed and not taking it very well. You’ve got an eye problem, and I don’t mean like glaucoma. You’ve just spent a few months being someone else’s stooge – or thirty-eight years, depending on how you count it – and you’re just about ready to stooge stag. That’s where we come in.

What’s the matter? Did I get any of that wrong?

JUNO: No. That’s what’s the matter.

BUDDY: Oh, I’m sorry. Why don’t you pour us both a drink and I’ll try not to upset you so much, darling? What’s the danger in just… sitting and listening?

JUNO: No, you know what? I’m tired of listening. It’s someone else’s turn to listen. Got it? The second it looks like you’re trying to get me to do something I don’t like, I’m walking out into the desert with a beach towel and no sunscreen. The second. ‘Cause I am not trading one smooth psychopath for another, you got me, I am not—

BUDDY: I hear you. I’m stubborn, not deaf. Sit.

SOUND: CREAK.

JUNO: Hmph.

BUDDY: There. Doesn’t this feel so much more civilized?

JUNO: Gotta say, Buddy, I kinda walked into the desert to get away from civilized.

BUDDY: I know. And that was a very big move. Made me act faster than I planned to, but… you got lucky, and a position opened up a little earlier than expected.

JUNO: Position? That’s why you’ve been watching me.

BUDDY: Gainful employment. A lot to gain, too.

JUNO: I’m not walkin’ into any more bad contracts or big debts.

BUDDY: And you don’t have to. Like I said, I always keep my business partners happy, Juno. And unlike your two-bit former employer over at the Vixen Valley, I know that doesn’t come by force. Father always said, there are only two ways to keep the chickens in the coop: either build a big wall, or make them never want to leave.

JUNO: Didn’t think there were many farmers on Mars.

BUDDY: He was a prison warden, actually. Incredibly popular with his inmates. A bit less popular with Dark Matters.

JUNO: Rest in peace.

BUDDY: Yes, I would assume the rest of him is in one piece, but we never found it. Regardless, Juno, my point: scouting the talent I want is something I take very seriously, and you are only one name on a very, very long list. If you do not want this job, don’t waste my time. The only reason you’re here now is because I need three people, my third missed his flight to Mars, and you happened to be available.

JUNO: Wow, you sure do know how to make a lady feel special.

BUDDY: I know how to make a special lady feel special. Maybe if you’re very good that’ll be you.

Now, a toast. To a new, and brighter, future—no, no. (CHUCKLES) I’m guessing we’ve both had entirely too much of that. To… letting go. Moving on.

JUNO: Sure. To moving on.

SOUND: GLASS CLINKS.

BUDDY: Hm.

Now.

SOUND: MECHANICAL WHIR.

The job.

MUSIC: CHANGES.

As I think you’ve already gathered, our work isn’t exactly on the spotless side of the law. My friend and I work in the craft of what we call “relocation services.”

JUNO: Which I’m guessing means you relocate other people’s things to your pockets.

BUDDY: My, you are quick. They aren’t always things, but… spot-on.

JUNO: So is that what you need me for, some kind of heist? ‘Cause I—

BUDDY: No, no, the heist has been finished for weeks. It’s the sale, darling. We need you to help us with the sale.

JUNO: You… want me to work the cash register on your black market deal?

JACKET: The sale is the most dangerous part of any job in the Cerberus Province.

JUNO: Ah! Where the hell did you come from?!

JACKET: The door.

BUDDY: Do try and focus, Juno. Yes, the sale. This town is crawling with undercover law enforcement and people who expect you to do your work for free but don’t feel like telling you ahead of time, and neither sits particularly well with me. So, we’re going to make certain we get paid, or else we're not handing over anything.

JUNO: Yeah, okay. And speaking of which, what are we selling?

BUDDY: The sale’s in three hours, in this bar. We’ve agreed to meet somewhere public, which means within the next three hours we’ll have to make this place public. We’re opening it for business.

JUNO: We’re– wait. You own the lighthouse?

BUDDY: Just the first floor. I couldn’t sell it if I wanted to, honestly; too much radiation leaks in through the roof for anyone to want it. At any rate, once we open, my big friend is going to work the bar; you’re going to play sad drunk at one of those tables by the door.

JACKET: You will be drinking carbonated tea. Focus will be crucial.

JUNO: Sounds like a fun party.

BUDDY: While the buyer and I make the exchange, you will watch the crowd and contact me on covert comms if you notice anyone acting strangely. We take no chances here, do you understand? This is too important.

JUNO: Okay, but what are we sell—

BUDDY: Hopefully it all goes off without a hitch and you get paid for sitting around and enjoying some tea. Then we’ll show you how to remove that eye, and you can decide whether this kind of work interests you.

JUNO: I feel like I could answer that question a lot faster for you if I knew what we were selling.

BUDDY: There’s no need to get snippy, Juno. You only needed to ask. Show him.

SOUND: CLUNK.

We will be selling this briefcase.

JUNO: And… what’s inside the briefcase?

BUDDY: Oh, that’s none of your concern.

JUNO: Well, if I wasn’t concerned before, I sure as hell am now! Listen, I told you, if you make me do anything—

SOUND: THUD. GLASS CLINKS.

JACKET: You listen.

SOUND: MECHANICAL WHIR.

MUSIC: STOPS.

BUDDY: Thank you. I understand the word of an outlaw probably doesn’t mean much to you, Juno – but it will mean even less if you don’t let me finish a sentence.

JUNO: Hmph.

BUDDY: You can’t have it both ways. You can’t both know everything and live a life just for yourself. You understand that, don’t you?

SOUND: MECHANICAL WHIR.

MUSIC: STARTS.

If you aren’t sure you want to stay here? Then don’t stay. Don’t get involved. That’s how Hyperion hurt you, isn’t it? I don’t think that’s your fault, of course. That’s just what cities do. Once you get attached to somewhere or someone… you can’t break apart without leaving some of yourself behind.

JUNO: The hell is that sappy music coming from, anyways? It’s driving me nuts.

BUDDY: What mu– oh, that. Darling, would you?

JACKET: (GRUNTS)

SOUND: THUNK. MECHANICAL WHIR.

MUSIC: STOPS.

BUDDY: Thank you. Semi-Autonomous Music Machines. They’re all over the province and they all act like this. You’ll tune them out eventually.

JUNO: A-alright, so. You want me to watch the door while you make your trade-off. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious—

JACKET: Don’t use your eye.

JUNO: Yeah, thanks, I got that. Anything else?

BUDDY: Just one thing. Give him his weapon.

SOUND: CLANK.

JUNO: There’s… no stun on this.

JACKET: Laserproof vests are too common in these jobs. That will punch through them.

JUNO: So you just want me to kill someone? Just ‘cause you say so?

BUDDY: I assure you that if anything goes wrong, he’ll deserve it.

JUNO: But—

BUDDY: Then don’t. Use your last few hours of freedom and walk to an early death in the desert, based on the fear that something might go wrong, you might have to shoot, and the shot you fire might kill them. But those seem like silly odds to throw your life away on.

My business and my past are my concerns, Juno. Just do the job, and don’t get involved. Then, you go and do whatever it is you want to.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Don’t get involved.

I kept repeating that to myself for the next three hours, as we cleaned the place up and opened the doors and let the crowd filter in. The gun was heavy in my pocket. I wished I’d taken my blaster off the Piranha, but it was too late. She was gone. The whole life I’d known her in was gone.

And meanwhile, in this life, the sale was just a few minutes away. I sat at my table by the door and watched the crowd mob the bar, the big guy toss drinks, and Buddy schmooze like she knew everyone here personally.

SOUND: CROWD CHATTER IN BACKGROUND.

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): I’ve just received confirmation that he’ll be here shortly. Anything strange on either of your ends?

JUNO: Uh, yea– yeah, now that you mention it, I’ve been meaning to have a dermatologist take a—

JACKET (FROM COMMS): Do not complete this joke, Juno, or you will regret it.

JUNO: Oookay.

JACKET (FROM COMMS): There is nothing over here.

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Juno?

JUNO (NARRATOR): I listened in to the crowd around me, all the faces and costumes of crime, and I didn’t hear anything weird about them – but plenty about Buddy.

CROWD VOICES: (OVERLAPPING) Buddy’s back! Buddy, sha, Buddy! The Lighthouse, open again! Has anyone seen Buddy? She was always the talk of the town, I hear… Buddy Aurinko, after all this time!

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Juno?

JUNO: (QUIETLY) Buddy Aurinko…? (NORMAL VOLUME) Hang on, is your name actually Buddy?

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): That’s what I told you to call me, isn’t it?

JUNO: So, what, is his name actually The Big Guy?

JACKET (FROM COMMS): That would be absurd.

JUNO: Then what is it?

JACKET (FROM COMMS): We are not there yet.

JUNO: We’re not at names?

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Quiet, you two! He’s just come in the door! Do you see him, Juno?

JUNO: Uh, little guy, gray monosuit, kinda looks like he’s allergic to light?

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): That’s the one.

JUNO: Doesn’t look like a crime boss. Too nervous.

JACKET (FROM COMMS): Not a good sign.

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Experience suggests that that might just be his face, actually.

VOICE 8 (FROM COMMS): Eh… what was that?

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Ah, there you are, Mister Rasbach. It’s been too long.

VOICE 8 [RASBACH] (FROM COMMS): We… spoke yesterday, I think?

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Yes, but you are late, and that does mean it’s been too long, doesn’t it?

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): (NERVOUS LAUGH) Ah, I- uh, I see. You must excuse me, Miss Buddy, both my tardiness and my uncomprehending. Solar is not my… language initial.

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): I’m only razzing you, Razzy. You manage much better here than I would on Balder, I’m sure. Please, sit. Would you like a drink? Two drinks? You’ll have to forgive me for trying to upsell you, but, a small business owner has to keep her claws sharp.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): It… does not appear you starve of the business. Yesterday this bar was not even in operation, and today—

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): I’ve been away a long time, and I’m impatient. Surely you know how that is. I imagine you must miss Balder terribly.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): Is so… is so. (NERVOUS LAUGH) And yet, there are the creds to be made in these planets Solar, yes? A business top profitable. Do you know how it is to support a family, Miss Buddy?

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): I pick my own family, Raz, and the first thing I make sure of is that they can support themselves.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): Perhaps is so, here, but on the Outer Rim, after the War? This is not always possible. My planetmen, they desperate, eh? They take the first ship from Balder they can find, they swallow the poisoning radiation, they need the healthcare to live. And so we give them this support… for the price. We support them, them support we – is cycle top beautiful, I think.

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Do you mind if we get on with this? I have customers to attend to.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): Of course.

(CLEARS THROAT) Shall we… ah, show the wares?

JACKET (FROM COMMS): Watch the crowd, Juno. This is the moment.

SOUND: CLICK, HISS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): I wanted to see what the hell was in that briefcase, but… I tried to remember what Buddy told me. It was none of my business. Don’t get involved.

So instead I scanned the crowd. And that’s when I saw her come in through the back door.

JUNO: Big guy, our friend with the hood from earlier just showed up. Didn’t you say you lost her?

JACKET (FROM COMMS): What is she doing?

JUNO: Nothin’ yet.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): This is really… the Curemother. You have it!

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Now. You pay me, you take this, and your group makes just oodles and oodles of money for you to send back to all the little orphans and victims and puppy-dogs on Balder, or whatever your story is today. Do you even have children, Razzy, or is it all just a story?

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): Does it affect our business, whether or not ‘tis so?

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): I suppose not.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): Hm. Now, the transaction. We will be using my comms, as agreed.

SOUND: BEEPS.

Security transactional set to the audio, then the fingerprint.

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Are we ready?

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): You read the bill of sale first, yes? Ensure is no confusion.

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Alright…

JUNO: You see her, Buddy?

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): (UNDER HER BREATH) Ah, yes. Over by the music machine, not moving.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): Ah, u-uh– what?

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Oh, forgive me, Razzy. A Solar colloquialism: if something is ‘by the machine and not moving,’ that means it’s straightforward. The money is to be transferred directly from your account to mine, and the key to the Curemother’s briefcase from my account to yours.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): Ah. I-I have not heard this expression before.

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): And you never will again. I, Buddy Aurinko, consent to this transaction. And the fingerprint…

SOUND: BEEP.

Your turn.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): A-ah, thank you.

JUNO: She’s moving. Buddy, you’ve got someone coming right at you!

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): I, Rasbach the Eldest, Agent Acquisitional of the Cerberus Board of Fresh Starts—

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): What’s your game, Rasbach?

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): My name? Miss Buddy, I was just saying…

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Finish it, then. Quickly.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): I conzent to this transaction.

SOUND: BEEP.

There. Is done.

JUNO: He did it? Wait, really?

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): It appears so, yes.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): Well. The business well done.

JUNO: Buddy, look out! She’s right on top of you!

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): Well, Miss Buddy. It has been a plea— (CHOKING)

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Rasbach!

JUNO (NARRATOR): The hooded woman ran up behind Rasbach and without a sound a knife appeared in her hand. Then it disappeared again… into Rasbach’s back.

RASBACH (FROM COMMS): Who… who?

VOICE 9 (FROM COMMS): (GROWLS)

SOUND: THUNK.

You! Give me the briefcase.

JUNO: Stall her. We’re on our way.

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): Stay where you are, the both of you.

You don’t have the key to this. What do you plan to do? Break it open?

VOICE 9 (FROM COMMS): If you’re real, just give it. If not… get out!

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): You could damage what’s inside if you do, and then what use will it be? You– sound familiar. Do I know you?

VOICE 9 (FROM COMMS): I said get out! (GROWLS)

SOUND: METAL CLANGS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): Then they were really at it. Hood took quick jabs, lots of ‘em, but Buddy was quick too, working that briefcase like a shield too precious for her attacker to stab. It was a good defense, but Buddy’s back was almost to the wall, and it wasn’t gonna be good much longer.

So Buddy raised her gun to turn the tide, but, with her focus split for just that half-second, Hood slashed at her fingers with the knife. Some people would’ve kept the briefcase instead of their hand, I thought. But Buddy wasn’t one of ‘em. She let go, and Hood had it before it hit the ground.

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): She has the briefcase, but I can’t get a clear shot with all these people!

JACKET (FROM COMMS): She’s running towards you, Juno. You know what to do.

JUNO (NARRATOR): My stomach and shooting-hand hardened. Still the same old Juno Steel, I thought. The Proctor, Swift, Pollock, Pilot, the Piranha – someone says shoot, and I say who’s next?

The thought made me sick. I was tired. I was just so, so tired of making the same old mistakes, again and again.

SOUND: RUNNING FOOTSTEPS.

VOICE 9: Get out of my way!

JUNO (NARRATOR): So I made a new one instead.

VOICE 9: Move!

JUNO: No!

JUNO & VOICE 9: (GRUNTS)

BUDDY (FROM COMMS): What do you think you’re doing, Juno? Do you want her to stab you?

SOUND: BLADE CLANG.

JUNO: (PAINED) Too late.

VOICE 9: Move or I’ll kill you.

JUNO: Lady, if you knew the kinda week I’ve had you’d understand why that doesn’t scare me much.

SOUND: LOUD BLASTER SHOT. CROWD SCREAMS, RUNS OUT.

JACKET: This is an emergency situation. All customers must leave immediately.

SOUND: CLATTERING.

JUNO (NARRATOR): The diversion was just enough to distract her for a second, so I tried to take a swing at her. She was too fast for me and my fingers missed her face but grabbed her scarf, and she… did not like that.

VOICE 9: (HOWLS)

JUNO (NARRATOR): I could see why she’d covered herself, because she had a look too memorable for covert ops: bright green hair and bright, wild eyes. But, I didn’t know her.

Buddy did, though.

BUDDY: Vespa?!

JUNO (NARRATOR): Green hair looked back, panicked, her eyes darting. She pulled so hard her sleeve came up and I saw what was on her wrist.

A debtor’s tag, for indentured servants. Just like that Outer Rim woman in the market. And hers had something written on it: Vespa I., five.

Vespa was in a cold sweat. She looked like she was gonna be sick.

VOICE 9 [VESPA]: Not… real… you’re not… real!

BUDDY: Vespa, it’s you! I thought you were—

VESPA: You’re not real! Get out of my head! (FERAL GROWL)

JUNO: (PAINED GRUNT)

SOUND: RUNNING FOOTSTEPS DEPARTING.

BUDDY: Vespa! Come back!

JACKET: Buddy… she’s gone.

BUDDY: She can’t be gone. I saw her, I swear, I saw her!

JUNO: You’re gonna need to slow down a little for the murder victim by the door, Buddy. Who the hell is Vespa?

BUDDY: She’s… a dead woman. I saw her… die. But now she’s—

Vespa! Vespa?!

SOUND: RUNNING FOOTSTEPS DEPARTING.

JUNO: Should we follow them?

JACKET: That depends. Are you injured enough that running will cause your organs to fall out of your body?

JUNO: Uh, not that bad, but pretty—

JACKET: Then we hide the briefcase and Rasbach’s corpse in the back room first. Then we follow. Quickly.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

***

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS.

JUNO (NARRATOR): We searched the streets for an hour, but Vespa was gone.

SOUND: KEYS JINGLE. DOOR CREAKS.

JUNO: Ow, ow… ow, ow.

JACKET: You make that noise a lot, don’t you.

JUNO: Ohhh, sorry, does it bother you? Don’t mind me, I’m just the guy who’s been playing peekaboo with his large intestine for the past hour— OW, ow, ow.

JACKET: You said your organs would not fall out.

JUNO: It was a joke! Do big caveman get joke?

JACKET: I do not know. I have never met one.

BUDDY: Stop it. Immediately.

SOUND: DOOR OPENS.

Where’s the briefcase?

JACKET: We left it in the back room.

BUDDY: I remember you saying that, but it isn’t here. And neither is Rasbach.

Well. It seems our sale was completed after all.

JACKET: He took the Curemother?

JUNO: He didn’t die?!

JACKET: But more importantly: we have the money?

BUDDY: He couldn’t take it even if he wanted to. Both of us would have to consent to another transaction. All sales final.

JUNO: So it-it’s done. The sale’s done. It sounds like it… worked out, right?

BUDDY: Do business with a glorified slave-trader once, then wash my hands of it for good. That was the plan. So yes, everything went according to plan. But… Vespa.

Karma comes in all shapes, doesn’t it?

JACKET: Buddy…

BUDDY: Her debtor’s tag, Juno. What number was on it?

JUNO: What?

BUDDY: I know she had one. I’ve been thinking about it for an hour and that’s the only option that makes sense. Just… tell me what it said.

MUSIC: STARTS.

JUNO: It-it was, uh… five.

BUDDY: Five?

Five years… I can’t…

Thank you for not shooting her, Juno. I’ve already lost her once. Losing her again… I think that would be the end of me.

(DEEP BREATH) The number on the debtor’s tag is the number of years they’ve been… owned. Vespa has been in the Cerberus Province without rest for five years. It’s a miracle that the radiation hasn’t killed her, unless… five years… Vespa, where have you been?

JUNO (NARRATOR): You could tell from the look in Buddy Aurinko’s eyes that the number of years wasn’t what bothered her. It could’ve been five months or five weeks or five minutes, and all it would’ve amounted to is the same thing: she felt hope, and she was terrified of it. The presumed-dead were walking in the Cerberus Province, and that was a nightmare. Because there’s peace when hope finally dies, when it stops moving and you can nail the coffin shut.

Buddy looked like she’d won that peace the hard way.

But there was movement in that coffin now, something pounding the lid from the inside, and if the old hope was so hard to bury the first time… who knew what kind of damage it could do the second.

MUSIC: ENDS.

***

SOUND: TRAIN MOVING, MUSIC.

CONDUCTOR: If you’ve enjoyed this tale, please consider donating to The Penumbra on Patreon. Our artists work tirelessly to bring you these stories, and if you have the means, we hope you will support our efforts. Every dollar helps. You can find that page at patreon.com/thepenumbrapodcast. If you support us on Patreon at the $10 level or higher, you’ll receive access to commentary tracks like this one, from actors Joshua Ilon, Sarah Gazdowicz, Alexander Stravinski, and co-creator Sophie Kaner:

SOUND: TRAIN STOPS, DOOR SLIDES OPEN, RAIN.

SARAH: Um, I would say that I pretty much went as straight as I could with—

SOPHIE: (LAUGHS)

SARAH: —the suggestion– okay. Okay, okay. OKAY.

SOPHIE & JOSHUA: (LAUGH)

SARAH: No, I-I think I was predominantly influenced by the, the note that I was given about the character, which was – oh, like a Katharine Hepburn being, like, a major influence or source for the- how the voice should sound. And then the struggle began with maintaining it, not making…

SOUND: DOOR SLIDES SHUT.

CONDUCTOR: Did you know that The Penumbra has merchandise for sale? It’s true! The Penumbra has partnered with DFTBA to bring you the posters, shirts, and pins your heart desires. Just go to dftba.com and search for The Penumbra Podcast.

We would like to give special thanks to all who support us on Patreon, but especially to Regan, Ko, KC, Atha Lang, Vron, Charlie Spiegel, Minchowski, Jaimie Gunter, and the Princess and the Scrivener for their incredibly generous contributions per episode. Thank you.

This tale, Juno Steel and the Time Gone By, was told by the following people: Joshua Ilon as Juno Steel, Alexander Stravinski as the Man in the Brown Jacket, Sarah Gazdowicz as Buddy Aurinko, William Schuller as Rasbach, and Chloe Cunha as Vespa.

The Penumbra is created and produced by Sophie Kaner and Kevin Vibert. If you wish to know more about our ever-expanding, infinitely-creative team of artists, musicians, editors, designers, and managers, you can read about them in the show notes of this episode.

I’m afraid this is the end of the line for today, dear Traveler. We hope you will ride with The Penumbra again soon.

ALL SOUNDS: FADE OUT.

#juno steel

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g-on-ef · 6 years

Text

A Dangerous Mind

Kinktober 3: Edge play || Bakumomo

A/N: Another dark one ^^;

Momo stared at the man who once held her heart, the man who vowed to become a strong hero and surpass All Might in shock and in fear.

In the end, he was nothing more than a snake. Hiding his true intentions from the beginning and only revealing them when she, Izuku, Shouto, Iida, and Kirishima came to ‘rescue’ him from the villains.

It turned out that he, Shouto, and Izuku were part of the League of Villains all along and stealing Bakugou was just part of a plan to bring as many students from class 1-A so that they could show the heroes that no matter how hard they try they couldn’t protect their students.

It broke her heart when she watched Bakugou and Izuku take Iida down while Shouto froze Kirishima in ice.

When the man in the mask put both Iida and Kirishima in his little marbles he turned to Momo and asked what they should do with her.

Momo was paralyze with fear, she could hear herself yell at her to get her body to move, to activate her quirk to do something but the fear she was feeling was all stronger than her desire to defend herself as she felt her body shaking.

“Nothing,” Bakugou’s voice, despite knowing what he really was still had the effect to calm her down.

“You’re joking right? We should go ahead and kill her,” Toga said pulling out a knife. Bakugou, Midoriya, and Todoroki glared at the blond while Tomura stared at the girl or better yet at his cousin.

He’s kept an eye on her since the Master told him that his grandmother had two children and were separated when the little sister-his aunt-was adopted by a rich family.

She had a strong quirk, came from a rich family that loved her, and was dating one of his own.

While a part of him did want to kill her because she looked so much like his grandmother another part wanted her to live, only because she was the only living relative he had left.

Plus, if she died at their hands Bakugou and Todoroki would go off the rails and Dabi would do anything to protect his little brother and Midoriya would kill anyone who laid a hand on his precious ice prince’s hair and of course Twice and Spinner would side with Dabi since the three for some strange reason became good friends.

Taking a deep breath Tomura walked up to the girl who was trying to make herself appear small.

“Momo Yaoyorozu,”

Charcoal grey eyes stared into crimson blood ones.

“Bakugou,”

The blond stood at attention and Shigiraki could see the boy was waiting to see if he was going to attack or obey an order, either way he was not going to let any harm come to Momo.

“Take her to your room, the heroes will be here any second and we need to be prepared for any surprise attacks,”

Momo could see Bakugou’s shoulders relaxing and his eyes filled with relief as he walked over to her, grabbing her hand he pulled her to the back door.

The trip to his room was one filled with silence, Momo had to do something, anything to get away from these people and warn the heroes, she also had to figure a way to get her friends from that man.

Lost in her thoughts she didn’t realized they were in Bakugou’s room, or that Bakugou was already undressing her and handcuffing her hands.

She only became aware of her surroundings when Katsuki slapped her ass.

The poor girl let out a small shriek and saw that they were in his room. She felt a light breeze on her body, looking down she saw that she was stripped of all her clothing.

Embarrassed Momo tried to cover herself but saw that Katsuki chained her to the floor.

“Kat…Katsuki what the hell?”

Bakugou stared at his beautiful girlfriend naked as the day she was born, chained to the floor. Walking up to her he caressed her cheek.

“I heard that a Nomu hurt you, I’m glad to see that you are alright,”

Momo felt her heart being filled with love knowing that Bakugou was worried for her made her broken heart repair itself and beat with joy.

She quickly ignored these feelings and turned her face away from his touch despite her heart begging her to let him hold her.

Katsuki didn’t even look surprise if anything he was sure that her reaction was going to be either anger or disappointment. Still it was good to see that she was okay.

Still, it’s been three days and Bakugou misses his princess.

“Kneel,”

“What?”

“Did I fucking stuttered? I said kneel,”

Momo’s face became a dark shade of red before she did as she was told, both Momo and Bakugou had a healthy sex life especially when they both admitted that they wanted to explore BDSM a bit and Bakugou being the Dom that he was wanted his pretty little princess to kneel down before him.

He smirked and was proud that his darling was still being her cute submissive self.

He stripped off his clothes and walked up to her.

“Alright Princess we are gonna do something a little different today,”

Momo looked at him, trying so hard to stop herself from drooling at his God like body.

Bakugou grabbed a remote and turned the TV behind him, Momo lean to the right to see what was on. Her eyes widen in fear as she saw a very beaten Mineta struggling to remain unconscious.

“Wh-what…Katsuki what did you do?!”

Bakugou smirked as he looked into her eyes full of fear and panic while she may have hated Mineta she wouldn’t wish him to suffer at least to the point where he was fighting a battle to remain conscious. He looked at the screen where the grape hair freak was struggling to keep his eyes open. Kidnapping him was easy to do, all he had to do was get one of Twice’s clones to disguise themselves a pretty girl and boom! He and Togoa grabbed him and have been torturing him for the longest time.

“I always hated the perve, always looking at you like you were some piece of meat and trying so hard to feel your body or look at you naked without your knowledge, I don’t even know why the fuck UA gave him a spot in the hero course then again, that school has downgraded a lot since Dabi went there,”

He turned to look at his Beauty’s face and saw how scared she was at the situation.

“Wh-what do you want?”

Bakugou grabbed her chin making her look him in the eyes.

“You my pretty are gonna ride me and make me cum, if you can’t do that in exactly five minutes then well I let my boy Spinner know he can kill the wannabe hero, see he hates pervs more than I do and he will make sure he suffers a slow and painful death.

Tears welled up in her eyes, Bakugou had great self-control and it took her cumming twice before he came.

“Fi-five minutes? Katsuki I don’t think-“

“Three,”

“THREE!”

“Wanna make it two? Keep whining and I’ll kill him right in front of you!”

He was bluffing, no way will he bring that fucktard anywhere near his Princess but if it got her to do what he wanted then…

Momo swallowed her words before Bakugo smiled, knowing he got her right where he wanted her.

“Good girl, now I am going to release you just know the minute you try to use your quirk or tried to fight me off, I’ll let Shigaraki know he can kill Mineta, Iida, and Kirishima got it?”

Momo nodded her head as Bakugou pulled out a key.

“Good girl,” he released her from her chains before walking up to his bed, sitting down he watched as his Princess walked over to him.

Taking a deep breath Momo straddled his lap before grabbing his cock and lining it up with her entrance, she slowly sink down knowing Bakugou loved entering her at a slow pace, making sure he feels ever inch of her.

Once he was deep inside Momo looked down before kissing him, she grabs Bakugou’s hands and place them on her hips she then wrapped her arms around his neck. She started at a slow pace; moving back and forth, lifting herself so that only the tip remain inside her before she slammed herself back down.

Bakugou was loving the slow pace that Momo was setting but he was getting a little impatient with her.

“Princess,” he pulled away from her lips, Momo looked at him before she grabbed his hands and placed them on her beasts. Bakugou couldn’t help himself and squeeze them, Momo picked up the pace a little, she wasted 1 min. and 30 seconds, which mean she had didn’t have much time left.

Bakugou removed his hands from her breasts and activated his quirk, Momo’s eyes widen as she saw the tiny sparks of his quirk.

“Alright Princess,” he placed his hands near her hips, just close enough that she could feel the heat of his power but just far enough that it won’t burn her skin…yet.

Momo stopped her movements just enough to show him he had her attention.

“You have less than a minute to get me off, and if you don’t well, not only will I kill that disgusting thing but I will also burn your beautiful skin,”

He brought his hand closer to her hips and send a little heat to his hand before he placed it on her.

Mom couldn’t help but let out a small shriek as she glared at Bakugou.

“Well Princess, start fucking,”

Momo glared at him before she shoved on the blond shoulders making him fall back on the bed, he looked shock for a moment before Momo began to ride him hard and fast Bakugou was shocked for a moment before Momo ran her hands through his chest, she then lean down and kissed him bouncing up and down his lap.

She could feel the heat from his hands getting closer and closer to her so she did what would set Katsuki over the edge.

“Katsuki, so good,” she moan and she lifted herself up and swirl her hips making both her and Bakugou moan out loud.

“Ugh, your cock..damnit I love your cock, it feels so good inside me.”

She let out a loud moan as Bakugou began to his her g-spot.

“You know what I want...ugh fuck me hard Bakugou, tear this pussy apart,”

Bakugou growled as he resist the urge to grab her hips so he settled for jamming his cock inside his princess’s tight pussy, while his hands hover over her skin.

She continued to bounce before she lifted herself off of him.

“Oi! get back here,”

Momo just smirked before she lean down and began to gave him a blow job.

“FUCK PRINCESS!” he couldn't help but scream, freeing one of his hands of his quirk he grabbed her head and shoved his entire cock down her throat.

Momo was always good at giving head and if there was anything that made him cum fast was seeing his princess on her knees and him fucking her face.

He watched as his princess began to finger herself damn his little princess really wanted to make him cum.

Bakugou threw his head back and moan watching his Princess pleasure herself while she sucked on his dick was the greatest pleasure he could receive.

He lifted his hips knowing she had excellent gag reflexes Momo’s eyes met his giving him that o so innocent look that he adore.

“FUCK!” he couldn't help but cum into her mouth as he felt her pull away Bakugo groan as his cum covered Momo’s face, some dripped down to her breasts.

“Fuck Princess are you trying to kill me?”

Momo just giggled as she licked her fingers moaning as she tasted herself on her hand before she gave Bakugo a seductive look, the ashy blond smirk as he lean forward and kissed her rough and hard.

Pulling back he stroke her face.

“Looks like I won't blast your perfect skin,”

Momo looked at him before her eyes widen a bit.

“Wait...Mineta-”

“Oh, right,” he grabbed a phone from the table before he type something and hit send.

He then gesture for Momo to come to him and sit on his lap, the young heroine did as she was told and sat down facing the TV where Mineta was tortured.

Bakugou wrapped his arms around her before he lean forward and whispered,”

“I lied,”

He then flipped them over and shoved his cock inside her and began to fuck her hard and fast.

The screams of pleasure coming from Momo drowned out the screams of pain coming from the TV.

#bakugou katsuki #bakumomo #momo yaoyorozu #kinktober2018 #kinktober prompts #kinktober 2018 #kinktober #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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bittersweetjj · 5 years

Text

Origins Clear Improvement Active Charcoal Mask to Clear Pores

Price: $13

Claims: Nature's complexion clean-up crew clears the way for skin to act its best. Bamboo Charcoal acts like a magnet to draw out deep-dwelling pore-cloggers, White China Clay absorbs environmental toxins, Lecithin dissolves impurities. Skin looks clear, feels perfectly pure.

Ingredients:

Water: Primarily used as a solvent in cosmetics and personal care products in which it dissolves many of the ingredients that impart skin benefits, such as conditioning agents and cleansing agents. Water also forms emulsions in which the oil and water components of the product are combined to form creams and lotions.

Myrtus Communis (Myrtle) Leaf Water: Contains volatile oil and tannins. It contains 1,8-cineole, a constituent responsible for severe sensitivity. It is recommended that this not come in contact with skin.

Kaolin: A fine white clay powder; used to absorb water and oil secreted by the skin, including excess sebum.

Bentonite: Type of clay that is used as an absorbent in cosmetics. It can be drying for skin, though its absorbent properties are helpful for those with oily skin.

Butylene Glycol: Commonly-used ingredient that has multiple functions in cosmetics, including as a texture enhancer. It’s similar to propylene glycol, but has a lighter texture.

Montmorillonite:Type of clay that’s a mix of bentonite (another clay) and fuller’s earth, the latter being a white to brown substance found in sediment. Like all clays, montmorillonite has absorbent properties and can be a helpful ingredient for oily skin. It also functions as a thickener.

Polysorbate 20: A surfactant, emulsifier, and fragrance ingredient. Serve as a dispersing agent and mix oil and water, work as a fragrance solubilizer and stabilizer, act as a lubricator, and have a soothing effect on the skin

Peg-100 Stearate: An emollient and emulsifier.

Charcoal Powder: Primarily carbon substance formed by charring organic material in absence of oxygen. One teaspoonful of Activated Charcoal USP has a surface area of more than 10,000 square feet, which gives charcoal unique absorption properties.

Xanthan Gum: Natural ingredient used as a thickening agent, texture enhancer, and to stabilize emulsions, which is a general term for mixtures of unlike substances such as oil and water.

Lecithin: Phospholipid found in egg yolks and plants. Widely used in cosmetics as an emollient and water-binding agent. Also has skin-restoring ability.

Peg-150 Distearate: Controls the consistency of a product

Propylene Glycol Stearate: Mixture of propylene glycol and stearic acid used as a skin-conditioning agent and emulsifier.

Sorbitan Laurate: An ester of lauric acid and portions of the sugar ingredient sorbitol. This ingredient works as a cleansing agent and emulsifier, and may be naturally-derived or synthetic.

Glycerin: An emollient and humectant derived from vegetable oils that helps skin retain moisture.

Propylene Glycol Laurate: Ester of propylene glycol and lauric acid, which is a constituent of many vegetable fats.

Simethicone: Mixture of dimethicone with silica; related to silicones, but used as an antifoaming agent.

Caprylyl Glycol: Skin and hair conditioning agent that may be plant-derived or synthetic. Often used as part of a preservative blend in cosmetics.

Ethylhexylglycerin: A synthetic skin-softening agent also used as a preservative, a carrier, or suspending agent for other preservatives such as phenoxyethanol.

Hexylene Glycol: A preservative and solvent and viscosity agent. It is used to thin out heavy compositions and create a thinner, more spreadable product. It may be irritating to some skin types.

Trisodium EDTA: Used as a water-softening and chelating agent (a compound that binds and separates metals, keeping them from bonding to other ingredients).

Dehydroacetic Acid: A cyclic ketone that comes in the form of an odorless, white powder. A fungicide and bactericide predominantly used as a preservative. It works by killing off and preventing the growth of microorganisms that contribute to a product's decay.

Phenoxyethanol: A glycol ether and bactericide (that functions as a disinfectant, antiseptic or antibiotic) that is primarily used as a preservative. It is also seen as a fragrance additive.

My Thoughts: My husband actually bought me Origins Clear Improvement Active Charcoal Mask to Clear Pores, when the whole charcoal trend started. This mask is not a peel off but a rinse off one. It comes in a clear squeeze tube, that easily dispenses the product out. The texture is a bit thick and creamy. Application was tricky in the beginning because I found that the face mask applied so thinly. I would try to fix it with more product but the product wouldn’t stay still to even out the mask. I found the only way to build an even, thick layer was to damp my face with hot water and apply in the product with a circular motion. The application process was solved after that.

Origins Clear Improvement Active Charcoal Mask to Clear Pores has a unique scent, once I applied the mask I smelled of sourdough bread! Most days I used it I always craved sourdough toast! Luckily for those who don’t like sourdough, once the mask is washed off the scent did not linger. When the mask does start to dry it has a slight cooling sensation. I can feel the mask start to tighten up and dry, it fully dries in 20 minutes. At the 20 minute mark it becomes impossible to move my face. I couldn’t even speak, the slightest movement I could feel the mask cracking. At the moment it was time to take it off, and I removed it without any pain because it easily washed off. The texture of the mask changes back to its original creamy thick form once it comes in contact with water.

To see result with Origins Clear Improvement Active Charcoal Mask to Clear Pores I had to use it at least 2 times a week. The first couple of uses I did have a few breakouts, because the mask was purging all the impurities out. Than the breakouts stopped since it didn't have anything left to purge. However no matter how much I used this mask, it didn’t have enough pulling power to get rid of my blackheads.

Would I purchase Origins Clear Improvement Active Charcoal Mask to Clear Pores? Yes, just because it helped my skin stay acne free, but I would splurge and get the bigger tube.

Pros:

Rinse off mask

Squeeze tube

Texture is thick & creamy

Best applied in circular motion

Unique sourdough scent

Cooling sensation

Dires in 20 minutes

Easy to remove turns back to original texture with water

Use twice a week to see results

Prevents breakouts

Cons:

Tends to apply thinly

Hard to move face once dried

Did not help with blackheads

If you found this review helpful please click on the heart or reblog. Feel free to reply with your thoughts on the product.

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shardclan · 6 years

Photo

Under the great obsidian disc was an air of keen agitation that was so potent it was almost a solid object. Though it was unclear just what the source was, locals gave it wide berth.

Even Lutia stood in the outer rings of the columns, glaring out into the light of day with raised hackles. Constant unease was a struggle she had dealt with ever since returning from the Circle with Apokathisto. She was the Steward of the Seat, and that was certainly safe, but the stones that comprised the Circle were the power source. It might take an Age, but eventually the Seat would run dry of its power without them.

(And if she was honest, it irked her a little that the young guardian had formed some sort of connection with the Circle that even she was not fully privy to.)

None of that was what bothered her now. This was the kind of irate foreboding that she usually only experienced when Crucis had tampered with something he really shouldn't have. But it wasn't Crucis. It didn't feel like him, didn't smell like him. And the unfamiliarity of it only set her on edge more.

Apokathisto was either very brave or very desperate to have approached her.

"Something you need, Imperator?"

“Invigilavi,” he corrected numbly. He had heard that word spoken with scorn many times since the paper announced it. At this point, it was all he could do to just direct his clan mates to his new name instead of drawing attention to his eventual title.

“Lavi it is,” the Archmage said distractedly. “Can I help you?”

He awkwardly joined her under the disc. His shape was still new to him and he couldn't change or remove the glamour. No one else in Aphaster barring transient mercenaries took such half-beast shapes. Yet he still had his characteristic air of reticence, despite a standing several heads taller than Lutia and having significantly more bulk.

"I would like to confide in you," he began. "If you don't mind."

Lutia gawked. No one had confided much of anything in her in eons. "Do I really seem the appropriate choice for that? You have the Gale Wolf for a mother!"

His face pinched. "It's because she's my mother that I don't want this to reach her. Perhaps it oversteps my boundaries but... I am coming to you because of your experiences. With your son."

Lutia's face froze into a mask, but her coat nearly doubled in size. The ghosts of ancient scents toyed with her sensitive nose, like a forgotten perfume with a thousand attached memories half-remembered.

"I know how you were raised, Lavi. I know you wouldn't bring that up on passing curiosity." Her voice was at once stonily meditative, as though she were talking herself out of her anger, and subtly cold with a fear he hadn't thought possible from her.

"Can you be saved?" she whispered.

The question caught him off guard. He had been raised on the stories of the past, of how Lutia's rage had razed everything they used to be and chased them from their homeland. But hearing the slight quake of her voice and seeing the tight expression on her face, he knew he was treading into a place in her heart that wasn't full of anger but of old loss and barely healed devastation.

"I don't know," he answered quietly. "I suppose I'm telling you because I'm hoping you might find a way to make the answer into a yes before it's too late."

He held out his palm, displaying a small golden crack in his flesh. Lutia traced it quizzically. It wasn't opalescence, though it bore a resemblance. It was more like a scar, but the magical nature of it was obvious. The gold color confused her. Numb to his magic or not, he was Arcane.

"Is this a new gene?" she demanded. "Something expressing after your contact with the Circle?"

He laughed dryly. "I don't think so. This is..." He frowned, and let his hand drop from hers. "My magic isn't numb, Lutia. It's not inside of me any more. It's been displaced."

"Ashes didn't find anything of the sort wrong with you!" she countered hastily. "You have magic, you just cant feel it."

"Because it isn't mine. That's why I can't feel it, or command it. Not even to change this body. The Circle took my magic from me, and left something else. Something that lets me feel them...forming out there."

He rubbed his scaly fingers over the crack, feeling the almost metallic sensation of whatever had solidified in it. "The magic inside me belongs to the Circle. To Abankhit, in particular."

"Who the hell is Abankhit?"

"The name of the stone I touched. You have their names on your scroll. Abankhit would be the last." His eyes turned away, more out of frustration than avoidance. "I have a lot in my mind recently, Lutia. Knowledge that doesn't belong to me. But it's like the knowing you experience in a dream. It's an understanding that doesn't make sense in the waking world. I only know for certain I am charged to see Abankhit and all the rest back among the stars."

Lutia stared ahead, worried immensely at that not one but a full three dozen unstable astrals were working on manifesting into Sornieth. "And when you complete this mission, it will save Rebis somehow...But cost you your life a well?"

"It is not the completion may kill me.” He smiled bitterly at the crack in his palm. "Just like the Radiant could not house his essence in a body that wasn't his, my body isn't going to last forever on Abankhit's energy. It's astral magic. Horizon was born as he was and had both energies in equal measure. I was born a dragon, and was never meant to exist with anything but a dragon’s magic in me."

She remembered with painful vividness how hard it had been for both Horizon and herself. Day in, day out, meditating and controlling themselves at the risk of sublimating to another plane. What Lavi was describing was worse. He wasn't at risk of going on to some glorious other form of life. He was going to deteriorate and he couldn't even take refuge in exaltation because he wasn't whole without his birth magic inside of him.

"We can do the opposite of what Rebis is doing," she insisted fumblingly. "Magic infusion is just as routine as siphoning. A pain in the ass but you could live if the problem is not getting enough draconic magic."

His jaw clenched. He was almost grateful when the soft blue-white light under the disc took on a harsh magenta color. The Celestial Vault screeched and groaned and the crystal shot outward in brittle, hastily formed masses of unstable geometry, cracking and breaking only to be replaced be even more poorly generated spires of celestine. The multi-layered barriers of elements that rose over arcane hissed, and it wasn't long before Lutia doubled over, claws digging at the Arcanist's emblem blazed into her abdomen.

"It's burning!" she gasped raggedly. Her fur and the cracks of her opalescence glistened in angry pink neon, the focuses lining her limbs sizzling white hot. Even the spellscroll around her neck was shining with ferocious intensity. "Get back! Something's wrong, the Seat writhes--!"

Without flinching, Invigilavi reached out and placed his hand over her emblem. There was a faint hiss as the magic singed his scales, but the focuses quieted. Her fur settled back to its usual plain charcoal. The surge passed. He breathed a cloud of stardust that nearly pushed Lutia to vomit, but unlike Horizon, he did not seem otherwise harmed.

"You're..." she fumbled, her eyes widening with her rising horror. "You're immune...?"

He nodded grimly. In his hand, the crack had grown, tracing a curving golden leyline from thumb to wrist. He had siphoned away her magic, to seemingly no other detriment at all. No signs of inundation sickness--not even the drunken giddiness that accompanied exposure to high levels of one’s home element.

But the booming of the earth barrier collapsing left neither of them the time to fully appreciate the trust he had just placed in her, nor the magnitude of what he had just done, nor the implications of the enlarged crack in his palm.

"You're the Steward," he said firmly. "Control it."

The words brought her agitation back in full force. The Seat was reacting to something. As much as she hated to think that it had a mind of it's own, it was confused and angry. For just a moment, something had caused a ripple in the connection between it and Lutia. And while it's only goal had been to find her, left to its own self-expression it was only good at expelling raw energy.

Lutia put it back to sleep with the certain promise that she was would certainly raze something when she found out who was responsible.

@boyonetta

#Flight Rising #C: Invigilavi #c: apokathisto #C: Lutia #Zodiac Goetia

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thesinglesjukebox · 6 years

Video

youtube

LAURA JEAN - GIRLS ON THE TV [8.27] Melbourne singer goes back to high school, discovers synths...

Jonathan Bradley: Laura Jean's self-titled album, her fourth -- it is now four years old -- is a skeletal folk record: it sounds like an Australia I don't often hear in pop song or mass media. It draws wintry charcoal sketches of Melbourne city parks and lonely stretches of national highways. The gothic domesticity acted like blotting paper, pressing against the natural rhythms of life and recording them in irrupted detail. Against this backdrop, "Girls on the TV" is a new single awash with astonishing colour: pastel synth swirls and a disco bass pulse pushing through the mix. Removed from context, this pop impulse might not be so unexpected, but I hear in Jean's airy, wavering tones an artist reinventing herself as the introspective rejoinder to the vivant throwback fervor of Betty Who or Catcall. And yet even in this new guise, Jean's bleak folk endures, with an anecdotal lyric that carefully and precisely narrates the drawn-out process of a girlhood destroyed. Ricky, who can "dance like the girls on the TV," is a childhood friend whose joy in the physical possibilities of her body is commodified and contaminated: by demanding teachers who ask her to perform feats she cannot, by cruel classmates who tease her for her weight, and by adult men who make sexual demands upon her. "Girls on the TV" is a sad song of youth that is made sadder by how keenly aware it is of the libertine and evanescent possibilities of the pop it embraces. [9]

Rebecca A. Gowns: "Girls on the TV" falls into that tricky vein of narrative pop songs; telling a full story can be hard to pull off without coming across as maudlin or pretentious or just clunky, but Laura Jean executes it perfectly. It's a story about a woman extending compassion to her sister -- or friend, or possibly even an old lover/crush -- but it tugs at me the most when I think of them as siblings. It's got to be, right? This kind of bittersweet, constant reminiscing reminds me of the pangs I get when I think about my little brother. We grew up so close. We're so different today. We keep reaching out to each other, grasping each other's hands through gaps in a wall that keeps building then falling down then building up again. But every time I see him, no matter the year, no matter the occasion, I'll think of the way we danced when we were kids, singing along to music videos, pulling faces, promising each other we'd be in a band together someday. "Someday" -- and then time flies, and people change -- but the memory remains. This is that feeling in a crystal bottle. [10]

Will Adams: "Girls on the TV" plays like a memory you visit while idly passing the time. The vault you access in your mind safe and warm, bordered by storybook clouds and soundtracked by dreamy synthpop. But, as always, the details that pierce through the most are the ones you want to remember the least: authority figures pressuring you to overexert yourself; peers excavating your every flaw and parading them about; parents imposing their austere lifestyle on you; abusers reducing you to a vessel for their pleasure; the eventual realization that everyone around you has moved forward, gotten hitched, settled down, while you remain stuck in place, feet swamped with the mud of an unkind youth. But those dancing girls are still there, as is the lingering promise that, one day, you could be one of them too. [7]

Katherine St Asaph: A tale of dashed female friendship akin to Who Will Run the Frog Hospital or Cat's Eye; what it loses in prose it gains in a kaleidoscopic, wistful arrangement. It fills its six minutes well; like memory itself, it's alternatingly immediate and almost photorealistic (that one deep synth around 0:30), then languid and ungraspable. [9]

Alfred Soto: The rare single whose insistence on taking its time pays off, "Girls on the TV" sparkles like distant stars, its synthesizers a platform instead of hoping to get noticed. The pace and arrangement suits Laura Jean's remarkable performance: a damaged meditation on loving someone you can see and hear but can't touch and all the better for it -- "Space Age Love Song" and "TVC 15" without the spritz. "She could always dance better than me," Jean repeats: a statement of fact, mild complaint, and prayer. [9]

Vikram Joseph: A languorously paced, well-written coming-of-age story about female friendship and crushed dreams. The airy, breathy pre-chorus is a particularly good showcase for Laura Jean's vocals. It's unlikely to get the blood racing -- sonically, it's undeniably a bit adult contemporary -- but it owns the middle of the road better than 95 per cent of the stuff you'd hear on drive-time radio. [7]

Julian Axelrod: An immersive, deeply felt meditation on ambition and destiny, sung with the resignation of a woman long since disillusioned with both. The longer I sit with it, the more its faults feel like strengths: Its leisurely runtime reflects time's slow and relentless march, while its dourness finds balance in its faint glimmers of hope. After living within it for a week, it already feels like I've carried this story with me my entire life. [9]

Peter Ryan: The languid quality is perfect misdirection, masking what's going on until the chords break open at the chorus. What emerges is an unflinching sketch of a web connecting childhood pain, coping attempts, and "contemporary adult life." There's no glib gesturing toward resilience, and instead of pity or judgment I hear an indictment of actual and would-be tormentors. Laura Jean brings a sibling's testimony, one that doesn't seek to bridge the gulf between shared upbringing and shared experience, and is all the more potent for it. The wrapping is more chiffon than velvet, but underneath is still an iron fist. [9]

Jonathan Bogart: A folkie's idea of dance music, muted and unflustered, with warm electric bass and polyrhythms played by actual hands rather than programming. Sweet, certainly, and the lyrics' sketch of childhood and adolescent friendship are well-observed and touching without being sentimental. Which is the trouble: the whole production is an exercise in keeping vulgarity, of which sentimentality is one expression, and actual dance music that makes you sweat another, at arm's length. [6]

Alex Clifton: Like if Belle & Sebastian's "Expectations" was twice as long with more disco. Laura Jean has the same gifts for both character and melody Stuart Murdoch has. The dreamy backing helps it go by as quickly as my teenage years did, and her falsetto for the chorus haunts the rest of the song like a memory. It's steeped in nostalgia, but is there any other way to write about adolescence? [7]

William John: Like half the Internet, I've been preoccupied with Hannah Gadsby's Nanette for the past few weeks: a subversive, quasi-TED Talk comedy special that blew my mind when I first saw it in a theatre late last year. Now on Netflix, Nanette is hard to distill succinctly, but central to its significance is its blunt presentation of the devastation rapacious men can effect on others. That devastation lingers in those victims and continues to humiliate them for years -- decades, even -- afterward. In "Girls on the TV", fellow Australian woman Laura Jean presents an unvarnished picture of friend Ricky, a bullied, vulnerable, talented tap dancer, and reminisces wistfully upon the relationship they formed as members of the high school concert band. In the fourth verse, a new character is introduced -- Jean's mother's boyfriend, a violent, young, and predatory 21 year old. In a line excised from the video edit of the song, Jean notes that after Ricky's encounter with this man, she felt like she "didn't know her, or how she got that way"; there is no explicit cause-and-effect drawn, but the implication for the listener is that this incident had extensive ramifications for Ricky, that included cocaine addiction and relationships with married men. It's a sad story that demonstrates the way the action of a third party can destabilise and dismantle a friendship, but it's told with a compelling breathiness by Jean that seems to gather more and more momentum with each passing second. I'm unaccustomed to hearing such brusque, direct, and yet tender third-person storytelling in modern synth-pop. The importance of storytelling is central to Gadsby's Nanette -- stories "hold our cure," she says, and have the power to forge connection. Jean's memories of sitting in front of rage on a Saturday morning when young serve as an access point into an important story that deserved to be recounted. [9]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

#laura jean #pop #pop music #music #music video #music writing #music reviews #australian music #new music

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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 6 years

Text

Commission for @frostedturquoise

Fandom: TF2 Pairing: Pyro/Spy

Request: Fantasy AU with pyromancer/assassin

Concept: Assassin NB Pyromancer/Assassin - Date/NSFW

Title: Burn After Reading

Ash swirled through the desolate alley, sticking to the blood spatter and clinging to the corpses that littered the dingy brickwork. The artisan behind such destruction lingered, unusually, over the scene of the crime; swathed in shadows, as was his trade, and only barely discernible to the trained eyes.

Satisfaction coursed through the assassin’s veins at a job well done, though he lamented the mess it had made of his beloved hand-crafted boots; blood was such a pain to have to remove from leather. Ah, but that is the inherent downside of having murder and deception as your primary trade… you can buy expensive attire, but it oft becomes ruined in the pursuit of the next commission.

A gout of piercingly bright flame announced the arrival of his beloved, and the means by which disposal would easily be adhered. Silhouetted in the weak starlight, nothing more than a vaguely menacing shadow, was the one other sentient being on this whole miserable world that the Assassin could stand…

“Yes, yes, very impressive… as always.” He says, lips curling in his trademark smug smirk, “Then again, mon amour, there is little about you that it not… is there?”

Swathed in layers upon layers of obscuring protective attire, the pyromancer strode towards the corpses, eyes glued upon them in fascination through the hooded slits in their mask. They loved the way the assassin worked, the little details of how and who and why, all culminating in a gift to him… things to burn. Criminals and miscreants to offer up to the flames that the pyromancer adored with the same passionate fervour as they did their shadowclad lover.

“One moment, my little firebug…” the assassin implored, moving forth to kneel by the closest corpse. Deft fingers danced through the tattered clothing, eventually pulling forth an item, before he moved to the next in order to repeat the process. “One does not get paid if they do not bring back proof,” he explains, displaying a handful of similarly crested jewellery.

The pyromancer tilts their head, thinking about the nature and significance of what was being presented; either it meant a family… or, maybe a conspiracy. They hoped for the latter, for in that case there would always be more to feed their beloved flames…

“You are correct, to an extent, mon amour…” adds their lover, “It was a conspiracy born of a certain high-class family, intending to overthrow the current leaders through nefarious means… however, they never assumed to be caught. Conspirators and sabetours never do, do they?” The assassin tosses the items up and down, bouncing them in his palm with no small degree of pride as he intones, “Long live the house of Blu…”

Clapping their hands in delight, the Pyromancer celebrates with him. Such a large family, the illustrious Blus, removing even a fraction of them would be a fantastically long adventure! Somewhat muffled by their face mask, the pyromancer tilts their head at the pile of bodies in query. “May I feed the flames now?” they ask, in a tone that no mere mortal born of human flesh could ever hope to achieve.

It was an addictive voice, and every time he heard it, it sent thrills of pleasure shuddering through his body. The assassin was convinced that they must have some paranatural parentage, something supernatural surging through their veins that was so alluring, and yet terrified others.

Few had ever had the privilege of seeing them without their mask, and he was honoured to be among them. But the ethereal form they held was something… that definitively marked them out as something more than human, like a living candle, almost. He adored them, and made sure to show how much he loved every inch of them when they were alone together.

Assassins had many skills, but he was at least glad that some of his could bring great joy to his beloved through both murder and more intimate techniques. As was the case now, when his single acquiescing nod sent a delighted smile blooming across the pyromancer’s hidden features; no, one could not see it, but they were so intricately aware of one another after all this time… that the assassin could sense it. And it warmed his heart, like nothing else.

With an elated reverence, the pyromancer called forth flames of piercing brightness that squirmed and wiggled about their arms, like excited pets. Laughter, soft and gentle and unearthly filled the air with a preternatural degree of delight as they directed the living flame towards their target; each little flicker appearing to leap eagerly onto the corpses, enveloping whatever they could until culminating in an inferno. The heat was staggering, as was the smell, but neither present seemed to be put off by that; they had spent too long doing such things to become skittish now.

The assassin procured a cigarette from somewhere upon his person and leaned forwards to the flames; an obliging spark leaned out and tapped the end, setting it smoking. He nodded his thanks, and took a well-deserved drag; relaxing as he fingered the jewellery that would make them a king’s ransom this night.

As the corpses became charred remnants, leaving almost no trace of identity or humanity save the odd bone here and there; their ashes scattered on the wind, intermingling with those wafting from hearthfires all over the town. Such a convenient means of disposal…

Finally, his schedule was clear to do a little spoiling.

The Assassin sidles up to the Pyromancer, who was gently patting the remaining flames and encouraging them to go back to sleep for when they would next be needed, and placed a kiss on their masked cheek. “Meet me by the lightning tree in an hour, mon amour… I would to take you out this night.” he whispered, feeling the barest inclination of their head in response, before disappearing into the night.

~)0(~

Though most would be stashed in secret places under different names that could never be linked back to him, the assassin had taken his due payment for the eradication of the known extremists from his current employers, and decided to line several of his hidden pockets with enough to spoil his beloved firebug. His path through the dark streets went unnoticed by the many traipsing drunkenly past from tavern to tavern, nor was he spotted by the couples out strolling under the moonlight on such a clear night. Of course, he could have used magic to receive such discretion, but the assassin considered it a matter of pride that he be able to escape notice in plain sight, from skill alone.

His path to their secret meeting place was stalled on several occasions as he had to pause to purchase something to enhance their night together; which brooked some argument from more than a few hastily roused shopkeepers, until a sharp blade to their throats and the promise of shiny coins silenced their protests. Indeed, he had nearly been decked by the butcher, but all was well when he walked away with quite an enticing cut of meat wrapped and stashed within a secret compartment of his cloak.

Out of the slowly-growing town, past the winding main path and through a series of ruins was a forest; it was notoriously dark, dangerous, something allegedly full of glowing monsters and the like that parents liked to warn their children of. Naturally, the only glowing creature the assassin had ever encountered within the forest was the pyromancer themself, and a few of their fire sprites…

Speaking of which. As he stepped foot in the shadowy edge of the forest, little sparks arose from behind rocks, clearly having been waiting for him. The assassin held out a gloved hand to let a few sit, whilst others moved ahead and cast their light on the hidden path, so he would not lose his way. They would not harm him, even if touching bare skin, as he had learned many years before; such endearingly warm little creatures they were, when not feasting upon corpses, and he had grown to love them as much as the pyromancer.

“You’re here!” came that scintillating voice, as he broke through the dense trees and into the clearing. The lightning tree, charred and humming with electricity, stood imposingly above them all to one side; trees lining all sides but one, where a large series of boulders had been coerced, by flame, to melt into a shelter of sorts. It would be seen as an overhang, really, but the weather around here was rarely so wild as to require anything more rain-repelling.

Should a storm arise, they would simply move into one of the many secluded houses the assassin had purchased under various pseudonyms over the years; the closest of which was not five minutes’ walk away. A little rudimentary for the assassin’s refined tastes, but still, much loved by the pyromancer… although, it could be the large fireplace that lured them more than the promise of a soft bed or a shower. Who knew?

“Indeed I am, my little firebug, and what a welcome I received from your darling little sparks!” he charms, sweeping into the clearing with a side beam of delight. Only together were they ever really themselves… the masks, literal and figurative, left behind. A small flock of sparks hovered around his head, pulsing delightedly at the compliment; some nudging against the assassin’s unguarded face. He could not help but laugh, their warm flames tickled where they landed.

“Could it be they sensed I had brought them…” he pauses for dramatic effect, catching the attention of all the sparks in the clearing as he pulls out a large bag from beneath his voluminous coat, “some of their favourite charcol? Hmmm?”

He was nearly blinded by the sudden flare of excitement from them all, but the amused laugh from his pyromancer was more than enough to make up for it. The assassin sprinkled out the charcoal, and the sparks fell on it like pigeons to seed; flashing strange colours in their intense excitement. Beautiful, adorable, so easy to please and yet, you could not help but to spoil them as one would a favoured child.

“They’re going to be too full to start even a grassfire tonight, you know that don’t you?” the pyromancer admonishes gently, but clearly they had anticipated his spoiling of the sparks, because there was already a good fire blazing in the midst of the clearing. They press a kiss to his cheek, and his heart feels as bright as the sparks, delighted from pleasing them so effortlessly. “How can you pretend to have such a cold heart, when you are so kind?”

“Easily, mon amour, for you and the sparks are the only things I could ever be warmed by… everyone else is merely, a contract waiting to be fulfilled.” he purrs, pressing closer to feel the warmth… and jerking back suddenly. “Ah, yes, I had forgotten! I have procured us the finest assortment of meat and vegetables that one could threaten out of dozy shopkeepers at this hour…”

He paused, “Unless you would prefer I go and steal away a meal already made, that is. We don’t have to cook anything, if that is not your wish…”

It was too late, they had already taken the food parcels and were busily sprinting across to the firepit; expertly assessing each item and deciding which spices and herbs to use. Cooking was, it had shocked the assassin to discover, their other great passion; though when he realised just how many meals could be cooked atop a fire, it became somewhat more understandable.

Twirling a knife in his hands, he moved over to the large flat boulder that had always served as a rather impromptu bench, and began expertly slicing up the vegetables. They did not speak to one another, but moved in an effortless tandem born of years together, of anticipating without realising. It was a mesmerising dance to behold, and yet, none but the sparks were privy to such a sight. And they would want it no other way.

~)0(~

Pressed close, side-by-side they finished their meal, the bench at their back and firepit to the fore, allowing them to bask like well-dressed lizards in the warmth of their own personal sun. Dinner had been devoured swiftly, and each morsel was tastier than the last; or at least, that is how it seemed to the pair. Though perhaps it was the company, more than anything, that made the evening feel so divine.

The assassin rested his head on their shoulder, feeling fingers intertwine with his own as the both gazed into the dancing flames; safe, sated and content. All emotions and sensations that one in his profession rarely experienced more than once in their lives, and yet, he had it whenever he wished… for the pyromancer was always there, always with him. And he, with them.

Sometimes his work required subterfuge, seduction, going undercover… and yet, it was never held against him. Though sometimes, the assassin felt it should; the pyromancer never made him feel as if he had abandoned them, or betrayed them by using his more carnal skills to lower a target’s guard… but it had begun to wear on him. Perhaps it was merely that he had been working so often lately, that this subtle pleasure of being with the one he loved, had been denied so long.

“It’s okay.” they breathed in his ear, turning their head just enough to press a kiss to his temple. He had long suspected that they could read his mind, or maybe it was simply that his lowered guard around them allowed the pyromancer to read his thoughts on his cursedly-expressive face. “You do what you do for us, and because you enjoy it. Like when I burn things, sometimes important things... or when the sparks and I go away for a little while, and you’re left alone.”

“I would never stop you from such things, mon amour… but that is different. When you go away, there is no chance that you will not return, or that you have been seducing people just for the chance to slide a knife between their ribs.” he pauses, frowning. “Actually, mon amour, are you perchance sneaking away to have an affair with a rather attractive volcano or somesuch other fiery temptress behind my back?”

They laughed, as he had intended, and that same gentle thrill of warmth flittered through the assassin. Their warm eyes turned upon him, so like molten gold he could barely begin to guess where the fire’s reflection ended, and their irises began…

“If you wanted to know you must only ask, oh smoke to my flame…” they smiled, and he knew they were toying with him. That nickname only came into play when they wanted something, usually-... oh.

Turning slightly, they pressed their well-honed body along the length of his own, and warmth seemed to blossom between the pair. “My smoke, it doesn’t matter where you go or who you share yourself with or why… as long as you return to my flame when you are able, so I know you are safe.” they whispered hotly into his ear, pressing a kiss beneath it, and trailing down his throat as their fingers expertly unlatched the cloak clasp at his throat. Hands slid beneath his dark tunic, running the length of his torso; muscular but not as much as his lover’s; pitted with scars, detailing a life fraught with close encounters with death.

He arched into the sensation, taking the rare opportunity to not think, not plan, not be on his guard at all times. It was not rare that they traded roles, but it had been some time, and more often than not the Assassin tended to enjoy wringing every last shrill cry of pleasure from the other with his ministrations. But this… this was also good.

“When your mind is full of heavy things, you just need a spark to clear it away…” they hummed, half to themselves as the pyromancer swiftly divested him of his tunic. Teeth nipped at his collarbone, and a hot tongue laved the minor discomfort away, before trailing languidly to his chest. The assassin felt their arousal pressed against his own, and somewhat impishly rocked his own hips against them; they gasped, then retorted by grazing a nipple with their teeth so he shuddered. A noise escaped, part surprise but mostly unintelligible. He felt their grin pressed against his abdomen as they moved down slowly, oh so slowly, trailing hot wet kisses that slowly cooled despite the warmth of the fire before them.

Boots already tossed aside before dinner, it was a simple matter for the other to slip off the assassin’s remaining attire and toss them aside. Spreading the cloak against the ground, the pyromancer coerces his lover into laying down, and slides between his thighs to press teasing kisses and nips along the sensitive flesh. Bare, in every conceivable meaning of the word, the assassin’s trust in them was as erotic as anything else; to be so close when he was so vulnerable and willing, was a gift. One that the firebug wished to reward.

Their hand lightly caressed the hot, heavy length as it stiffened under their gaze and begging for attention. The assassin held himself still, quietly awaiting whatever pleasure was to come, shivering lightly as hot puffs of breath ghosted over his sensitive skin. He gasped as their tongue painted a slick stripe of spit along his shaft, teasing the head with a roll of that talented oral appendage, before moving down to kiss at his balls. Sucking one into their mouth, and tickling with their tongue before releasing it to repeat the process with the other…

His hands clenched into the cloak, limbs trembling as they remained as still as possible for their lover; panting lightly, as a pleasure-induced flush began to creep up into his cheeks. They licked again, and he huffed a small cry of pleasure as they sunk down on the head; moving to envelop the head and explore every inch with just their tongue… until he was shuddering from the sensation. The pyromancer grinned, lewdly allowing spit to dribble down the shaft where their hand now grasped and twisted along with the bobbing rhythm of their head; and his breath came in short gasps now. Every nerve ending tingling as the sensation seemed to grow with every movement. Heat pooled within his abdomen, tight and roiling like a volcano ready to to erupt…

And he jumped, slightly, as he felt a far-too-cool slick of lubricating potion being applied to his hole by the pyromancer’s free hand. How had they known he’d brought that? No matter… They gave an apologetic suck, returning to their enthusiastic task of drawing his cock deeper, and deeper into their mouth until it felt like they would swallow him whole. He moaned despite himself as the first finger slide inside, well-lubricated and wriggling about to acclimate the environment for what was to come.

The assassin wriggled his hips at the entrance of the second finger, and bucked back onto the third, torn between the desire to thrust forward into the wet heat… or back upon the well-slicked fingers. His balls were tightening as he warned the other, who tapped him twice on the leg to say they understood… and to give permission for him to thrust, they would be okay.

Unable to stop himself, the assassin sated both desires simultaneously, frantically thrusting forwards into the pyromancer’s sinfully hot mouth, and down upon the fingers thrusting languidly into his body just shy of where he needed them. The pleasure was bubbling hotly just under the surface, until he could take no more without losing his mind, and came in great hot spurts with a scream.

The pyromancer pulled away, dribbling a gooey white mess upon the pair as the assassin came, covering his own abdomen with ejaculate more than anything else. A small spurt hit the pyromancer’s cheek, and they laughed, wiping it off absently with a finger, and licking it clean.

Shuddering, feeling spent but not quite sated, the assassin tried to catch his breath as he felt the other move up his body to press a lewd kiss to his mouth. He could taste himself, and it was hilariously debauch to do so, from his perspective.

Their own hard length pressed against his abdomen, rutting gently against the assassin’s and slicking itself in his cum; the pyromancer shuddered, clutching tight to their lover as they rocked. It was a sinfully delightful sensation, and he hesitated to stop them but… who knew when they would have the opportunity again? He places a hand on their arm, and they freeze, looking down in concern. “Mon amour, would you not prefer to put all your excellent efforts to better use?” he queries, parting his thighs suggestively, and rubbing the reviving cock against that of his lover. Their eyes were wide in surprise, clearly being so lost in the moment that they had utterly forgotten that such a thing was a possibility.

“Are you sure?” they checked, slicking themselves and his hole again with an almost obscene amount of lubrication. He smiled, and nodded, and they kissed him deeply as their cock slowly slid inside the assassin with practiced precision. Slow, easy, methodical, and mindful of how the other was feeling…

“Ahhh, mon dieu... “ the assassin whispered, eyelids fluttering slightly as the long-absent sensation of being filled by the warm, thick length of his lover’s cock was restored to him. The pyromancer grinned, kissed the corner of his mouth and tugged experimentally at the assassin’s newly revived shaft, just to see him writhe.

They rolled their hips, and he gasped as they scraped over his prostate in a ludicrously lazy manner; it sent little bolts of lightning up his spine. Ah, they must do it this way far more often!

He thrust back slightly, regretting not being in a more favourable position to contribute… but then, they liked him like that, anyway. Where they could be in sole control of providing pleasure to him.

Just as he loved bringing them to the brink of oblivion, when he had the time and opportunity to do so…

Who could blame them?

They thrust slowly, gently in and out; a slow drag that reminded them both of how entangled they were, body and soul. Movements slowly growing in speed and strength with every passing moment, until the sharp slap of flesh against flesh could be heard ringing throughout the clearing. The assassin clung to their lover, rocking against each thrust and letting a strong of cries, praise and curses tumble free without censor. It was so good, he could almost feel himself ready to come again… and so soon after such an explosive orgasm? Clearly, they had magic of their own.

“Mon amour…” he moans, frantically pushing back against the swift thrusts and not caring for how sore he would feel later, only trapped in the moment wherein the pinnacle of pleasure was within reach. Their arms hold him tighter, their thrusts angling to relentlessly target his prostate until the assassin can barely recall his own name as his balls tighten almost painfully.

“Go on, my smoke… come for me… feed my fire,” they whisper, slamming into him with frantic need, their voice strained by how close they were to falling over the edge. He feels them drive into him again, again, again… and then it was too much. With a scream that they would probably hear all the way in town, the assassin feels his orgasm explode throughout his body, nails digging into the pyromancer’s back as his toes clenched. He shudders frantically as their thrusting continues while he comes between them, and feels their rhythm grow erratic.

Their breath comes out in harsh gasps as sweat beads off their forehead and falls onto his face. Eyes fixated on his own as they pump into his slowly relaxing body twice more before curling in around the assassin and coming with an unearthly beautiful cry of ecstasy. He strokes their face, chest, sides, whatever he can reach as they thrust through their orgasm; breathing heavily and trembling with exertion, relief, love and pleasure.

When at last both lovers have quietened, he draws them to his chest, holding them close. The assassin presses a kiss to the pyromancer’s temple, stroking patterns into the flesh of their spine, and watching the stars move. It feels like the hum of the universe is resonating through his bones, and by the ecstatic look upon their face, they must feel it too.

He is not sure when they pull away and disengage, only that at some point they do. Rising and cleaning themselves, automatically, before laying back down upon the cloak and allowing the sparks to create a blanket over the top of them. So very much like a pack of incendiary cats, those little creatures.

The pyromancer curls around him, and the assassin returns the embrace tightly.

He kisses them, sweetly. “Like a fire in the night, I will always be drawn to you, mon amour…”

They return the kiss, grinning as they begin to drowse. “And I love you too, smoke to my flame…”

The fiery blanket crackled, and the pair cracked open their eyes.

“And of course, we love you too, little ones…” the assassin reassured the sparks, who immediately calmed down.

And with that, those in the clearing slept well, sated and content in their tiny corner of the universe. All was well.

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The End.

#frostedturquoise #tf2 #commission #fanfic #spy/pyro #spy #pyro #assassin #pyromancer #nonbinary masc-leaning pyro

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