#and yeah sorry Morrison you appear terrible at it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

songtoyou · 3 years

Text

Chapter Eight: Be Still

Would You Call That Love

Pairing: Chris Evans x Raina Morrison (OC)

Rating: PG to PG-13 (Might be 18+ for some chapters)

Story Summary: There was always that one person Chris Evans tended to turn to when he was not in a committed relationship, Raina Morrison. He could confide in her about things going on in his life that he did not feel comfortable talking to his family or close friends about. Chris and Raina were able to establish a way to openly communicate with one another, but also being respectful of the other’s time and needs. It was the only constant “relationship” he had, but without all the nonsense of trying to build a life together. A “friends with benefits” situation. However, what happens when Chris starts rethinking his “relationship” with Raina and if either are willing to pursue something more?

Chapter Summary: Raina and Chris are having trouble dealing with their time apart. Long-distance relationships suck.

Chapter Rating: PG

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2,258

Author’s Note: I was having trouble with this chapter. I had to end up rewriting it because I was not feeling the first draft.

Italics represent flashback conversations.

Sadly, I do not know Chris Evans or anyone in his family, and this is just a fictional take on his life. I do not permit this fic to be reposted on other platforms.

Tag List: @patzammit

Three months. That is how long Raina and Chris had been apart. She continued to star in the Broadway version of Moulin Rouge as Satine. Shows were constantly selling out. Reviews were acclaimed. Unfortunately, Raina was feeling bored. The same routine was beginning to annoy her. She didn't like that there was no room to change things up. Being in a Broadway show was vastly different from her concerts. Raina knew it would be.

Jerry had warned Raina that Broadway was a whole different ballgame than what she was used to or experienced. "You won't be able to change or add things from show to show. It is more rigorous than what you are used to, kid," Raina remembered Jerry telling her one day before she accepted the role.

Raina wanted a challenge. She wanted to do something different. There were times where Raina felt stagnant in her career. Plus, Raina was now considered an aging pop star, so she had to begin the process of branching out into different fields of entertainment.

"You should do the voice," Jerry would always suggest, which Raina repetitively turned down. It wasn't that Raina looked down on voice competition shows. She didn't want to open that door to be on television every week for months on end. She was a performer, not a judge.

Again, three months. Three months since Raina had physically seen her boyfriend. They talked on the phone and skyped regularly, but it was not the same as being in the same room. She missed Chris terribly. And he missed her.

Chris had been pretty busy himself, first having to take Dodger back to Boston before getting ready to go to Toronto. With Raina's busy schedule, she would not have been able to take care of the canine. For a week and a half, Chris would attend the Toronto Film Festival to promote the movie Knives Out. Raina wished she could have gone with him. Chris wished she could have gone with him.

After the film festival, Chris didn't have much downtime. He rushed into working on A Starting Point with Mark to outline the website and coordinate interviews with politicians.

Raina made it a point to steer clear of conversations about ASP. Truthfully, she didn't find the idea appealing or exciting. Yes, Americans needed to be informed about certain aspects of politics and important issues. But many outlets already offered what Chris and Mark were trying to do. She asked Chris one time what made ASP different from the others. She was surprised that he wasn't quite able to come up with a sufficient answer. Raina knew Chris meant well.

"Chris," she spoke up one day before he left the City, "You know I will never bullshit you, and I won't ever blow smoke up your ass. That has never been the kind of friendship we had. Nor is it how we want our intimate relationship to go."

He looked at Raina and told her to go on. "Sometimes, I have noticed, is that you tend not to be able to look outside of your privilege, Chris. You know what I am saying?"

Chris turned to his girlfriend. He was confused about where she was getting at. "No. What are you saying?"

Raina sighed. She could tell Chris was on the verge of getting defensive. "Nothing," she said, throwing her hands up in defeat. "Look, let's no…argue about…stupid stuff, okay." Raina pleaded and walked up to Chris to put her arms around him.

He reciprocated by doing the same. Leaning in, Chris captured Raina's lips. "I don't want to argue either. Especially not before I have to leave," he whispered in her ear.

There would times when Raina would look back on that exchange between her and Chris. She felt weird about how Chris became so defensive. Yeah, she could have worded things better; however, why should she?

Truthfully, Chris was a privileged white male. If he took the time to recognize his privileges, it would make him a better ally to those who represent underprivileged groups. Raina was worried about any possible backlash Chris could face with a project like AS, which was not what she wanted for him. She understood that this was a passion project for Chris and Mark as well. Raina only wanted Chris to make sure that everything was in order and that nothing would be thrown at him unexpectedly. She knew Chris wasn't able to take criticism very well, even when it was constructive, mainly when it came to projects he was enthusiastic about; she understood as she was the same way.

With their time apart, Chris had to miss her birthday, October 19. Chris made sure to send Raina an enormous flower arrangement he could find, along with an array of goodies from Dylan's Candy Bar store. Chris knew the gifts would something Raina would appreciate. However, he still felt guilty that he was not with her to celebrate her birthday in person.

"Hey, birthday girl," Chris greeted Raina through skype on the day of her birthday. He laughed when he saw that she was holding the cupcake pillow he got her.

"I love it!" she exclaimed happily. "And I love my three-tier candy cake. I can't believe you got me that," Raina pointed out as she adjusted the laptop camera to show Chris the candy cake. "I won't be able to eat all of that."

"Yeah, you will," he laughed.

"I miss you," Raina said to Chris. "I didn't think being away from you would be this hard."

Chris sighed, "I miss you, too, sweetheart. But we'll see each other for Christmas, right?"

"Yes, of course. I made sure to schedule that time off. I still plan to come up to Concord for Christmas. My dad has already made plans with Diane for not only Christmas but Thanksgiving as well. So he is taken care of," Raina revealed. "Speaking of Thanksgiving, what are you doing?"

Shifting in his seat, Chris shared that he would spend it in Concord with his family. He noticed the slight disappointment on Raina's face and shift in her demeanor. "You don't want to come here and spend the holiday with me?" she asked solemnly. She didn't want to press on the issue but wanted to hear Chris's reason.

Raina understood that Chris always liked to spend the holidays with his family, but deep down, she hoped he would change it up this year. "It's just been two and a half months since we saw each other," Raina began but stopped. The last thing she wanted to do was to make Chris feel guilty. "Do you have any time off before then?"

"Like you, I'm completely booked up until Christmas. Mark and I are still working on the website for A Starting Point for the rest of October, then when November comes around, it is all press for Knives Out and premiers. Trust me; I would rather be with you than have to do press junkets or walk red carpets," Chris acknowledged.

Raina grabbed a piece of candy from her three-tier candy cake. She just sat back in her chair, not looking at the computer screen. Raina focused on the candy. She didn't want to look at Chris because if she did, tears would begin to form. For some reason, missing Chris and wanting to be with him felt like the equivalent of homesickness. It was a feeling she had never experienced when it came to another human being. Even when she was a teenager touring across the world, she never felt homesick. Her relationship with Chris brought along a whole new set of feelings for Raina, and part of it scared her.

She suddenly asked herself, 'Am I becoming too dependent on Chris?' The last thing Raina wanted to be, was co-dependent.

Raina shook her head and sat up in her chair. She looked at Chris and smiled. "I'm sorry. I know you're busy. I don't mean to pressure you or make you feel bad."

The two continued to talk a bit longer until Chris noticed Raina yawning. "Okay, sweetheart, I will let you get to bed."

"No, I can still talk. It's early," Raina whined like a child.

"It's a quarter after eleven, and that is now your fourth yawn in the last fifteen minutes," he pointed out. "You need to get to bed."

Raina sighed, "Alright, boss. I'll get to bed. Talk to you later or when either one of us is available. Bye, honey. Love you."

"Love you, too. Bye."

Thanksgiving rolled around faster than Chris expected. Time flies when one is busy. He continued to talk to Raina via phone or skype. However, Chris was also beginning to get frustrated at their time apart. Currently, he was home, sitting in his living room with his brother and brother-in-law, watching a football game between the Buffalo Bills and Dallas Cowboys while his mom and sisters prepared dinner. Lisa would poke her head from the kitchen, asking the boys for help from time to time. His niece and nephew were running around playing with Dodger, who appeared to love the attention.

It was almost perfect, except one person was missing. Raina. He called her earlier that day. She shared that she was celebrating Thanksgiving, Chandler Bing style, with some of the Moulin Rouge cast.

"What the Hell is Thanksgiving, Chandler Bing style?" Chris asked, confused.

"Damnit, watch friends, Christopher," Raina scolded teasingly. "Chandler Bing doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving. Because that was the day his parents told him that they were getting divorced. So, instead of all the turkey fixings and stuffing, we have grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, and a family-size bag of Funyuns as an appetizer. We have lots of booze, so don't worry. Oh, and pumpkin cheesecake. Good times, right."

Chris only laughed. "You're living the dream. I don't think what Ma is making could compare."

"Just be sure to tell her to make her spaghetti for Christmas dinner. Or at least make a small pot of it just for me, okay."

"She's planning to, so don't worry. What are you watching? I hear gunfire," Chris enquired.

"I'm watching my husband, Tommy Shelby, shoot at the Italians," Raina informed as she watched Peaky Blinders. "I love Tommy Shelby. I tell you, Chris, if Tommy Shelby showed up at my door asking me to marry him, I would most likely say yes."

"Is that so."

"In a heartbeat. Sorry, hon, but Tommy Shelby, the things I would let him do to..."

"Thank God he is a fictional character," Chris interrupted.

"Not in my dreams he isn't," Raina taunted.

"Okay, I'm hanging up now."

"Alright, I'll stop lusting after my fictional husband while I'm on the phone with you," said Raina and switched topics.

The two continued to talk until Chris was ordered into the kitchen by his mother. It was his turn to help.

Chris was chopping carrots and celery when his mother asked how Raina was doing.

"She is doing fine. Raina wishes she could be here."

However, Lisa could tell something was bothering Chris. He could never hide his emotions from her. "What's the matter, Christopher?"

Chris continued to chop the vegetables until he stopped to look at his mother. "I didn't expect being away from Raina would be this hard, Ma."

"Of course it is. You love Raina," Lisa stated as she continued cooking.

"I do. But in the past, I had girlfriends who I loved and had to do long-distance," Chris explained. "None of those worked out."

"Because you weren't truly in love with them," Lisa pointed out. "Don't compare what you have with Rain to your past relationships. Every relationship is different. What you and Raina have now is not something you have experienced before, which is real love. True love. Everyone always knew that you two would end up together, except you and Raina. You both are so cute but also clueless at times. You both will get through this. The work commitments will die down. You both will be reunited. Everything will be fine."

Chris took in what his mother was saying. He knew she was right. He had things to look forward to beginning the start of the new year.

"Raina is the first person I dated, well since Jessica at least, that I have really begun to think about marriage and kids. Part of me is scared because it's all so fast. We have only started dating back in mid-July. I don't want to rush anything. I don't want to scare her off. I don't want her to get bored of me," Chris confessed honestly.

It was heartbreaking for Lisa to hear. She gestured for Chris to sit down at the kitchen table. "You need to stop, Chris. You are allowing your anxiety to get the best of you. Just take a deep breath, okay," she instructed her oldest son. "Raina will never get bored of you. She loves you very much. Don't think about the past; only focus on the future. You and Raina will be fine. More than fine. Yes, there will be hard times, along with good times. It is normal for every functional relationship. You can't have the good without the bad, the sad without the happy, the ups and the downs. The universe needs balance."

"Okay, Oprah," Chris joked. "I get what you're saying."

"Do you?"

"Yeah, I do, Ma."

"Good. Now get back to chopping," Lisa ordered, and Chris went back to cutting vegetables for Thanksgiving dinner.

#chris evans #chris evans x oc #chris evans x ofc

11 notes · View notes

itmighthavebeenintentional · 4 years

Text

To My Soul

Summary: You’ve taken to walking when insomnia strikes. The bunker definitely offers enough space to do so. Some nights you don’t even walk the same hallways twice. Dean and Sam have their own means of dealing with their occasional insomnia. Every now and then, your paths cross.

Inspired by Van Morrison’s “And It Stoned Me”

Warnings: Some loneliness. This story is *soft*, there’s not much to warn about.

Author’s Note: Super thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock for the AMAZING image and mega suggestions. You really shaped this story. @glassjacket, thank you for the relocations and the flails. I was nervous about my first Sam story.

Word Count:1525

ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

To My Soul

Walking is lonely and cold tonight.

Before you’d moved into the bunker, you used to open a window and listen to the crickets to calm your mind on the nights when you couldn’t sleep. It’s been several months now; the Winchesters have made every effort to help you settle in, but nights underground are long and far too quiet.

You’ve taken to walking when insomnia strikes. The bunker definitely offers enough space to do so. Some nights you don’t even walk the same hallways twice.

Dean and Sam have their own means of dealing with their occasional insomnia. Dean watches movies, listens to music, drinks, sometimes even punches things. You’ve joined him for a few of the less violent pastimes, at his invitation. You would never have intruded on your own, but he saw you pacing in the hallway and called out. Dean is easy to spend time with, and in the months you’ve known the Winchesters, you’ve grown more comfortable with him than any other person, save one.

Judging by the lack of sound effects from Dean’s room, the elder Winchester seems to be enjoying a rare night of easy slumber.

Sam has his own sleepless nights, and he resorts to fairly Sam-typical activities to occupy his mind. He does occasionally watch movies, mostly documentaries, but mostly he reads.

Sam reads so much, so often, that the library seems odd without him seated at the table, several volumes spread out around him, his notebook and laptop fighting for space on the crowded surface. He always has suggestions for books from the library, subjects you would never have considered but somehow never fail to interest you. Sometimes you curl up in a chair with a warm drink, letting the sounds of his scratching pencil or tapping keyboard mesmerize you.

Either Winchester would be more than welcome tonight, but at some point during your time in their bunker, you’ve come to anticipate your quiet nights with Sam. Soothing and quietly welcoming, Sam’s presence helps you sleep better than a full day of hard labor.

You love watching Sam work with his hands, any task really, but especially writing in his notebooks. His hand dwarfs any writing utensil he uses, and yet his fingers curve and glide so elegantly across the pages. He doesn’t mind you watching, just keeps at his research, though you’ve noticed lately that he’s smiling more than he used to.

Seems like it to you, anyway.

The library is depressingly empty tonight, feeling far too open and drafty without its most frequent inhabitant. You chafe at your arms, trying to buff some heat into your goose-bumped skin, and frown at the polished table top.

Absent of its typical stacks of dusty tomes and scribbled notes, the table seems almost superfluous. But it isn’t the table or even the library itself that drew you here on your nighttime stroll. You realize with a start that you’ve begun to take Sam’s occupancy of the library for granted, counting on the comfort of his welcoming smile and quiet inclusion.

Something to consider, you think, momentarily at a loss. Another draft whispers past, and you shiver.

Maybe he managed to find some peace tonight. Never one to begrudge someone a good night’s sleep, you decide to try an old trick and head towards the kitchen, running through the options of hot drinks in your restless mind.

Soft music drifts from the open kitchen doorway, floating out of the dimly lit room. The golden light of a small lamp makes the industrial room seem softer, more intimate than its usual stark appearance. Sam sits at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug, nodding vaguely in time to Van Morrison emanating from his phone’s speaker.

At the sight of him, relaxed and easy, warmth suffuses your body from your fingers to your cold-stiffened toes. You can’t help but smile; you don’t often get to see Sam this peaceful.

You clear your throat quietly, not wanting to startle him. He turns, his eyes meeting yours, and he sits up straighter. Your heart flips at his infectious smile.

You’re ninety-seven percent sure that his face lights up a little extra.

“I hoped you’d wander this way,” he says. Even his voice is calmer tonight, and you take a moment to simply drink in the serenity of the room. The empty spot across from Sam seems terribly inviting as he waits for your reaction.

Being the direct subject of Sam’s attention is suddenly a little more intense than you can handle. Rather than confront that thought, you glance around, looking for some new subject of conversation. You raise your eyebrows and nod questioningly at the little lamp on the table. Sam follows your gaze, and his smile turns a little bashful.

“Didn’t feel like researching tonight. The library was too cold, so I snagged the lamp and brought it with me. This is easier on my eyes than the overheads, especially since the whole point is to relax. Y’know?”

Yeah...yeah, you do know.

The song on Sam’s phone ends quietly, switching to the next.

Half a mile from the county fair, And the rain came pouring down...

“I, uh…” He clears his throat, some of the bashfulness apparently spreading to his vocal cords. His fingers shuffle awkwardly around the mug as he glances away and then back. It’s difficult to tell, but in the dim light, Sam’s face seems oddly flushed.

“I made some extra mulled cider, in case you, uh… I thought you might...if you want some. It’s in the pot on the stove.”

Your own cheeks heating, you smile your thanks and move across the room to the shelf where the coffee mugs sit.

You’re not short, not exactly, but something about living with a pair of giants who each have at least six inches on you can be slightly irritating at times. For example, when the first row of mugs have been used and the second row are just at the edge of your reach.

We just stood there, gettin’ wet, With our backs against the fence...

You sigh and stretch, inadvertently bumping the mug back an inch or so.

For the love of…

“Here, sorry, let me-”

And then Sam is behind you, reaching up to help. His chest presses against your back, so warm, and his arm brushes against yours as his hand accidentally grabs your fingers instead of the mug in question.

Your breath catches in an embarrassingly half-squeak, half-gasp as a tremor runs down your spine, and you both freeze.

Your body sings at every contact point. Your entire universe narrows down to this room, this one moment. It’s all you can do not to lean into Sam, turn in his arms, and just -

“Are you...are you okay? I’m sorry!” Sam’s voice comes out in a hushed stutter.

Afraid to move, not wanting to break the spell, your gaze travels slowly up his arm to where his fingers are caged tentatively around your own. Your hand doesn’t seem to be sweating yet, thank god, but…

Oh, the water. Oh, the water. Hope it don’t rain all day.

God, he’s so warm.

Sam’s fingers curl around yours, careful and decisive, and he draws them down to your side. He turns his hand so that you’re palm to palm and slowly twines his fingers with yours.

His other hand moves up to rest on your waist, exactly where it's meant to be. He leans down, his arms pulling you close, his jaw resting light and scratchy against your temple.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow hard against the sudden paralysis in your throat. All those nights in the library, watching those same fingers flipping pages, scratching notes, combing back through his hair, and somehow you never realized.

And it stoned me to my soul. Stoned me just like going home, And it stoned me.

An invisible knot in your chest loosens, and suddenly your breath comes easier. There is absolutely nothing stopping you from leaning back, taking this metaphorical step. In the dim, golden light of Sam’s little lamp, the two of you alone with the quiet, crooning song, Sam’s strong arms around you, everything suddenly feels easy and simple.

It feels like home.

Your turn your face to his. You’ve never been this close, close enough to see the fine lines around his eyes, the creases pressed into his skin from more than a lifetime of suffering and laughter and fighting. His eyes, dark in the muted light, are wide and still as he waits for you to decide.

Just as he’s done every night. No need to make him wait anymore.

You press your lips to his before you lose your nerve, and his intake of breath sweeps cool over your mouth before he returns the kiss. Careful and deliberate but with a hint of the strength that lives within him. And so very warm.

You pull back just enough to bump the tip of your nose against his. Eyes still closed, he exhales, a short little chuckle that curls his lips and relaxes his shoulders.

“Yeah, Sam. This is definitely okay.”

204 notes · View notes

solynaceawrites · 4 years

Text

Promise Me Forever [9]

Fandom: Devil May Cry Characters: Dante, Lirael Thorne (OC) Tags: Slow Burn, Romance, Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe, First Time, Friends to Lovers Chapters: 9/14 co-written by @lickitysplitfic Summary: An old, long-forgotten promise between gods comes back to haunt Dante when it deposits an unfamiliar woman on his door. Claiming to be the descendant of Ler, she says that they’re meant to fulfill the oath made by Sparda centuries ago, and all he can do is watch as she turns his life upside down. Yet when her parents come knocking, demanding the oath be fulfilled, he’s forced to choose: return to the bachelor ways he loved so much, or give in to the emotions brewing between him.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Dante frowns at his reflection, adjusting the collar of his shirt as he tries to tug the tie a bit looser. He can't even remember the last time he wore a get-up like this . . . Hell, he might never have worn a suit and everything. He leans in to examine his face, clean of any stubble and pizza sauce, before straightening up so he can smooth his palms down the jacket.

"Hmm," he says to himself. His hair hangs in its typical messy-but-totally-intentional strands, and he wonders if he should gel them back or something. But then he'd look like Vergil, and Dante snorts, wondering what he would think of all this—of course, if Vergil was around, he'd be the one about to marry Lir.

"Whatcha laughing at?" Nero asks from the bed, where he is bent over tying his shoes.

"Nothin'." Nero snorts, but doesn't press, and for that, at least, Dante's grateful. Today is going to be enough of a pain without dredging up the kid's trauma—not to mention his own—and any reprieve, however slight, is more than welcome.

He eyes the decanter of whiskey set on the dresser. Lir had sent it up with Nero when the kid arrived, alone with her hopes that he would enjoy it, but he hasn't been able to bring himself to touch the stuff. The last meeting with her family had been disaster enough without alcohol involved; he'd hate to hear their bitchin' if he showed up with liquor on his breath.

"Right." Nero stands, running a hand through his hair, which is far shorter than it was when he and Dante met. "You ready?"

"I don't know," Dante admits. He turns and puts his arms out, glancing down before frowning at Nero. "How do I look?"

Nero laughs and shakes his head. "You want my honest answer?"

"Sure."

"Like you're about to piss yourself," he chuckles. "But grooms are supposed to be, right?"

Dante makes a face. "No? I don't know."

Nero shrugs. "I don't know, you look like a guy who hunts demons and had to put on a suit. So I'd say, you look like yourself."

Dante sighs. "Let's just get this over with."

"That's the spirit," Nero teases, followed by another laugh.

He starts towards the door, still fussing with the tie at his throat, only to be stopped by Nero. Frowning, he tilts his head, and the kid shrugs and reaches up to fix the mess he'd made of the knot. "There," he mutters, stepping back and studying him with a squint. "Least now you look like you know what you're doing."

". . . Thanks," Dante mutters.

Nero nods and moves to open the door, holding it open until Dante has stepped through. Then they descend the stairs towards the main floor, from where the sounds of laughter and excited chatter echo. That makes him feel worse, somehow: so much on Lir's shoulders, forcing her here to marry a jackass with nothing much going on for him, and those people are having fun?

By the time they get to the bottom, Nero is looking at him funny again. "You okay, man?" he asks. "Never seen you that color before."

Dante nods, and they head over to where Morrison is waving at them. The shop has been transformed into a party area, chairs lined up in rows before the little foyer in front of the door, where the two of them will say their vows. He spies Lir's parents trying to get his attention, but Dante ducks down and makes a beeline for Morrison. "Thanks for doing this," he mutters when they reach him. "Can we get started?"

"Just waiting on the bride," he chuckles. "You doing okay? You look pretty pale."

"He's nervous as fuck, that's why," Nero offers.

"Lir's family is here, can you cool it with the swears?" Dante hisses. He nods over to the two dozen or so people who occupy most of the space, chatting excitedly and sending sideways glances towards Lady and Trish. They are the only ones sitting on the groom's side, and Dante grits his teeth to see that neither of them are dressed like normal people.

Lady is in the same all-white ensemble she'd worn in Fortuna, while Trish's black corset is drawing more than a few scornful looks, but neither of them seem to care much. At least they aren't all over one another. He has no idea if the conservative values of Lir's family extends to personal relationships and has no desire to find out. He levels an unimpressed stare their way, one that Lady returns with a poisonously sweet smile. 'Don't faint,' she mouths, and he turns back to Morrison with a growl.

"Where's Lir?" he asks lowly.

"Upstairs with Kyrie," Nero answers. "I think a couple of women who might have been her sisters went, too. Something about prepping her for tonight, whatever that means."

"Oh, God," he groans. Dante wipes his brow with the back of his hand, then on his pants. Lir's parents have finally started over, and he considers hitting the fire alarm as he watches them approach.

Her father puts his hand out, which Dante takes weakly. "Very exciting!" Augustus says, nodding to the others. "Are we just about ready?"

"About time, too," Lorenna huffs. "Can't put this off forever." She narrows her eyes at Nero, looking him up and down, frowning when she spies his right arm, partially hidden by his coat. "Who is this?"

"Nero," Dante replies quickly, cutting off whatever profanity was, judging by how sharply Nero scowls, about to come out of his mouth. "He's a business associate. Runs the Fortuna branch of the Devil May Cry."

"Oh!" Lorenna perks up a bit. "Were you familiar with the Order, perhaps?"

Dante watches Nero visibly swallow his anger, and his voice is stiff when he says, "Yeah. I knew 'em."

"Interesting business that was," she says. "You must know a lot about Sparda, being familiar with the Order."

Nero shrugs. "Some I guess? Who knows if he was even real though, right?"

Internally, Dante winces. That was the entirely wrong thing to have said, and he realizes then that he should have warned Nero about how devoted these people are to Sparda as a mythical protector of humanity. Before things can devolve further, Kyrie appears at the bottom of the stairs and hurries over to Morrison.

"She's ready," she announces.

Augustus drags his wife away, who looks as though she has more to say, and Nero snorts. "These people are weird," he says before kissing Kyrie's cheek and watching as she goes to sit next to Lady.

"Yeah," Dante answers. Music starts from somewhere, and Nero frowns at him, grabbing his elbow and positioning him the other way.

"Stand here," Nero snorts. He looks over Dante's shoulder and nods. "She's coming down the steps, don't you want to look?"

Dante blinks. His palms are damp, the small of his back clammy, and he's nervous, more so than he's ever been before. Makes sense, he supposes; like Nero said, grooms are supposed to be, right? Yet he feels like his body weighs tons as he turns, the world swimming around him in slow motion, and the sight of Lir nearly sends him running.

She's fucking gorgeous, and she's making a terrible mistake.

The dress she wears is the one he knows she's spent weeks carefully sewing, and it fits her like a damn glove, hugging her chest and hips before flaring into a train at her thighs, and her neck and shoulders are left bare. Dainty lace gloves cover her hands, clutching a bouquet of white and red roses, and, while he can't see much of her face due to the veil covering it, he already knows that she's going to be stunning. She already is, every single day, in jeans or a ball gown. Christ, his eyes are burning, and next to him Nero mutters, "You can cry. Most guys do."

"I'm not crying," he hisses, smiling at Lir when she reaches him.

Lir beams up at him through the veil, and holds out her hand to him, which he takes eagerly. "This is exciting, isn't it?" she whispers.

Dante nods, feeling his nerves start to settle as she grins.

"You look very handsome," she murmurs.

He swallows thickly. "Yeah. You look . . . Uh. Well. I've never seen anythin' prettier."

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Dante wrinkles his nose as he knocks back a sip of champagne. The taste is a bit weird, definitely preferring beer, or whiskey. But champagne was needed for the toasts, Lir had insisted, so he sighs as another one of her relatives or sisters or friends or whoever this seemingly endless parade of people are gets up to give them another lecture about Sparda and Ler disguised as a toast.

"You okay?" Lir whispers, patting his arm.

"Right as rain," he answers, returning her smile. She sits on his right, their table actually his desk, covered with a long linen cloth.

He feels a nudge on the shoulder. "How much longer is this?" Nero hisses in his ear. "I'm starving and these people are starting to freak me out."

Lir gives him a sheepish, almost embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry, Nero. It should be over soon. They're just waiting for . . . for the sun to go down."

Dante frowns, glancing towards the windows. The sky outside is taking on the burning hues of evening, and the sun is barely touching the roofs of the buildings across the street. "Sunset? Why sunset?"

"Well, it's . . ."

She closes her mouth as a woman with Augustus' dark hair and Lorenna's shrewd eyes approaches. There's a band on her finger with a large diamond set in the center, but that doesn't stop her from eyeing him in a way that feels far too intimate. "Lirael," the woman coos. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"You know who he is, Irene." It's the first time he's ever seen something akin to dislike settle on Lir's features, and he wracks his brain at the inkling of familiarity the name brings. "Dante, this is my older sister, third daughter of Augustus and Lorenna, 59th in the line of Ler."

She sticks out her hand, which Dante takes. "Nice to meet you?" he says uncomfortably.

"Mm-hm." She looks around, holding onto his hand so he can't pull away. "This is your place? Not much to it. You'd think the son of Sparda would have something . . ." Her voice trails off as she slowly drags her eyes up and down him. "Bigger," she finishes.

Behind him, Nero makes an odd sort of noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh, and Lir's brow pinches. "Irene," she says, warily.

Irene releases him with a smile and lifts the flute of champagne in her other hand. "A toast to the newly wed couple. May your union be satisfying too all, your joining full of delight."

"Thanks," Dante says, putting his arm around Lir for good measure. "Same to you," he continues, nodding towards the rock on her hand.

"Oh, this? It's nothing," she laughs. Then her eyes flicker over to Nero. "Another son of Sparda?"

Nero makes a face. "Hell no, I ain't a Sparda. And I'm taken, lady."

"My mistake." She smiles at Lir again, taking a thoughtful sip of her champagne before saying, "Interesting ceremony you have here. Our sister was married on the beach, but an office building is nice too, I suppose. And pizza? You are living well."

"Dante likes it," Lir hisses.

"Does he?" One perfectly shaped brow arches. "Well, then I suppose it's alright. Though I must say, sister, I'm very surprised to see how well you've adjusted. What was it you said when you were chosen? That you'd rather die?"

Dante goes cold. She never told me that. But Lir is already lifting her chin. "That was before I knew him."

"I see." Irene taps the rim of her glass against her lips thoughtfully. "Did you know," she says to Dante, "that the only reason Lir was sent was that my engagement was announced two weeks before we learned of your existence?"

"Sounds like you had a lot of reasons to celebrate," he replies. His voice sounds steady, despite how numb his lips feel. Is she still miserable with this?

"Just think," Irene says, as if he hadn't spoken, "it could be the two of us sitting here right now." She laughs and takes another drink from her glass. "That would be interesting, wouldn't it? We wouldn't be eating pizza at a wedding, that's certain."

"Hey, back off." Nero steps up, his voice angry , putting out his left hand as if to keep her away. "Why don't you go find your table and leave them alone?"

She gives a simpering sort of smile before turning on her heel, her hips swaying more than Dante thinks is natural as she saunters back over to her parents. "I'm sorry," Lir murmurs. "She's . . . She wasn't happy to be passed over. I thought that wound would have healed by now, but . . ."

"It's fine." Dante sips his champagne and wrinkles his nose. Too sweet. "Believe me, I understand sibling rivalry just fine."

The speeches finally over, food is served, which seems to settle everyone. Dante is amazed at the dishes served, a combination of pasta dishes that does include pizza. He eats his fill as Lir discreetly points out who everyone is among their guests, keeping one eye on the table that sits his friends, hoping they don't get too rowdy. He notes how Lir seems to be getting fidgety, and after the caterers take the food away, she seems to be stiff as a board.

Dante spots some of Lir's family getting ready to swarm, so he leans over and murmurs, "Is it, uh . . . time?"

She jumps, but then nods. Dante frowns to see the bit of pinching in the corner of her eyes, but Lir tries to visibly relax. "Yeah. We’re going to need to go upstairs."

"Sounds good." Dante stands, putting his hands up and calling for attention. If Lir is this nervous, it's up to him to take charge, he decides. Least he can do after all this mess.

Everyone stops talking and looks at him in surprise, and he ignores the whoop that comes from Trish. Lir whispers his name in the silence, but Dante's mind is made up. "Everyone, uh, I guess it's time for me and Lir to do the thing we need to do. So make sure to leave me some pizza, and don't drive if you get too trashed."

The expressions of their guests ranges from surprise to delight, but their stunned reaction to him is made worth it when he hears the little laugh that escapes Lir before she smothers it, and he offers her his hand. She takes it with a smile before addressing the crowd. "Thank you all for being here. I know the road has been . . . strange, but I'm happy, and proud, to be where I am. To be by his side."

He doesn't quite know what to make of that or the knots it sends his stomach into, so he merely nods, moving to rest his palm against the small of her back and guiding her to the stairs. Whispers erupt behind them, easy enough to ignore given his own inner turmoil. Dante is actually looking forward to this, and that makes him feel guilty, which only confuses him. Lir, at least, seems steady, climbing to the second floor with an easy grace.

Dante follows her into his bedroom, and he lets out a surprised noise when they get inside. It's the cleanest he's ever seen it, a completely new bedding set on the bed, fresh flowers placed around on the furniture. He looks around with a smile as he shuts the door, putting his hands on his hips as he takes it all in. "This place looks great," he says. "Did you do this?"

"Some of it." Lir moves to the window to open in a bit, and he watches as she takes a deep breath when the curtain sways a bit. She glances over her shoulder, but when their eyes meet she quickly turns away. "Can you help me with this veil?" she asks. "There's like a million pins in it."

"Sure," he murmurs, shrugging off his jacket as he walks over. Dante tosses it onto the chair in the corner, cleaned off of the pile of dirty clothes and even a new pillow fluffed on the seat, and steps up to Lir as she turns away from him. He frowns for a moment but then finds the first hairpin, pulling it out and tossing it on the top of the bureau. Carefully he works until he takes out a couple dozen and is able to work the comb attached free from her hair.

Lir sighs deeply, reaching up to help him. "My scalp thanks you," she chuckles, tossing the veil to join his jacket on the chair.

On impulse he slides his hands in her hair, giving her scalp a gentle massage, and Dante grins when she gives a little groan. "That's nice, thank you," Lir sighs.

"Mm-hm." The scent of her shampoo wafts gently every time his fingers brush through her hair. It's sweet, light, like the strawberries he loves so much, and he wonders if she'd chosen a new one just for him or if he never noticed it before. "I'd say you've earned it."

"Earned it?" He can hear the confusion, and it's cute enough to make him laugh.

Resting his hands on her shoulders, he carefully presses his thumbs against the nape of her neck. "Yeah. You had to put up with me an' Nero an' all of your family for the entire day. Keep it up, and I'll think you're going for sainthood."

Lir doesn't respond right away, her head dropping as he massages her skin. Then she turns and looks up at him with a shy smile. "You did pretty good too," she says. Then she licks her lips, a little gesture that sends a jolt through him, and she reaches up to undo his tie. "Let's, uh . . . let's get you comfortable, okay?"

"Right." His voice cracks, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Right. Okay. Think you're a bit more, uh . . . I mean, the dress seems . . ."

Her fingers brush his throat as she carefully undoes the knot and pulls the fabric from beneath his collar. "I'm okay," she replies quietly. "It's not the worst thing I've ever worn." Before he can ask what was, she sets to work on the buttons of his shirt; Dante can feel her hands trembling, and he covers them with his own when she reaches the third.

"Take it easy," he murmurs. "It's just us."

Lir glances up, her cheeks turning a bit pink. "I'm just so scared I'm going to screw this up," she whispers.

Dante can't help but chuckle at that. "Don't worry, I got that covered I think." He pulls her hands away and finishes the buttons on his shirt. "I can do this. Do you need help with your dress?"

She shakes her head, watching him for a moment as he takes off his shirt before glancing away. Lir turns a bit as she reaches back to pull her zipper, and the two undress silently. Dante doesn't take his eyes from her as he takes off his belt and pulls off his shoes, breathing deeply when she lets her dress slide to the floor, leaving her in a white slip, the satin clinging to her body. He is nervous as hell but seeing Lir just as unsure has given him a weird boost of confidence, and before he removes the rest of his clothes, he reaches out and grabs her wrist. "Come here," he murmurs, tugging her gently.

Lir blinks up at him, and Dante leans in, smiling as her eyes widen when he gets closer. Slowly he wraps his arms around her, his skin warming when her palms go to his arms and gently settle against him. "We can do this," Dante says.

She exhales slowly with a nod. "Yes." Her gaze drops to his mouth, and a flush stains her cheeks as she looks away. "I know I don't . . . I mean, it might not be proper or correct, but . . . may I kiss you?"

His mind flashes to her underneath him on the couch, her thighs cradling his body, and he swallows thickly. "If that's what you want."

Like then, her hands cup his face, her thumbs smoothing carefully over his cheeks, and his heart is pounding in his chest as she goes up onto her toes to press her lips to his. It's the same tentative brush she had used the first time, like she's afraid to ask for more, that she's doing something wrong, and he holds her firmly, forcing himself to be patient. If he moves too quickly, he could scare her again, like he had when he'd torn the couch trying to keep himself under control.

His hands fist into the slip, but he holds back, letting her lead the kiss. Lir presses her lips to him twice, three times, and then Dante follows the tilt of her mouth, returning her slow kiss with soft pressure. After several moments she starts to grow bolder, and he feels her tongue flicker against his lips; they curve into a smile as he opens for her, Lir sighing into his mouth.

She hesitates again, and Dante tugs on her lower lip before moving down her jaw and to her throat. He shivers at the little catch in her breath as he leaves a trail of kisses down her neck. "You know I have . . . some things I can do . . ." she whispers.

"You do?" Dante nibbles on her shoulder, kissing along the strap of her slip.

"Yes, I was . . . I was taught how to . . ." He presses his lips under her earlobe, cutting her off as she sucks in another breath. Her fingers dig into the muscle of his arms as she tilts her head, exposing more skin to his kiss. "I'm supposed to be making you feel good," she whimpers.

"Mm, think that's supposed to go both ways," he murmurs, more than half-distracted by the softness of her throat. "Ain't fun if only one of us feels good."

"Fun?" she mumbles. She strokes him lightly, sending a shiver up his spine, and he groans and teases her pulse carefully with his teeth. "Oh," Lir breathes, the sound erotic and sweet and making him twitch. "Oh, do that again, please."

Dante complies eagerly. He kisses her neck, teasing her with his tongue as his arm slides around her waist, holding her tightly against him. The other hand moves to her hip, and slowly he walks her backwards towards the bed. "Is it okay if I touch you?" he whispers.

"Y-yes," she stutters.

He drags his palm down her thigh, and then grabs the fabric, pulling it up until he can feel her skin. They hit the edge of the bed, and Lir sits, pulling Dante down on top of her as she slides back to the center of the bed. Their eyes connect as he strokes her thigh, and she moves her touch up his arms and back down his chest, carefully tracing the outlines of his muscles.

"I wasn't lyin' earlier," he says, quietly, and her hands pause on his stomach. "I've never seen anyone prettier than you. Don't think I ever will."

He strokes the crease of her thigh as her gaze softens. Then Lir grabs his arms and tugs. "Sit up on the pillows," she says, quickly scrambling back.

Dante smiles and crawls up on the bed, flopping over with his back propped on the frilly pillows at the head of the bed. "This good?"

"Perfect." He grins as Lir straddles his lap, and then his eyes almost fall out of his head when she pulls the slip off over her head. Underneath is a lace set that is barely more than a triangle between her legs and over her breasts, and Lir reaches back to undo the bra, taking it off and tossing it onto the floor.

She settles back to sit on his hips, and Dante swallows as he takes her in. Her hands press on his stomach to steady herself, and as his gaze hovers around her chest, her nipples soft and pink against creamy skin, his own body starts to rapidly stiffen. Her kiss had already gotten his blood pumping, but his heartbeat is at full speed ahead with Lir now perched nearly naked on top of him, her hair falling over one shoulder as she chews her lip nervously.

Dante clears his throat as she shifts a bit, certain she can feel his erection inside his pants and now pressed against her backside. "I guess I should . . ." she murmurs, her fingers tracing down his stomach and towards the little trail of hair just visible above the waistband of his dress pants.

Still gathering his wits, or what little of them he's ever had, he doesn't realize what she's intending to do until the button is unfastened and the zipper eased down, and, even then, it doesn't really click until her her hand eases beneath the fabric and her touch grazes the base of his cock. Both of them freeze, and what he thinks is alarm flickers briefly across her features. "Oh," she says, then again: "Oh. You're bigger than . . ."

Lir trails off, her cheeks scarlet now, and there's another of those strange boosts to his ego, though it's dulled a bit by concern. She havin' second thoughts? "You okay?"

"Huh? Oh! Yes." She gives her head a little shake. "I'm sorry, I only. I mean, they told us—told me about the anatomy and used props to demonstrate how things could be done, but nothing was . . . as large as you are."

Dante's burst of pride is quickly dampened as she starts to stroke him, her hand exploring his length, but her expression one of confusion. "This isn't . . ." Her voice trails off, and now it's his turn to frown as she yanks down the fabric, his cock springing free as she examines him closely.

"Uh, easy there," he chuckles nervously.

But Lir only stares at him, expression deep in thought. Carefully she wraps her hand around him, and Dante bites back a groan as she slowly drags her fist up and down his length. It's pretty much the most erotic thing he's ever seen—only, really—and her beautiful face and perfect body and delicate hand now jerking him almost experimentally have him gripping the blanket beneath him tightly. Her other hand strokes his pelvis, the touch of her fingertips almost featherlight and in stark contrast to the firm grip she uses to pump up and down his length that is now aching and throbbing.

"Lir," he grunts. She stops, peering up at him from beneath her lashes, and he tries to think of a polite way to tell her that it she wants to have sex she better get a move on because he's not sure he can last with her doing that. But the words won't come, and he curses as her brows furrow.

"Was I doing it wrong?"

"What? No!" He pushes himself up onto his elbows. "Christ, no. Just, uh . . . Seems unfair that you're getting to touch me but I can't touch you."

"Oh!" She giggles, a slight blush creeping over her features. "Sorry, I was distracted."

Her smile is lovely as she leans over him, her free hand pressed to his shoulder as the other continues stroking him. Lir gazes at him sweetly, her long lashes making her look almost sultry, and the mix of innocence and sexiness makes his heart skip a beat. Dante reaches up to feel her thighs, and then slides his hands over her until he carefully covers her breasts. He can feel her nipples grow hard against his palm, and he gives her flesh a gentle squeeze, swallowing a groan at how soft she feels and how small she seems in his large hands.

She bites her lip, and he leans up to kiss the plump flesh, sucking on it softly while he cups her breasts and uses his thumbs to rub small circles over her nipples. The little noise she lets out as she arches into his touch has him panting, rocking up into her hand; nothing could have ever prepared him for the sensation of her body against his, of her skin brushing his. He feels almost drunk, and he releases one hand to drag it down her stomach, groping over her waist and hip just to feel her tremble.

Lir is still stroking him, her hand feeling like a slice of heaven, her skin so soft as it drags up and down his length. Occasionally she pauses to rub her thumb on the tip or tease the head, and Dante groans. He would love nothing more than to take hold of himself and hurry up the end his body is craving, but her touch is so sweet and sexy that he wouldn't stop her for anything.

She moves closer, his erection now pressed against her thigh, and Dante pulls her down to kiss her eagerly. Lips and tongues slide together as his hands roam her body, and then he tilts her back so he can place a kiss to her breast, using his tongue to roll around her waiting nipple. Lir gives a little gasp that sends a shot of pleasure right through his dick, and he pulls her nipple in his mouth, wanting more. Her hands move into his hair, his cock straining for friction where it presses to her thigh, and when she lifts her hips slightly to press her chest closer to him, he feels the lace drag against the head of his cock, nearly driving him crazy.

"Dante," she murmurs, her nails scratching lightly over his scalp, and it's damn near over right then. Then she asks, shyly, "Should I . . . finish undressing?" and he goes lightheaded at just the thought of it.

"Yeah, yeah," he huffs. "You got me so worked up, angel . . ."

Lir presses a quick kiss to his lips and climbs off, and Dante stares as she stands next to the bed and shimmies out of her panties. When she turns he quickly pulls the rest of his clothes off, grabbing the base of his cock and giving it a squeeze as he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. Keep it together. Keep it together!

Warm silk wraps around him, and with a groan he peeks an eye open. Lir is spreading lube along his length, coating him well before she straddles his hips.

She holds his shoulders and rocks her hips, and Dante hits his head back against the pillows. He watches with widening eyes as she grips his length, and then angles it between her legs. Lir grabs onto his chest for leverage as the head of him parts her folds, and Dante wonders what to do, if he should help, when the first couple of inches enter her body, and his cock is wrapped in the most delicious tight heat he could ever have imagined.

He digs his fingers into the quilt, a faint ping of remorse making itself known when the fabric starts to rip. But it's easy enough to ignore that when the alternatives are either losing control or hurting her or both, and he does his damndest to keep himself still while she works. His thoughts jumble together the more of him she takes: christ she's so small is it gonna fit is she okay oh fuck oh fuck fuck fuck.

"Dante . . ." she whines, bringing him back from his own overwhelming thoughts. "Dante, I can't . . ."

He sits up, wrapping his arms around her waist, and kisses her. Lir freezes in his hold, her hands on his shoulders, and Dante kisses her as passionately as he knows how, ignoring the insistent throbbing of his cock. He rubs her back in slow circles until after a minute, she begins to relax, sinking further onto him.

"Lir," he groans, pressing his face to her neck. She starts to rock her hips, easing him in and out of her body, but still far from taking him completely inside her own; but it doesn't matter, the movements still erotic and incredible, her sex squeezing him tightly. He remembers the spot below her ear that had her trembling earlier, so he lavishes her skin with his teeth and tongue, letting Lir work at a pace that is comfortable for her but nearly torturous for him.

He's so caught up in keeping her comfortable that he doesn't realize how dangerously close he's getting until his sac starts to tighten, and he pulls from her skin with a stuttered groan, grabbing at her hips even as ecstasy starts to overflow. She lets out a startled noise as his seed fills her in pulses that mimic his hammering heart, going still with her hands braced on his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin with her surprise.

Dante can't take it anymore and he thrusts upwards, another pulsing wave of pure bliss wracking his body, the friction silky as he slowly rocks up and down. He falls back on the pillows as he catches his breath, staring at the ceiling as it finally begins to fade, Lir a comfortable weight on his lap.

Sleep is already tugging at him when she carefully climbs off of him, and he tugs her down next to him with a yawn that makes his jaw crack. Belatedly, he realizes that she probably hadn't gotten off—not that he'd noticed—but her hand is drawing lazy, soothing circles on his chest that only serve to lull him deeper into slumber, and his last bit of awareness is focused on the soft brush of her lips over his shoulder.

#dmc #devil may cry #dante sparda #lirael thorne #lir #dante/lir #dante/oc #dante x oc #dmc oc #dmc fanfic #dmc fanfiction #fanfiction #writing #story #myfic #collab #promise me forever #pmf

13 notes · View notes

rawiswhore · 4 years

Text

Shawn Michaels x Fem Reader- “Nothing Compares 2 U”

In July of 1998, one of the most iconic, influential pro wrestlers of the 1990's made a return to the WWF.

Who is it?

Shawn Michaels!

You're so happy he's returned to the WWF, not only is he a legend and icon in pro wrestling, but he's arguably sexier than ever before in July of 1998.

His hair is somewhat shorter, not a buzzcut like John Cena and Randy Orton have, but he's cut a few inches of his hair off.

At the end of July 1998, when he returned to the WWF and it was the week of his birthday, you were lying in bed with him one night in a hotel room.

You were snuggled up next to Shawn, he not wearing a shirt and his arm wrapped around and behind you while your hand was caressing up and down his bare chest.

The lamp was on sitting on top of the nightstand next to the bed you and Shawn were sharing, you're hoping Shawn doesn't fall asleep yet.

"I've missed you so much" you confessed to him, your face looking at him.

"I've missed you too" he admitted, his fingers stroking a few strands of your hair. "I think the audience in general misses me!"

While Shawn did make a few appearances during the WWF's Attitude era from 1998 to 2002, some could even say 1997 and even 1996 is the Attitude era, it's a shame he wasn't there all throughout this era.

Though, would he have fit in with this era?

This is an era notorious for being very edgy, violent and downright shocking.

Then again, he was in D Generation X, who helped initiate the WWF's Attitude era and are part of the reason the company calls itself WWF Attitude.

When your hand caressed up and down his chest, he felt a rush travel throughout his body, your touch giving him tingles where you touched him.

He had an erection poking through his boxers he was sleeping in.

"You know how sexually promiscuous I was" you said "Do you know what the word 'promiscuous' means?"

"Of course!" he replied. "I've been a bit promiscuous myself too!"

You chuckled when he said that, at least he admits his promiscuity.

"You know I've fucked most of the roster, because some of them are sexy" you admitted "But you're the hottest out of any wrestler I've fucked"

You looked into his eyes when you confessed that, your head raising from the crook of his neck and leaning your face to his.

You also tried sounding sexy when you confessed Shawn is the sexiest wrestler you've fucked, your voice sounding huskier but sultry and sexy.

"Really?" he asked "Well, thanks!"

He probably agrees he was the hottest man in the WWF.

You nodded your head when he asked "really?", replying with "you're welcome" afterwards.

When your hand was caressing up and down his chest, his chest hair was slipping and sliding in between your fingers.

"Triple H, Hunter Hearst Helmsley is almost as sexy as you are" you admitted "But he's also a bit like Sable...in some angles he looks good, and in others he doesn't!"

Shawn probably disagrees with you about Sable and how she looks.

"You don't think Sable's all that hot?" he asked.

"Sometimes in a few angles and pictures she's beautiful" you admitted "But in other angles, she looks so much older than her age. I can't believe so many men go nuts over her!"

Debra is also that same way, yes, the same Debra who was married to Stone Cold and was Jeff Jarrett's valet.

Most of the WWF's audience in the Attitude era are horny teenage boys, and do these boys lust over Debra and Sable, despite them looking older than their age occasionally?

I've seen some people online admit they didn't like Sable and Debra when they were horny teenage boys and that those 2 WWF divas looked older than their age.

But you aren't here to talk about WWF divas. You're here to talk about the wrestlers you've fucked.

You have a bit of relationship OCD with Triple H.

Sometimes he looks hot as hell, but other times he doesn't, and you look at him to see if he's th

"Jeff Hardy, from that Hardy Boyz duo" you brought up "Oh God, now he is someone just as sexy as you are"

Your voice was using a lot of emphasis when you gushed over Jeff Hardy's appearance.

"I know who Jeff is" Shawn mentioned "They remind me of the Rockers duo I used to be in"

He should know who Jeff is, you've had a few orgies with Jeff and Shawn.

The Hardy Boyz eventually would be the Attitude era's equivalent to the Rockers, and Jeff would become the Shawn Michaels of the duo.

Jeff would eventually become a major sex symbol in the WWF/E, where teenage girls would shriek and scream their lungs out when he took his shirt off, and 95% of wrestling fanfiction in the early 2000's would be slash fanfiction shipping Jeff and Matt Hardy.

Doesn't Jeff sight Shawn as a wrestling influence?

Since Shawn brought up the Rockers...

"Speaking of the Rockers" you mentioned "Marty Jannetty, he has such a cute little baby face, like a Cabbage Patch Kid"

You moved one of your hands to your face and pinched your cheek with your fingers.

Shawn chuckled when you demonstrated that, smiling at your confession.

His chuckling spread to you, and you couldn't help but laugh and giggle at that.

"Even though Marty is pretty cute" you admitted "He looks a lot older than he is, doesn't he? And mullets are starting to get outdated, aren't they?"

Shawn would agree with you on that, nodding his head, chuckling and smiling.

"That's why I got rid of that mullet!" he chirped.

"I'm glad you got rid of it" you confessed "You look so much sexier without it"

You put emphasis on the word "so" when you gushed over his looks.

"Thanks!" he chirped.

"You're welcome" you replied, grinning at him from ear to ear.

Marty actually got so much hotter as he got older, and surprisingly, he aged better (in the looks department) than 2010's Shawn in my opinion...

Since you're on the subject of the Rockers...

"Leif Cassidy, that other new Rocker" you mentioned, though Shawn knows who Leif Cassidy is, he even "He was pretty cute, though his hair sometimes looked terrible"

His gimmick was terrible too; his character was meant to be someone completely stuck and trapped in the 1970's and his name is a combination of 2 70's teen heartthrobs.

"He lost his looks when he grew facial hair" you admitted.

Fun fact: Leif Cassidy would eventually become Al Snow, yes, THAT Al Snow who held a female mannequin head and started those sexual innuendo laced "Head!" chants during the Attitude era.

And since you're on the subject of tag team duos...

"Billy Gunn, he was the hottest one in that New Age Outlaws duo" you confessed "But I hate that bowl cut he has now"

You frowned and pouted after you admitted your opinion on his haircut he'd have throughout 1998.

"Is he gonna have that bowlcut for the rest of his wrestling career?" you asked Shawn.

He shrugged his shoulders.

He probably won't, since most popular hairstyles don't last forever.

"Even though he is pretty cute" you admitted "He does have a big forehead and beady little eyes"

He looks slightly like a caveman.

"Bart Gunn, his former Smoking Gunns partner" you brought up "He's getting so much sexier now that his hair has grown longer"

He looks like Val Kilmer as well as a cross between 2 WWE stars: John Morrison and Randy Orton.

"I feel sorry for Bart, though" you admitted, frowning and pouting "Now he's in that stupid Brawl for All that no one likes"

"That Val Venis wrestler who plays a porn star" Shawn brought up "Did you fuck him behind the scenes?"

"Oh yeah!" you confessed, nodding your head and laughing, embarrassed that you admitted you've banged him.

Of course you had to bang him, both on "Monday Night Raw" where your character plays a promiscuous nymphomaniac and behind the scenes when the cameras weren't rolling.

Even though he's a major sex symbol in the WWF, his looks, though...

"Val Venis is both ugly and sexy at the same time" you confessed. "There's some techno musician out there called Aphex Twin, and Val looks like the guy from Aphex Twin, I swear!"

"I think I've heard of them before" Shawn admitted. "I'll have to look them up"

"The resemblance is uncanny!" you added.

You didn't want Shawn to fall asleep too soon, and your eyelids were fighting to stay awake.

Though, Shawn pretty much is up all night hearing you chatter about wrestlers you've banged, as well as up all night from you caressing his bare chest, try to guess that double entendre...

"What about that Rob Van Dam guy from ECW?" he asked and brought up.

"Oh, now he's just as sexy as you are!" you gushed "He almost was in the WWF but wasn't for some reason..."

Probably because you kept letting him fuck you during his short stint in the WWF circa May and June 1997.

Since you're discussing wrestlers and other wrestling companies...

"Bret Hart is sort of like Triple H and Sable" you confessed "As in, sometimes he looks sexy, but other times he doesn't, especially when his hair is way too curly"

There's another hot member of the Hart Foundation who you could say was the British Bret Hart...

"Davey Boy Smith, he's definitely pretty sexy" you admitted "Though he does have a bit of a lazy eye and he's a bit on the big side"

Oddly enough, Shawn would develop a lazy eye 2 decades later.

"I can't decide if Davey was hotter with short hair or long hair" you admitted "Though, what was up with those cornrows he used to wear? Who told him that was a good look?"

Shawn chuckled and laughed hearing you complain about that.

And you didn't find it racist about Davey wearing cornrows because it was the 1990's and cultural appropriation wasn't an issue back then like it is today.

Nowadays, Davey would get bashed badly for cultural appropriation for being a caucasian British man wearing cornrows.

"Since when do British white people wear cornrows?" you asked. "That's the first thing I think of when I think of England, fucking cornrows"

You saying that was making Shawn laugh and helping him stay awake.

Wonder if the people in the rooms next to you can hear your conversation with Shawn?

Even though the two of you aren't having sex, you are talking about men you've fucked and banged.

There's another member of the Hart Foundation you fucked backstage...

"And there's Brian Pillman" you huffed, getting sad when you bring him up. "He was pretty handsome back in October of '96, though I'm wondering if he's the least sexiest of all the wrestlers I've fucked"

Your mood is changing when you're talking about him, hopefully tears won't well in your eyes considering he died last year.

You tried changing your mood and tone of your voice to bring up someone else...

"Scott Taylor, y'know, Too Hot Scott Taylor?" you mentioned "He is a little bit cute, even though he has a mullet"

Scott Taylor looked terrible back in 1994 when his hair was a completely straight mullet with no curls, you wouldn't bang THAT Scott.

Fun fact: 2 years later, Scott Taylor would eventually become Scotty 2 Hotty in that 2 Cool group/faction who were like the Attitude Era's equivalent to The New Day, yeah, THAT Scotty 2 Hotty who did the Worm in the ring, you even danced with 2 Cool in the ring 2 years later.

He lost his looks when he became Scotty 2 Hotty, though he was at least updated for the year 2000 with that spiky frosted tip hair and trimmed boyband beard.

"Lex Luger" you brought up. "I actually do think he's pretty handsome, though he kind of looks like he has some sort of facial disorder"

He looks like that infamous "tanning mom", the mom who infamously tanned herself to oblivion.

But you and everyone else didn't know about who the Tanning Mom was since this fanfic is set in the 90's.

"Why are you bringing all of these men up?" Shawn asked.

It's about time he asks why.

"Because I've had sex with them" you confessed "But I even wonder if it was worth it for me to bang them"

Sexual promiscuity is dangerous, especially unprotected.

It leads to STD's, HIV and AIDS that kill you.

He nodded his head.

"I've worried about you being promiscuous" he admitted.

"I haven't been all that sexually promiscuous this year, or even all that sexually active" you confessed "I've only really it done it with maybe..."

You paused at finishing your sentence to count on your fingers how many wrestling related people you've fucked this year, so far, anyway.

"7 people" you admitted. "And you're one of them"

You smiled, grinned and looked into his eyes when you said that.

He smiled and grinned right back at you, chuckling.

Shawn knows about who some of the other people you've fucked this year, he was even involved in some of those orgies with them!

Since you're mentioning people in the WWF you've banged this year, as well as last year (and the year before that)...

Since you're on the subject of wrestling related people you've fucked this year (as well as last year and the year before)...

"Don Callis, that Jackyl commentator and manager" you brought up "He actually is pretty hot, he looks like a sexier, gothic Howard Stern almost"

Shawn laughed and chuckled hearing your comparison, agreeing he does look a bit like Howard, but hotter.

"Also, that Truth Commission group he managed" you mentioned "I thought of fucking one of the Truth Commissioner guys, he had blue eyes and made these really funny facial expressions"

Shawn was trying to think of his name after hearing that.

"It's not that really big one Kurrgan" you stated. "He's ugly"

Since you're speaking about the Truth Commission...

"They actually had a match with 3 jobbers last year in the summer" you brought up "One of those jobbers, I think his name was Al Brown, was wearing a really ugly dark green singlet, but he's cute"

Even though he's a bit on the hefty side, though he is thicc and his ass was protruding through his singlet.

"I feel sorry for jobbers" you confessed "Not just because they always lose, but they're barely ever used and pushed in wrestling"

Shawn probably can't agree with that, considering he always wanted to win matches like the selfish prick he was in the 90's.

"Some jobbers are cute" you admitted "I'm sure some people would like to see them more, myself included"

You've banged a few jobbers and thought of doing them, and while you're on the subject of jobbers...

"There's one jobber named Jerry Fox who I think is pretty cute" you admitted "He has long brown hair, usually tied in a ponytail, he's surprisingly had matches with Hunter Hearst Helmsley and Mankind!"

Your hand wasn't just rubbing his chest, but drawing circles with the tip of your index finger on his chest as well.

"There's one jobber I thought of fucking, his name is Sonny Rogers" you confessed. "He had a match with Stone Cold last year and I think even won the match against Stone Cold, surprisingly"

"I think I know who you're talking about" Shawn stated.

"Stone Cold beat the crap out of Sonny" you added. "Which is what should happen"

You don't hate Sonny, but Stone Cold could easily kick Sonny's ass.

"Another one I've contemplated fucking is Brian Christopher, he's Jerry Lawler's son" you confessed. "He, I mean Brian Christopher, is a little cute, but he looks like a bootleg Davey Boy Smith"

Shawn laughed hearing that.

Brian Christopher really does look like a Great Value Brand Davey Boy Smith.

"At least Brian Christopher is better looking than his father" you stated.

You'd never fuck Jerry Lawler, that fat, bloated, woman objectifying, Trump supporting, statutory rapist pedophile creep.

"Scott Putski, he's in WCW and had a short lived stint in the WWF last year" you brought up. "He is quite sexy, though he looks more Mexican or Native American, not Polish"

You're not trying to sound racist when saying how he looks like he could be Mexican or Native American.

Shawn nodded his head and agreed with you about how Scott looks Mexican or Native American.

"He's Ivan Putski's son, isn't he?" Shawn asked "I used to watch Ivan growing up"

You nodded your head after Shawn asked if Scott is Ivan's son.

Shawn shouldn't have asked if Scott is Ivan's son, he knows it.

"I regret asking if Scott is Ivan's son" he admitted.

"It's fine, really" you consoled. "Bob Holly, a.k.a. Spark Plugg, Spark E. Plugg who used to have that racecar driver gimmick"

Shawn knows who you're referring to, he's even had some matches with Bob.

"Bob is pretty handsome" you admitted "But he has such an overbite, I was skeptical in fucking him"

You moved your hand in front of your mouth and made your hand talk by pronouncing his overbite, making your hand pull away from your mouth and your fingers scrunch up into the palm of your hand as your hand pulled away from your mouth.

Shawn chuckled and laughed hearing you talk about Bob's teeth.

"He's in that new Midnight Express with Bart Gunn, isn't he?" Shawn asked.

You nodded your head.

The New Midnight Express was one of the few things from the Attitude era that was a complete flop.

"He has blond hair now" Shawn mentioned "He looks like Ric Flair in the early 80's with that blond hair"

It isn't just wrestlers you've fucked, but 2 commentators as well.

No, it isn't Jim Ross, Jerry Lawler and Vince McMahon, though you have banged Shawn Michaels, Triple H, Brian Pillman and Bret Hart, who've all sat at the commentary table (Shawn is even sitting at the commentary table during his stint in the WWF during the summer of 1998).

They're these commentators in 1997 dressed in tuxedos at the commentary table, I can't remember their names, but they look way better than the typical commentators at the WWF table.

"There were these 2 commentators I fucked last year" you admitted "I can't remember their names, it isn't Jim Ross, Jerry Lawler, Vince McMahon, or Jim Cornette, these 2 men were dressed in tuxedos"

Shawn can't think of what their names are either, they might've even spoken French too.

"They were pretty handsome" you admitted "At least they looked better than who's usually sitting at the commentary table, but they're not as hot as you are"

Your eyes looked at Shawn and you grinned wickedly when you looked at him, the tip of your index finger gently scratching his chest.

No pro wrestler will ever be hotter than Shawn Michaels.

He's the hottest pro wrestler of all time. Of ALL time.

"Even though I've banged a lot of men in the WWF" you confessed, which Shawn already knows "You're the hottest I've fucked"

You said this as you looked into his eyes and leaned your face into his.

"Nothing, no one compares to you" you admitted "Nothing compares, nothing compares to you"

You sang that to the tune of Sinead O'Connor's biggest hit and signature song.

"Awwwww, thanks" Shawn said, smiling and having an "aaw, shucks" expression on his face.

"You're welcome" you replied, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I wonder if I should've fucked some of those men I've mentioned? They're not as hot as you are"

You mostly only have sex with men you think are sexy.

"I don't want you to die from AIDS" Shawn confessed.

"I know" you frowned "I don't wanna die either"

"You're so beautiful" Shawn gushed, putting his hand on the side of your face and pushing it so your face will look at his. "I love you"

"I love you too" you admitted.

Shawn leaned his face into your face and planted a kiss on your lips, where you kissed him back.

You've talked enough with Shawn tonight, so you lifted your hand and switched the lamp to off, where the room was now completely dark.

Even though it was dark, you can still somewhat see him in the dark.

"Goodnight Shawn" you said to him.

"Goodnight" he replied, where the two of you kissed each others lips again, until you buried your head into the crook of his neck and shut your eyes.

He puckered his lips to your forehead one more time until he closed his eyes, waiting to drift off to sleep.

Remember that episode of "South Park" where there was a list of the cutest boys at South Park elementary, and Kyle was the lowest?

Shawn would be at the top of your list of the hottest wrestlers you've banged, and Jeff Hardy, Rob Van Dam, Triple H, even Bret Hart would follow.

The ones at the bottom?

Al Brown (the chubby jobber who was in one "Monday Night Raw" match and never used again, Brian Pillman and Val Venis.

Even though Shawn is undeniably attractive, he does have some flaws to him.

For starters, he was inexplicably rude and disrespectful to people, just look at what he did to poor Davey Boy Smith when Davey wanted to win a match in his native England to dedicate it to his dying sister, and he made Vader cry.

And, while Shawn is sexy, he does have somewhat of this "80's/90's" cheesy guy vibe and look to him, the types of cheesy guys who wear those tight jeans in the 80's and 90's with smarmy, smug smiles and facial expressions.

Months and years later, there would be more men in the WWF/E that would become sex symbols as well as 2 men who joined the WWF you fucked.

Who are they?

Christian and Test.

Christian is absolutely gorgeous, he's easily the hottest member of the Brood, and Test is quite pretty as well, though that facial hair on him makes him look a bit redneck like.

You also banged Stevie Richards, the same Stevie Richards who was in that infamous Right to Censor group in the year 2000 and was in the Blue World Order in ECW.

Stevie's hot when he doesn't have facial hair...or that tacky Billy Ray Cyrus mullet he had in 1995.

You even banged Brian Kendrick/Spanky back in 2003, he's so cute.

Even though you'd love to bang Dean Ambrose, CM Punk and John Morrison in the late 2000's, Tyler Breeze, Adam Cole when he was in CZW and maybe even the Miz and Matt Riddle, you're married with children now.

Your sexual escapades and pro wrestling are similar to one another, why?

The hottest, best looking ones are the main events (Shawn Michaels, Davey Boy Smith, Bret Hart, Triple H), the mid carders are pretty cute but not enough (Billy Gunn, Val Venis, Marty Jannetty and Leif Cassidy), and while the lower card jobbers are pretty cute, they're not much to write home about.

Though, there's some hot mid carders and jobbers and some ugly wrestlers that are main events (Vader, Hulk Hogan, Macho Man, Undertaker, etc.).

There's probably some other cute/hot wrestlers in the WWF circa 1996/1997/1998 I haven't mentioned in this fanfic that I haven't seen.

#shawn michaels #wwf #1998 #90s #attitude era #wwf attitude #fanfiction

6 notes · View notes

junkercrush · 5 years

Note

Can you write a real kinky exchange between Roadhog and reader where the reader calls Mako daddy on accident and he calls them “little piggy”? Thank you so much!! 🐷

Um, yes.

*~*~*~*

“Daddy Hog”

Slightly NSFW

Pairing: Roadhog x Gender-Neutral Reader

Words: 971

Mako has been gone for two months. This sucks.

Whatever you did to busy yourself wasn’t working. You took many trips with your friends and family, hung out at Overwatch’s library (major bibliophile), and even took on missions nobody else at Headquarters wanted to do.

Everything feels so off for you since Roadhog and Junkrat were sent to Australia. For what, it was top secret. You had a feeling it had something to do with the ancient Omnium plants.

One bored evening, you were mindlessly surfing the web and discovered Overwatch fanfiction.

“The hell’s this?” You muttered with a smirk. Tons were stories about your boss Jack, Genji, and even Winston (God why). Some stories were pretty damn good. Others were so terrible you almost choked on your morning coffee.

You found Roadhog fanfiction. Of course, there was.

At first, you were all territorial about it. Who the hell was writing NSFW material about your man?! You studied the author profiles for any hints of their real identities, scrolled through the endless titles list, and stopped at one: “Daddy Hog.”

Ho boy.

You clicked on the title and skimmed through the 2,000-word short:

‘Are you ready for your punishment, princess?’ Roadhog asked, whipping out his belt.

‘Yes, Daddy.’ You moaned, bent over his desk.

“Holy shit!” You whispered and closed your laptop. You liked it. The story made you blush.

*~*~*~*

The next day, you told your friends what you found during lunch.

“Oh yeah, that’s pretty common, sweetheart.” One friend said as she nitpicked through her bland garden salad. “Have you found any stories about your boyfriend? I’m sure there are millions of girls pouring their wet dream stories about him online.”

“Uh, don’t forget the millions of guys! They want some of that Mako too.” Another friend noted as she wolfed down a cheeseburger. She turned to you. “You should write one. I mean, he’s yours. I’m surprised you haven’t done one already.”

But who really needs to write about their significant other when they see them every day? Oh yeah, you don’t.

You haven’t written any fanfiction for so long.

You did write a fic for a friend back in high school. It was a Jack Morrison x Reader fic, way back when your boss before he “died” and became Soldier 76. Seeing Jack now and thinking about that fic now felt awkward.

Vrr-Vrr!

Your cell vibrated on the cafeteria table. A picture of unmasked Mako cuddling a pachimari appeared on the screen. “There he is!” Your salad friend shouted.

You snatched the phone off the table and walked to a quiet corner of the cafeteria. “Hey Mako,” You greeted. “What’s going on?”

Mako let out a long groan. “I’ll be here for another month.”

“Okay.” You sighed. You closed your eyes and slouched your shoulders with disappointment.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). Things got complicated down here.”

“No babe, don’t apologize. You gotta do what you gotta do. Is Rat behaving?”

Mako laughed. You smiled. “He’s not getting himself killed.” He paused. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

You heard something crash, gunshots, and Jamie’s R.I.P tire roaring on the other side. Mako groaned again. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

You hung up. Dammit, you wanted Hog now!

Maybe you should try your hand at some Roadhog fanfiction. It’ll occupy your mind for a while.

*~*~*~*

Ah, dream world. The great escape.

You weren’t in your room at Overwatch anymore. Stuffed animals surrounded you in your new bedroom. A snack cart filled with cookies and small cakes stood nearby your silky four-poster bed.

By the looks of it, you were super rich and super spoiled. A line of butlers and maids entered your room. The lead butler held a robe for you. “Master Rutledge has returned.” He announced.

You tried not to laugh. Master Rutledge? Really? You had a vivid image of Mako prancing around in some dapper suit with a cane. What is this dream?

A maid helped you into your robe. You peeked outside and spotted Mako stepping out of a limo. Damn, he was fine in his black and yellow suit. He still had his mask and his LEFT rings on his left hand.

You dashed downstairs to meet him. “Daddy!” You blurted out. Where did that come from?

“My little piggy.” Mako scooped you up into his arms, lifting his mask to kiss you. He carried you back into your bedroom. The servants followed until Mako kindly waved them off.

“Show Daddy how much you missed me.” He said as he laid you back on your bed.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Fuck whoever thought of alarm clocks!

You were in your old room, back at Overwatch. Drafts of your latest stories were scattered all over your bed. Your laptop was still on.

You took a moment to check on your latest fanfiction stats.

Sweet, you had 20 new readers and 54 notifications. Most of the notes were positive comments from a “SweeT_HoG66.” Another “Daddy Hog” fan obviously.

*~*~*~*

One month, 24 short “Daddy” stories and 600 followers later, Mako calls you again. You were in the middle of writing another story.

“Hi, Daddy!” You chirped. Crap, you had your writer’s life mixed up with your real one! It was quiet on Mako’s side. “Mako?” You swallowed nervously.

“I’m home, little piggy.”

Your room door open and Mako comes in. One hand still holding his tiny phone and an “Outback Ranger” pachimari in the other.

Thank God, this wasn’t a dream. You leaped towards his huge belly, kissing his piggy belly button. Mako chuckled.

“You really missed me,” He said. “Like your stories.”

You froze. “Eh?”

“You didn’t think SweeT_HoG66 would know the real writer?” Mako lifted you closer to his face, your lips brushing against his. “Let me be your real daddy.”

THE END

#roadhog #overwatch #overwatch fic #roadhog x reader #mako rutledge #masterlist #stories

102 notes · View notes

tessatechaitea · 5 years

Text

Teen Titans Spotlight #9: Changeling

I feel like this is the first appearance of the Changeling logo.

It's as if General Immortus knew that one day Niles Caulder would be just a head! Or, more probably, Grant Morrison fucking remembered this one panel and thought, "I'll turn The Chief into a disembodied head!" Unless it was Rachel Pollack who did that. What am I? The Doom Patrol wiki?

Cliff Steele has just been on another adventure where his body was torn apart. At least I'm assuming it was because whenever he or Red Tornado are in a super hero battle, they usually get torn to pieces. Somebody's got to be and you can't do it to Batman. But Cliff is tired of it and he's ready to retire to a ranch in California. I wonder why Grant Morrison's run didn't take place there? Cliff and Garfield wind up at the New York Zoo because Garfield wants to fuck the lioness and Cliff wants to buy hot dogs that he can't eat.

Based on the repartee between Robotman and Changeling, I don't think the crowd are the only people to mistake Cliff for Cyborg.

The previous caption was a criticism of the writer, Paul Kupperberg. Was it too subtle? I know it wasn't on the level of Ann Nocenti criticism where I once questioned how she survived the surgery that replaced her brain with Jello pudding but sometimes you need a little subtlety in your life. Like when you want to masturbate but all you have on hand are your sandpaper masturbation gloves. I don't know if that final sentence had anything to do with subtlety. I think it had more to do with me introducing the public to my new invention! It, um, needs some work.

I first read Changeling's line as "You're obviously a fat." Not because I often misread the fuzzy text of old comic books but because I saw the kid in the first panel and my brain began thinking, "How do I make a hilarious and inoffensive fat joke about this kid?"

I just realized I should mention the writers and artists of these old issues since they're not on the cover. The artist is Dan Jurgens and I already mentioned the writer. I don't know what inkers do so I don't remember who the inker was. And the one thing I've always refused to do in my comic book reviews over the last eight years is to mention the letterer! Mostly because I always hated reading letters from fans who praise the writing and drawing and then offer a throw away line about how easy the typeface was to read thanks to Costanza or whoever! Oh, and I actually really forgot about the colorist until just now! That was Adrienne Roy! Who better to color some kid green than good old Adrienne! Cliff walks off in a huff when people begin to actually recognize him. He should have thrown in a few "Booyahs" and offered to show off his white noise cannon. Um, wink, wink! I'm not proficient at flirting. Before Robotman can find a quiet bathroom stall to wish he could cry in, Mister 104 attacks! I know. You're thinking the same thing I'm thinking, right? What happened to Misters 1-103? Oh, and probably, who the fuck is Mister 104?! But then I'd be disappointed if a Doom Patrol villain showed up and I recognized that villain. Their villains should get a "What the fuck?!" reaction at least ninety percent of the time. That's another thing the television show got right! How many scenes have Crazy Jane shouting "What the fuck?" and then Cliff responds with "What the fuck?" and then Crazy Jane is all "No, fucking seriously! What the fuck?" and then Cliff is all "What the fucking fuck fuck fucking fuck?!" The show uses the F-word a lot! Luckily Changeling remembers who Mister 104 is and thinks through Mister 104's entire origin for us. It turns out Mister 104 can turn into every known element on the periodic table. He's only Mister 104 because that's how many elements were on the periodic table in 1965 when he first appeared in Doom Patrol #98. Except when he appeared in that issue, he was Mister 103. So either he hadn't looked at a periodic table since 1961 when he first attacked the Doom Patrol in 1965 or Arnold Drake, the original Doom Patrol writer and co-creator, fucked up. Or maybe there was a plot reason for it in the story, like Mister 103 just despised Helium or maybe Superman paid him to never turn into krypton(ite)? Still, this is 1987! He should be Mister 109! I didn't learn all of that from Changeling's thought bubbles! Some of it I learned because Mister 104 mentions that when he last encountered the Doom Patrol, he was left as "a mass of free floating destabilized atoms" and the editor helpfully noted that took place in Doom Patrol #106. In 1987, I would have just thought, "Oh, okay. Whatever." But in 2019, I can use the Internet to find out all about that issue! Suck it, me in 1987 who didn't learn anything new or helpful in any way and who couldn't pretend like you were super smart and knew all about the periodic table because you didn't have Wikipedia like a stupid idiot! Ha ha! Apparently Mister 104 appeared in other comic books I've read (like The Doom Patrol vs. Suicide Squad Special) but it's understandable that I don't remember him. Partly because he may have been going by Atomic Man or Atomic Master and also because he's just kind of stupid. But stupid in just the right way that Doom Patrol villains should be stupid!

Don't read this text if you're trying to avoid spoilers for Teen Titans Spotlight #9: Changeling!

It looks like Mister 103 first takes on the name Mister 104 here. But what's odd is that he tells Cliff, "You might remember me: Mister 104!" And Changeling thinks, "That's Mister 104!" I guess Paul Kupperberg couldn't abide the fact that Arnold Drake fucked up and he had to correct him. I bet he was fuming for over twenty years! He probably got a job as a comic book writer simply to fix this mistake from his childhood! But then, I suppose everything can be explained away by simply invoking Crisis on Infinite Earths. That probably changed things somehow.

That's your argument for why you'r going to win this fight?

During the battle, Mister 104 turns into a lot of different chemical compounds, proving that he was indeed a molecular engineer. But Robotman manages to thwart each of his different shapes with punches, proving that nerds just can't win in physical combat. Eventually, Mister 104 sets a fire that traps the fat kid from earlier who didn't have enough sense to get the fuck out of the way. Interrupting the battle is a scene where Mento plots the downfall of the Teen Titans with the help of his captive, the star of the next issue of Spotlight, Aqualad! Back to the fight, Changeling saves the kid and drops him off by the hot dog stand. He sees some canisters and the fat kid says, "Those? But that's just soda gas!" Who the fuck calls it soda gas? I lived through 1987 and I don't remember ever saying, "The soda gas in this soda really hits the spot!" Maybe calling it carbonated water or carbon dioxide or carbonation would have given the game away too early! Changeling appears as a giant ape wielding cans of carbon dioxide to smother Mister 104's flaming fury. And this time instead of transforming into some other element, he's knocked out cold! Way to go, soda gas! Teen Titans Spotlight #9: Changeling Rating: C+. The entire point of the story was to show that Robotman's estimation of Garfield Logan has grown and that he now sees him as a real hero. I guess the reader is suppose to think, "Yeah! If Robotman can admit that Garfield is now a real hero and not some jerk off jokester who causes more problems than he solves, I should probably think that too!" And since I'm a totally average comic book reader, I'm totally a Garfield Logan fan now! He isn't obnoxious and annoying at all in the way I thought! He's a real hero! Not as big a hero as soda gas but still pretty great!

#Changeling #Teen Titans Spotlight #Teen Titans #Beast Boy #Doom Patrol #Robotman #DC #DC Comics

14 notes · View notes

initiala · 6 years

Text

Shelter from the Storm (1/1)

MERRY CHRISTMAS @jennifer-morrison!!!!!!! I was your CS Secret Santa, it was so nice to get to know you!! You have such a sweet pup and it was really fun to get to know someone who loves doing Secret Santa as much as I do.

I hope you like this, there’s bedsharing and making out and I have worried myself into a tizzy over characterization.

There’s no possible good answer to give to Mary Margaret’s question about the temperature when she comes home that afternoon. Oh, Emma’s tried to think of one all day, but really all it boils down to is--

“We forgot to pay the gas bill and they’re closed until Tuesday unless it’s an emergency and yes, I know, I tried to tell them it’s fucking Christmas and December in Maine, but it’s not a blizzard and neither one of us is old and at risk of dying of hypothermia so they basically told me to pay the bill tonight and it’ll get turned on again on Tuesday and ‘get fucked’ was kind of implied in the woman’s tone, but I kind of deserved it because--”

“Emma.” Mary Margaret’s got her ‘teacher voice’ on, which is really intimidating to the ten-year old living in Emma’s brain most days. “Back up, slow down.” She drops her bags on the loveseat near the door and doesn’t take off her peacoat or hat, which is probably the smart thing to do since their apartment is, after all, without heat for the foreseeable future. “When did we forget to pay the gas bill?”

Emma bites her lip and fidgets a little under the responsible stare of Mary Margaret Blanchard, woman of top-buttoned cardigans and color-coded schedules, voted Preferred Designated Driver three years running by their friends, rare rule-breaker, and master of ‘I’m not mad I’m just disappointed’ looks. “Um. September. And October. And last month.”

“Emma--”

“Look, I know utilities are my responsibility--”

“Emma,” Mary Margaret says, louder this time. “Okay. Did you pay the bill?”

“Yes.”

“Even the overdue fees?”

“Yes.”

“And they’ll switch it on again on Tuesday?”

“Barring any weather emergencies, yes.”

Mary Margaret is quiet for a long moment, then scuffs her shoes on the welcome mat briefly before heading for her room. “Okay.”

Emma twists in the chair to watch her fling back the curtain dividing her sleeping area from the living space of the loft. “Okay? That’s it?”

Mary Margaret glances at her before ducking to retrieve a bag from under the bed. “You screwed up, you admitted to it, you took care of it. Being mad isn’t going to help.”

“You’re never mad, you’re--”

“I’m disappointed, but it happens, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, opening her wardrobe.

Emma squints at her best friend, watching as she removes a few items of clothing and puts them in the bag. “You’re being really reasonable about...” She cuts herself off with a gasp when a drawer is opened. “Mary Margaret Blanchard, you scheming little--you’re going to David’s!”

“What?” Mary Margaret slams her underwear drawer closed, her cheeks pink. “No!”

Emma grins. She knows for a fact that, despite having gone on more than three dates, Mary Margaret and her new boyfriend have yet to spend the night together. (They haven’t used the words yet, but really, the way that David looks at Mary Margaret makes Emma surprised that he didn’t pop the question on date two.) Someone had mentioned something about throwing off the weight of expectations and letting it happen naturally.

Well, naturally, Emma had forgotten to pay all of their utilities on time, so the time for letting it happen is apparently now.

“That’s your good underwear drawer,” she says, getting up and trying not to look too smug about the whole thing. “Because you’re an anal retentive freak who of course has a good underwear drawer and a period-panty drawer, and I say that with all the love in my heart--ow!” Emma laughs as Mary Margaret smacks her on the arm, the pink on her cheeks spreading up towards her ears. “So what was the plan going to be, appear on his doorstep with a bag and big sad puppy eyes and a story about how I’m the worst roommate in the world?”

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes and yanks open the drawer again -- the good underwear drawer, thank you very much -- digging out some lacy things that toe the line between racy and tasteful. “Well, first of all you aren’t the worst roommate in the world. You haven’t flooded the place or burned it down.”

“Your roommate freshman year does not get to set the standards for the rest of your life.”

“Oh, she does,” she says, irritation clearly written on her face at the memory. She shakes her head. “Forgetting to pay bills happens, and it’s not like we aren’t used to things getting cut off.”

Emma has to admit the truth in that. She and Mary Margaret have spent more than one night with candles and flashlights as their only light sources, or splitting a box of mac and cheese for dinner… every night in a week. Only in the last year has Mary Margaret upgraded from substituting to teaching full-time, and while bail-jumpers still aren’t as common as Emma would like, she’s still on the payroll down at Booth Bonds and August makes sure she’s taken care of (even if he is kind of an ass about health insurance) in between the bonuses she gets from catching a dirtbag. So maybe she’s gotten used to having things consistent, like actual vegetables to go with their mac and cheese diets, or the power only going out during a nor’easter, and forgotten how it wasn’t that long ago when this was an every-other-month kind of thing.

“And if it gives you an excuse to get laid…” Emma grins as Mary Margaret reaches to smack her again, skipping out of the way. “Look, more blankets for me and I get to hog the space heater. It’s fine, go use your boyfriend. In every sense of the word.”

Her friend looks aghast. “You’re staying here?”

“Where else am I supposed to go? I am definitely not sleeping on David’s couch while you two figure out how to dance the horizontal mambo.” At Mary Margaret’s look, Emma balks. “No. I know that look on your face--”

“He’ll be more than willing--”

“Which is exactly why I’m saying no--”

“Just call him!”

“Mary Margaret!”

“Emma!”

A knock on the door breaks up their bickering. “It’s open!” Mary Margaret calls, flashing Emma a smile. “It’s Friday -- you have a standing date,” she whispers.

“It’s not a date,” Emma hisses, just as the door opens.

“Bloody hell, it’s cold in here.”

Emma turns just as Killian Jones -- man of artfully disheveled hair, buttoned shirts that somehow never button up to the top, scoundrel and rogue, voted Preferred Drinking Buddy three years running, and one of the best friends she’s ever had -- looks around the apartment with concern. “Seriously, are you trying to save on energy costs? Your pipes are going to freeze.”

Emma and Mary Margaret share a panicked glance before Mary Margaret says, “Slow drip, quick.”

As they split up to turn on all the faucets enough to keep water running, though slowly, Killian watches with increasing confusion. “No really, what--”

“I forgot to pay the bill and the gas company can eat my ass,” Emma calls from the bathroom.

She hears Killian snort. “Lovely as your arse is, Swan, I doubt they took the suggestion very well.”

Her mouth twists and she feels her cheeks warm. “I didn’t say it to them.”

“No, you just thought it. Loudly.”

Coming out of the bathroom, she grabs one of her beanies and shoves it on over her hair, hoping to retain some of her body heat. “Did not,” she says, mulishly.

The look he levels at her makes her feel warm all over. “I know you, love, don’t forget. The moment you can tell someone to piss off, or one of your other charming turns of phrase, you do. There’s no hesitation.”

“He’s right,” Mary Margaret says, placing a few more items into her bag and then zipping it shut. “There’s a reason I made you call the cable company.” She picks up her bag with a small grunt, walking awkwardly towards the door with it. “Okay, so I’m going then. Emma, you do what you need to but please do not freeze to death in our apartment over Christmas. You’ll hang around as some sort of Christmas ghost and judge me for whoever I choose as my next roommate.”

Emma snorts. “Please. I would not Marley you, you’re way more Fuzziwig than Scrooge.”

Mary Margaret laughs and waves as she heads out the door. Killian looks at Emma, still bemused to the whole situation. “So, there’s no heat.”

“No.”

“And Mary Margaret is going… where, exactly?”

Emma smiles, wrapping herself in a blanket from the back of the couch and plopping down on the cushions. Killian sits next to her, looking at her with one eyebrow raised expectantly. “She’s going to go make a man out of Sheriff Nolan,” Emma says, a note of pride in her voice. “Making the best out of a stupid situation. I’m sorry movie night is going to be kind of cold.”

Killian shakes his head. “No, it’s not.” At her inquisitive eyebrow, he continues, “It’s not going to be cold because we’re going to my place. And you’re bringing a bag and you aren’t coming back until they’ve turned your heat back on. I much prefer your company while you’re not half-frozen, Swan.”

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Killian, I can’t possibly impose like that.”

“It’s not an imposition if I offer first, love.”

“Still--it’s Christmas, and--”

“All the more reason. Tis the season and all, yeah?”

Emma huffs and Killian smiles. “Look, Swan, it’s not as if either you or I have any big grand plans for the holiday. In fact, if I recall correctly, our plan was to have takeout together and watch ridiculous movies. This just ensures you won’t be late.”

She scoffs, smacking him on the arm, and his smile widens into a grin. Her heart, slowly making its way down from her throat, skips a beat.

This would be why staying at Killian’s would be a terrible idea. She’s had a ridiculous crush on him since--well, since she shot him down that one time he asked her out and then actually backed off respectfully. It wasn’t an immediate thing, more a slow realization that he actually meant it when he said he’d back off if his advances made her uncomfortable. And then it turned out that they worked ridiculously well together -- as friends, as partners in pinochle, as Tom Servo and Crow when it came to bad movies.

And then Emma didn’t want to ruin that by saying “Hey remember when you asked me to dinner and I told you to get lost? Yeah, taking that back now, let’s go out. And then make out on your ridiculously comfortable couch.”

It’s going to be a lot harder to resist making out with him on his couch when she’s going to be sleeping on said couch.

Though, maybe, it might be harder when he’s sleeping on said couch.

“I’m not staying here if you’re making me take your damn bed, Jones,” Emma says an hour or so later, braced for a fight in his blessedly warm living room.

“And my mother will rise from the dead and shame me from now until hell freezes over if I allow a woman to sleep on my couch when I’m not bedridden or otherwise incapacitated.”

Mary Margaret’s always warning her that if she keeps rolling them, her eyes are going to roll right out of her head and across the floor, but everyone just keeps saying ridiculous things and Emma can’t help it. “Well, I’m pretty sure that I’m a big girl who can make her own decisions on where to sleep. And it’s on the couch. You have an extremely comfortable couch.”

To prove her point, she goes to root around in his linen closet, intent on making up the couch herself. Yes, they were planning on a movie night still, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have everything ready; she smiles to herself, thinking about how he’s going to grumble when she inevitably kicks him out to sleep in his own bed, but then her hands still as she wonders what might happen if she just… didn’t.

If she just asked him to stay. Or… didn’t ask, but didn’t… make him leave.

She feels warmth behind her and Killian’s hands cover hers, taking the sheets from her. “Stubborn lass,” he murmurs, right near her ear.

Emma watches him go, fingering the hems of her sleeves while she watches him make up the couch. Quietly, she goes to change into her pajamas--no use taking extra steps later, be comfortable now--and by the time she comes back out of the bathroom he’s already finished with the sheets and the blankets; now he’s perched on the end of the couch, a 6-pack of Christmas ales sitting unopened on the coffee table, with a fresh bag of chips and some salsa sitting out for their eating pleasure. “Well isn’t this festive?” Emma asks, sitting down and opening the bag. “What’s on the docket for tonight?”

They argue for a bit about what to watch--Christmas movies are for Christmas Eve, Die Hard is so a Christmas movie and thus off the table, they don’t want anything too sappy or action-y tonight--and while Emma then scrolls through the movie list, Killian goes to put on his own pajamas. She’s distracted when he comes back, eyes following the line of his well-fitted shirt (seriously, who wears a fitted shirt to bed? Killian Jones, apparently) down to where his pajama pants sit low on his hips.

Her mouth feels very dry and there’s no bottle opener for the Christmas ales.

Fuck, staying here is a terrible idea, no matter how warm his apartment actually is.

He barely sits when he says, “Damn, the bottle opener,” and gets up to go to the kitchen and fuck her life if his pants aren’t like, expertly sculpted to his ass. Did Yves Saint Laurent make pajamas now? Distracted as she is, she doesn’t really pay attention to what movie she picks; her fingers just seem to take over from her brain’s complete lack of comprehensive abilities and all Emma hears is the ‘yay thank you for choosing a movie!’ noise coming from the TV. She just hopes she didn’t choose something too sappy or silly or childish. Or all three.

“What are we watching?” Killian asks, the bottle opener in his prosthetic and picking up a beer with the other. He pops the lid off and hands it to her, reaching for his own.

“I left it to the whims of fate,” she says, hoping she sounds very casual about it and not at all like she wants to say ‘fuck this’ to the movie and crawl on top of him and rip him out of his absurdly well-fitted pajamas. “Like throwing a dart, but less holes left in your wall.”

He chuckles, setting the bottle opener down. “Well I, and my landlord, thank you for the consideration, love.”

They tap the bottlenecks together and take a swig; Emma practically dives into the chips and salsa while whatever it is her fingers picked to watch starts playing.

It’s some animated movie. It might be about feelings or growing up or both. She’s not too sure, but it’s bright and colorful and she absolutely starts to feel tired about half an

hour into it. She steals the blanket across the back of the couch and bundles herself in it, snuggling into the cushions and just… closing her eyes for a moment.

Just a moment. Just…

*~*

There’s a pillow under her head. There definitely hadn’t been any pillows like this on the couch, a plush and soft one with an actual pillowcase, and while Killian’s couch is comfortable, it’s not pillow-top comfortable.

She vaguely remembers being picked up at some point, but nothing after that. And if she’d been picked up, it meant Killian had put her in his bed, after she’d specifically insisted--

“Dammit, Killian,” she mumbles, stretching a little and rolling onto her belly.

“What on earth have I done now?”

She freezes, mid-pillow plumping, and realizes that the weight around her middle is not, actually, the blankets bunched up on her. Turning her head, she cracks open an eye and sees him lying next to her, one arm around her middle, and seeming just as half-asleep and bemused as she. His hair’s a riot on top of his head and his beard is scruffy from lack of trimming, and Emma has never felt more like she might be in love with him than she has in this moment. “I told you to let me stay on the couch,” she whispers finally.

“And you did fight me on that, even in sleep. I did attempt to move you, and yet you clung to me even in sleep and refused to let me leave, so in that case it seemed to me that the best compromise was to stay.”

Emma’s glad for the darkness in the room still because she’s pretty sure there’s not much that she could use as an excuse for why her cheeks were so red. “Well, I won’t apologize since it wasn’t what I wanted in the first place,” she grumbles, snuggling deeper into the pillow.

Killian chuckles and she feels his thumb tracing a pattern on her hip. “Stubborn lass.”

She hums in agreement, wriggling into his touch and feeling sleepy again. Killian mumbles something under his breath and moves closer, pulling her snug against his chest. “Killian,” Emma whispers, sucking in a breath and feeling much more awake.

But he’s fast asleep, or good at pretending, and doesn’t reply. Emma lays still for a few moments to make sure he’s asleep once more, then pulls away. He was half-asleep, she thinks as she gets out from under the blankets and to her feet; the carpet is cool under her skin and her heart races as she tiptoes to the kitchen to get breakfast going. It didn’t mean anything, he was half-asleep.

Killian’s kitchen is well stocked, but even so she’s not that much of a cook. She gets the coffee going, which is honestly the most important part, and then just decides to make pancakes. Beating the eggs and whipping the powder mix together helps her get her emotions under control, though she possibly squishes the pancakes down a little harder than necessary in the pan.

She’s pathetic, in love with her best friend and too chicken to say anything about it, too overcome by a simple thing as him holding her to stay in bed and enjoy it. He’d been warm and she’d really just wanted to roll over and press her back to his front and enjoy the feeling of being held, but no. He was half-asleep and it didn’t count and he’s just her best friend and why does it hurt so much?

God, she hopes Mary Margaret is having a better Christmas weekend than she is. Not that this is bad, per say, but she’d rather go without having more fuel to add to the fire that is her stupid, unrequited crush.

There’s a shuffling down the hall and she busies herself with the pancake mix. “Hmm, something smells delicious,” Killian rumbles.

She glances over her shoulder, watching briefly as he scrubs his hand over his face. “It’s just from a box,” she says, feeling a little dejected.

“I wasn’t talking about the pancakes,” he says and she hears the grin in his voice. “The coffee, love, it’s a godsend.”

She cracks half a smile as she hears him rattle around with the coffee mugs. “It’s why I did that first. And before you say anything, I am, in fact, aware that I don’t have to cook for you just because you let me stay. Even if you did drag me to bed against my will.”

He makes a sort of choking noise into his coffee mug. “Pardon?”

“Oh you told me all about it, buddy.”

“I did?”

Her heart sank a little further. “Yeah. You must have been talking in your sleep, but I cussed you out about it and you just went back to sleep.”

He’s quiet for a few moments and she finishes the last pancake, sliding it onto the stack and turning off the burner. She goes to drop the pan and the mixing bowl in the sink and as soon as they leave her hands, his own catches her wrist. “Emma, are you cross with me?”

No, never with you. Except when you cheat at Scrabble, but that’s fair game, she thinks. “No.”

He pulls a little and makes her look at him. That’s cheating, giving her those big eyes, so full of trust and sincerity, letting her know that it’s completely fine to tell him anything. “I’m not,” she says. “I’m just… well, you’re just as touchy-feely when you’re mostly-asleep as you are when you’re drunk, that’s all.”

“Emma, if I’ve at all behaved inappropriately towards you--”

“No! God, Killian, no. You were just missing your teddy bear or whatever,” she says, yanking her hand free and going to get plates.

He doesn’t respond and they eat in the most uncomfortable silence Emma’s ever sat through. She doesn’t look at him and though she’s fairly hungry, her cinnamon-laced pancakes go down like lead. She shouldn’t have said anything. Now he feels awkward and it didn’t bother her--not the way he probably thinks--and she’s made the whole of Christmas weekend terrible.

“I’m going to shower,” she says quietly after she’s put her dishes in the sink.

She’s quick and efficient, drying her hair in much the same way. She packs up her bag when she’s done dressing, figuring the fastest way out of this awkwardness is to just leave him to it alone. She can suffer with a space heater and a mountain of blankets. “Swan, what are you doing?”

Killian’s in the doorway, watching her with a worried look on his face. “Going back to my apartment,” she mumbles, zipping the bag up with more force than strictly necessary.

“Emma, please talk to me. Have I done something?”

Frustration bubbles up in her chest. “No,” she snaps. “It’s not--look, I liked it, okay? You held me this morning, and I liked it, and I don’t--I just need to go, okay?”

“Emma.” He’s like a brick wall in her way, giving her a pleading look as she tries and fails to get past him. “Lass, I may--I may not have been entirely truthful. Or, rather, chose not to mention… It wasn’t an accident.”

“What wasn’t an accident?”

She feels nervous all of a sudden, adrenaline making her fingers tingle and her heart pounds in her chest. He looks just as nervous, but his lips quirk up in a brief smile. “The teddy bear thing,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “It may--it may not have been--well, it wasn’t an accident. I wanted to… It wasn’t very gentlemanly of me and I apologize about that, but I just wanted to see… for once… what it might feel like to hold you.”

That last part is barely audible, but she’s close enough that she hears it all the same. “You--”

“Aye.”

Her nerves increase but it’s powered by hope rather than fear, and she’s not sure which of them moves first but they do meet somewhere in the middle for a tangle of lips and tongues and sighs. Her hands find his hair, still a complete mess and about to get even messier if she has anything to say about it, and his arms wrap around her waist to pull her in snug against him. She still has some questions about how it might--will--feel to have his front pressed to his back, but she’s fairly certain that having their fronts pressed together is the most wonderful thing she’s felt in ages.

Though there might be too many clothes between them, if the way his body is reacting to hers has anything to say about it.

It’s a tangle of limbs and laughter as they stumble back to the bed, knocking her bag off of it in the process as they lay back down, but there’s no move to remove their clothes, simply reveling in the learning curve of kissing and light touches. He finds where she’s ticklish and makes her giggle against his lips and his smile is bright enough to rival the Christmas tree out in the living room and she’s happy. The fastest switch from glum to glee she can ever remember feeling and the cause of both is the man in front of her, his fingers tracing her chin and looking at her like he’s never seen anything so wonderful in his entire life. “I can’t--I’ve been in love with you for what feels like forever,” she confesses quietly.

He smiles, it’s soft and she loves the lines that crinkle around his eyes. “Yeah?” he asks.

“You’re going to kill me for it, but probably around the time I told you to fuck off after asking me out.”

He looks at her differently now, maybe like she’s grown another head, but then he starts to laugh. He rolls onto his back, tears streaming from his eyes as he laughs so hard he can hardly breathe, and Emma eventually starts to giggle too, burying her face in the crook of his arm. “You bloody would,” Killian says finally, wiping the heel of his hand across his face to clear the tear tracks.

“Shut up,” she mumbles, still giggling, and pinches him for good measure.

He yelps and wriggles away, leaving her to prop her head up on her arm to look at him better. He turns his head, his cheeks pink from laughter, and her heart melts a little at his smile. “I’ve loved you a bit longer than that, I think, but I never expected you’d return how I feel.”

“Yeah, well… I came around to the idea eventually. And was a big chicken about it. It was easier to stay quiet.”

“While I wish you hadn’t, I understand why. And I wouldn’t trade our years of friendship for anything, love. We got there in the end didn’t we?”

She smiles and leans forward, touching their foreheads together. “Yeah. Eventually.”

*~*

On Christmas morning, Emma’s cell phone wakes them both from the bedside table. She rolls over and reaches for it, swearing up a storm at the noise and at Killian’s laughter next to her. “Good morning and David had better have turned out to be the guy who floods the apartment and burns it down,” Emma says.

Mary Margaret just laughs. “Merry Christmas to you, too. Have you survived the weekend?”

Emma smiles as Killian’s lips brush over her bare shoulder. They’d talked yesterday about letting their friends know about this little development, but decided just to keep this between themselves for a little while longer. Their own little Christmas secret. She leans into it and smiles wider as his hand brushes down her back and teases the backs of her thighs. “We’ve survived. There was a lot of beer and movies. I should be asking you that--how’s the state of your vagina?”

Killian makes a noise that’s halfway between a choke and a laugh and Mary Margaret is a little more vocally scandalized by the question. “Emma Swan, you--it’s fine, thank you very much, but what was that noise?”

“Killian’s coming down with a cough. He was up before me making coffee, making noise and trying to wake me up,” Emma lies easily.

Her best friend hums, not quite believing her, but perhaps in the spirit of Christmas she doesn’t question it further. “Well, things here have been good. Better than good. You didn’t hear anything more from the gas company?”

“No,” Emma says, arching her back a little into Killian’s touch. “But I expected as much. Might not be able to go home until Wednesday.”

“Shame,” Mary Margaret replies, a little wistful and not at all regretful about maybe having to stay at her boyfriend’s house another day.

Killian ducks under the covers and his lips start mapping a path down her back. “Yeah,” Emma says with a happy sigh. “A damn shame.”

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fanfic #cs fluff #csss 2017 #cs au #amanda writes #aaaaaaaa

232 notes · View notes

solarbird · 6 years

Text

The Armourer and the Living Weapon, Chapter 23: against your first and better judgement

I remind everyone - for the final time - that the AO3 archive warnings and tags are there for a reason. Please consider them appropriately before continuing. [View warnings and tags]

As these final chapters form the climax of the story, they will all be placed below cuts for spoiler protection. This does not indicate anything about whether they are worksafe, though some will not be.

This chapter is worksafe. [AO3 link]

Tracer geared up for battle, the last one, the big one, where - all goes well - Doomfist and Reaper both go down. No more double-agent I've-still-been-Blackwatch-all-along lies from Gabriel, no more let's-start-a-war from Akande, no more of... all this madness, none of which could end a moment too soon. She shook out her arms, then flipped out her pistols, which felt so nice in her hands, and flipped them back, perfectly, flawlessly, soothed.

She didn't love the kill, not like Oilliphéist did, and she didn't get the rush from it, like Widowmwaker, but she didn't mind it, either. Particularly not at this point, with so very many kills under her belt. Particularly not here, knowing who, and what, and why.

She smiled to herself, as she thought, Today... we prevent the Second Omnic Crisis.

"You seem cheerful, ma chérie," said Widowmaker, gearing up beside her. Oilliphéist flashed a smile, too, as she checked her rifle.

"Yeah," said Tracer, a bit of calm happiness in her expression, as she flipped her pistols in and out of their holsters. "A few days not bein' poked at makes all the difference in the world. And today, we wrap this up - as long as Moira doesn't bring in some stupid bloody last-minute change of plans, anyway." She grimaced, grunting a small noise of frustration. "I've got used t'her, I guess - but buggery hell, she still annoys me."

Widowmaker laughed, the sound delightful in her ears. "I know, she does. But it is amusing."

"What?" asked Tracer, half-grin all akimber across her face. "Me bein' all irritated makes you giggle? S'that what did it? Didn't even think you could giggle, six months ago..."

The blue assassin smirked. "No. It's that you always say that, and that you don't trust her, or her ideas, ever, and even with what we know, you always end up following her plans against your first judgement. That is funny."

Tracer smirked right back. "I do not."

Oilliphéist shook her head. "You do, though. Every time."

Tracer laughed, and popped her pistols into their holsters again. "Huh, yeah, I guess I..." She stopped. She tilted her head, and blinked, slowly. "I..."

The tangerine-clad assassin looked down, at her hands. They were shaking. They never shook. Not ever. They couldn't. "I..."

"Lena?" asked the Widowmaker, worried, Oilliphéist looking back up as well. "What's wrong?"

"I..." she shuddered, time after time after time flipping through her head, all at once.

Tea? No. ... Huh. A bit light for my tastes, but not bad.

This is a terrible idea. ... but... I guess so.

No. Sick a'bein' prodded. ... Fine. This work?

I'll never trust my quickness again. ... This is, this is wizard.

You call this nothing?! ... I like my eyes, doc. You got a problem with that?

I don't believe you, mate, - somethin' else is goin' on. ... I guess we're in. We're doin' this.

Her hands stopped shaking, and finally, she knew. "Bloody hell," she whispered. "...what have I done?"

"Lena?" Widowmaker stepped over, and took her hands in her own. "Talk to me, cherie?"

"I..." She braced herself, taking a deep breath. "I'm..." She looked up. "Do you love me?"

Widowmaker blinked, golden eyes reflecting her own confusion. "Of course... of course I do, you know that."

She looked over to Oilliphéist. "Do you trust me."

"Implicitly," replied the newer assassin.

Tracer bit her lip, hard. "I... I think I just figured somethin' out. Trust me, today. Follow my lead. And if y'can't follow - then just trust me and stay out of my way. Can you do that?"

"This is not the plan we've already had," her lover said, "is it."

"No. Wrong or right, that's still on. But if I'm right... we'll need to make some changes."

The senior assassin's eyes narrowed, as she considered what that meant, and widened again, as she reached the same conclusion Tracer had reached moments earlier. "...I will follow you."

Oilliphéist's mind ran much along the same path, the once-ginger thinking, Is that it? Is that... of course. Brilliant. "Tracer?" she said, firmly, gesturing to Widowmaker with a nod of her head, "I'm with her - but I'm also with you. Do you understand?"

The teleporter gave her counterpart, a long, desperate look. "...I think I do."

"Don't forget that."

Lena Oxton breathed out a heavy breath, and nodded. "I won't."

-----

"We have to rely on the fact that Lena's memories and base personality - I am now reasonably certain - were not modified. But she is changing, as she adopts to her body's new preferences. The positive reinforcement she is receiving for violence in particular is almost certainly quite strong. How quickly that's reshaping her, we cannot know."

"Even worse," Dr. Zhou pointed out, "they've been unmonitored for five days. Who even knows what O'Deorain has been doing to her - and to Danielle?"

"It is something we must keep in mind," Dr. Ziegler agreed. "But they must be ready to move at any time, and there has been no sign of any of them in Oasis, and my people have been watching O'Deorain's primary facilities quite closely. I doubt there has been opportunity for too much to be done."

"Maybe, maybe not," the Soldier said. "If she wanted to subdue them, haul them off somewhere... her niece managed it just fine before."

"That's the second time you've called Emily O'Deorain's niece," the double-agent in Blackwatch armour said. "What are you talking about?"

"Emily's her niece," Fareeha replied. "They both said so."

Reyes squinted, or, at least, looked like he was, despite the low knit cap. "No, she's not. Moira's an only child. Emily's a war orphan. Her parents were Welsh and English, not Irish."

"Seriously?" Hana waved her hands around in frustration. "Seriously?!" She went head-down on the tabletop, and screamed a little. "Of course she's not."

"Sorry - I'm Talon's chief of security, believe me, I'm sure." He scratched behind his left ear, looking down at the table. "Must be some part of keeping her compliant." He looked back up. "Gardner was," he laughed a little, "difficult to keep on a leash. Brilliant - maybe the best weapons engineer I've ever seen, but... well, we had a dedicated squadron of guards assigned to her. There were reasons."

"Before being transformed?" Winston asked, a little bit incredulously.

"Yep. Two fireteams, on alternating duty. Killed every one of 'em on the way out, too. And her psychologist. And a few other people."

Angela looked to the former Blackwatch commnder. "That... does not fit well with the person I have met."

"I agree," Mei-Ling said. "She is very strange, but she is also very nice."

He shrugged. "She could act like a normal person, when she wanted to - until you set her off. Then you needed a fireteam. Or two."

The doctor gave Reyes a considering look. "We might be able to use the changes to her memory," the doctor said. "If it isn't just an act, and if Emily is truly unaware of the changes. It might provide a wedge..."

"Stop - if she's not Moira's niece, why hasn't Widowmaker said anything?" Amari demanded. "Is she in on it?"

Reyes shrugged. "Amélie's memories got pretty hashed up. Widowmaker makes new memories reasonably well, but..." he tapped the tabletop with his fingers. "It's not hard to put one over on her if it involves the past. She just doesn't care."

"I see," Morrison said. "We haven't understood anything that's been going on this entire time, have we?"

"No," said Dr. Zhou, sadly. "We have not"

Reyes shook his head, slowly. "Neither have we. She's been outplaying me for months and I never knew."

"Winston, a sensor has been tripped," Athena said, with a chime. "Tracer has activated her Overwatch PADD. It appears to be active somewhere in Edinburgh, Scotland."

She's made a mistake, he thought, as everyone in the room reacted, sitting slightly taller. Or sent up a flare. "Thank you, Athena. Try to pin that down," he replied, before looking over at Reyes, asking, "Where's Ogundimu?"

"Moving between safehouses. I don't know which."

"Gabriel..."

He put his hands up, palms towards the ceiling. "I don't. He's taken over his own security arrangements. Given everything, I don't blame him - I would too."

"Winston," Athena broke in, "Tracer has contacted me by voice, asking that I record a message for you. She requested not to be connected."

"PUT HER ON LIVE, RIGHT NOW! TRACER, CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

Tracer's voice appeared over the conference room speakers. "...follow us, or try to intervene, right? Please? Just let us finish this."

"Tracer, this is Winston, can you hear me?"

"We've got our own plans, for after, once everyone calms down," she continued, not pausing. "Just... stay out of the way. Please. Things are strange, I'd explain, but we're in a rush, but we know, all right? We know."

"Tracer, please, talk to me!"

"Once we've got this sorted - and we will get this sorted - I'll be back in touch. Just... stay clear 'till then. Tracer out."

"Lena, no!"

"Connection broken at her end, Winston. I'm sorry," Athena said, with a hint of regret. "The first part of the message indicates they are moving out for the final phase of the operation."

"Were you able to pin down the PADD's location?"

"Old Town section of Edinburgh, Scotland - near the Royal Mile."

"Of course it is," Hana snorted. "Shoulda known."

"Fine. Athena, please prep the Sparrowhawk for launch." The scientist turned to the rest of the assembled Overwatch. "I'm going to Edinburgh, I'm going to find her, and I'm going to talk Lena into coming home."

Hana shook her head. "She will not come back without Widowmaker and Oilliphéist. She will not split the party. I'm telling you now."

"Maybe not. But if I approach her myself, alone, I'm certain she'll listen to me."

"You are not approaching her alone," Fareeha insisted.

"Lena would never..."

"Oilliphéist would," Morrison interrupted. "And you know it."

Reyes nodded. "Given what she was like before... if she decides you're trying to take Lena away from her? You'll be dead before you know she's there."

"Winston," Athena broke in, again. "I have a keepalive signal from the PADD. It is moving."

"...she didn't cut the battery?" Fareeha said, surprised.

"She is highly stressed," Angela said, "and said she was in a rush..."

"Athena, complete silence to her PADD. Treat it like it's off. If she doesn't notice what she did..."

Hana Song grinned, for the first time in five days. "Then we have a tracker."

Winston grinned back. "Okay! Amari, Ziegler, Morrison - be my backup? And I do mean way back. Hana, we can't take the mech on the Sparrowhawk - stay here, run tactical?"

She frowned. "I'd rather be on site, but..." She thought it over. "Yeah. It'll work."

"I should go, too," Mei-Ling said. "My data is what convinced..." she swallowed, "I convinced everyone to go along with this. I have a duty to her."

"Absolutely not, Doctor," Morrison said. "This could go well - or it could go very badly."

Dr. Ziegler nodded. "Someone needs to shepherd your data through peer review. It's too important - the future of the world literally depends upon it. You must stay here."

"McCree," he tabbed comms. "You've been listening in?"

"Yup," he said, from the observation tower. "Y'want me here on watch?"

"Please. And when Lúcio checks back in, have him get here if he can, as medical backup."

"Can do. Good luck out there."

"Thanks. Hopefully we won't need it."

-----

Reyes ghosted his way down the cliffside, solidifying at the ledge below base grounds, next to his flyer. Sitting at the controls, he punched a long sequence of codes into his comms panel, and a network of relays and anonymising nodes came online.

"Doomfist, Reaper here."

Aboard a stealth flyer somewhere across the world, a large ring on a large hand tapped its wearer, and that wearer tapped back, raising it to his face. "Hello, Reaper. Your update?"

"Overwatch is activated, on our side. They have tracking on Tracer, and they're going to try to pull her out of the game for us. Get out of the UK."

"Where is she?"

"Edinburgh, at the moment. But she's on the move, presumably with O'Deorain and her other toys."

"I am not the sort of man who runs from a fight, Gabriel."

Don't do this now, Reyes thought, tiredly. I need you alive. "We can recover Widowmaker later. Get out of the UK."

"I think not. I am done with this. O'Deorain wants a fight? Fine. If she's on the move, she knows where I am, and I know she is coming. She will get that fight."

"Akande, I am over five hours away," he lied, punching up his flyer's engines and checking tracking on the Sparrowhawk, finding the signal clear and strong. Heh, he smirked, behind his mask. Thank you, Winston. Predictable as always. Please, lead me straight to O'Deorain. To Akande, he said, "At least stay low 'til I get there."

"Do not tell me how to handle myself, Reyes. I cannot lose the respect of the board by backing down." There was a pause, for a moment, Akande presumably considering his options. "But I will take the travel time from Oasis under consideration. Keep me updated on Overwatch. I'll need to know if the teleporter is still involved."

The double-agent cut mic as his rage spiked, closed his eyes, let himself snarl over Ogundimu's bullheadedness, and then, contained it, as he knew he must. "Acknowledged," he said, thumbing his microphone with a smokey hand. "Reaper out."

2 notes · View notes

onceuponamirror · 7 years

Text

little bells

///// CHAPTER 2

summary: She just wanted to close the book, but all chapters are meant to be read.

Or, how she accidentally willed a boyfriend into existence.

fandom: riverdale ship: betty x jughead words: 9k chapters: 2/4

[read from the beginning] [read the latest]

The way Betty sees it, she has three options.

Option A is to just to flat out come clean. This is, objectively, probably the wisest move. Betty is not a great liar, whereas Cheryl is an excellent reader between lines, and Veronica could be hurt by the deception. And realistically, she probably won’t get very far into this plan as it is.

All Betty has to do is just sit Veronica down, explain that she’d been overwhelmed in the moment, and hope that Veronica’s well-placed but overbearing sense of duty over Betty’s happiness will subside.

As if.

It’s fairly unlikely that this will at all play out in a way that appeases everyone; Betty knows Veronica far too well to be that naïve.

Cheryl will happily summon a rainstorm of I told you so’s and Veronica will just circle back to her original argument: that Betty shouldn’t be going alone, or better yet, not at all.

And then she’s just back at square one, which is the moral equivalent of clapping her hands over her ears and singing her la-la-la’s while Veronica paces in front of her, demanding they eschew tradition. And Cheryl would probably be in the back, flatly suggesting Betty cut through the red tape and just hire an escort to be done with it.

But Option B is the gamble.

Option B is that Betty should just ask Jughead out, make dating him legitimate, and then, at some point next month, casually drop that she really needs a date to this wedding they’d been vaguely talking about before and try to convince him to accompany her.

And in some regards, this feels like the obvious solution. It certainly wouldn’t be the worst, either.

She’s definitely attracted to him, and rarer still, she even thinks he’s funny. But it would also feel like she was using him, somehow, and she cannot do that, even if she was being generous and saying there’s at least a chance it’s mutual.

Even though the only thing she has to go on is that Nancy said he wasn’t a talker, but he certainly didn’t seem to mind talking to her. Still, that feels like a flimsy basis for romance.

Not to mention that extremely awkward hug outside the building last week, the way he’d barely moved but to pat her on the back, like she was some kind of old, sick dog that he felt sorry for.

Frankly, he’d looked more like he’d been kicked in the stomach than actually enjoyed it, so considering that, she’s definitely not sure of anything. She knows, at least thanks to Nancy’s seating chart, he’s probably still single, but that doesn’t mean that he’s interested in girls, let alone her.

Plus, even if he did agree to one date with her, that’s absolutely no guarantee he’d agree to more, let alone such a big one like a wedding.

So if she asks him out, and he turns her down or they break up, that pretty much kills her plan right there in the cradle. She wonders if maybe that would be for the best, if she should just end this here and now, because really, how well can this end? How can she even actually properly execute it?

Betty can be called a lot of things, but scheming is not one of them.

But she knows her best friend well enough to realize Veronica will never let this go otherwise, so Betty considers Option C, which oddly, and completely illogically, feels like the safest bet.

Option C is just to talk to Jughead, explain what she’s done, and beg him to help her out anyway. At least with that option, there’s the tiniest chance that he’ll take pity on her.

After all, they have already talked about how miserable weddings are, which is why she thinks he might have a bit of sympathy for her situation. She definitely doesn’t know him well enough to ask of it as a favor, however; she’ll have to come up with something to offer him in thanks or payment. She can clean his apartment. Cook him dinner for a month straight? Or edit a manuscript he’s not ready to show Nancy? No, that feels redundant. Why would he want that, when he already has an editor?

She doesn’t even know him well enough to know what he’d want in return, and that feels like a bit of a sign, one that weighs heavy in her stomach as she crosses down the corridor, towards Nancy’s office.

With a big, steadying breath, Betty raps lightly against Nancy’s doorframe. She looks up from her desk, a grin already in place. “Hey sugar,” she greets fondly, folding her arms over her desk. “What’s up?”

“Um,” Betty starts, trying to steel herself. But she’s going to have to sacrifice her dignity several times over for this plan to work, and this, unfortunately, is where it must start. She takes another breath. “Well, I’ll just say it: Jughead…is he straight? Or, at least interested in women?”

Nancy blinks, and then her lips purse into a smile. “Of course, I’ve never asked him, but he once brought a girl to a fundraiser we threw. And based on his choice of heroines, it’s arguable that he’s even got a thing for blondes,” she adds, giving Betty an obvious once over.

Her cheeks warm, and her mouth opens and closes once, simultaneously searching for her next words while warring her instinct to bat away compliments. Luckily, Nancy comes to her rescue. “Let me guess. You want his number?”

Betty laces and re-laces her fingers. “Maybe his email?” She asks, and Nancy smirks, clicking the head of her ballpoint pen very decisively. She swivels back to her computer, types furiously for a few moments, and then copies something down onto a post-it note.

She rips it off cleanly, offering it out with the sticky side stuck to one very pointed finger. Betty scrambles forward to take it, her face still flushed red.

“You two make an odd amount of sense, actually,” Nancy adds, settling back onto her elbows. “Just don’t make things messy for me, if you can. I’d like not to be editing the story about the green-eyed girl who broke his heart next year.”

“The Van Morrison song that never was,” Betty chirps, forcing a smile, even as she privately thinks that of all the people involved in this plan, Jughead has the best likelihood of walking out of this unscathed—but, of course, tells Nancy none of that.

Once back at her own office, Betty closes the door and presses herself against the soft wood grain for a long moment, attempting to bottle her anxiety. She doesn’t know why this makes her feel so uniquely adolescent again; it’s not even a real flirtation, after all.

Obviously, she’s made overtures to men before. In fact, the entire reason she’s in this predicament at all is because of the time she got it in her head that she should try to initiate a relationship with a person who saw her as just a friend.

And here she goes again, with practically the same idea. But this time, Jughead probably doesn’t even see her as a friend. Doesn’t see her as an anything. What is wrong with her?

Perhaps she should start writing cookbooks.

She could call it, A Tablespoon of Salt: Select Recipes For the Hungry and Foolhardy.

Dear readers, simply add a teaspoon of irony, a drop of self-loathing, a cup of wastrel poetry, all the pleases in your kitchen cupboard, and voila! The perfect formula for repeating your past mistakes.

Betty closes her eyes and blows out a breath, gathering herself, and then marches forward to her desk and pulls up her email browser. Jughead’s address is simple, even if she doesn’t totally understand it—jfpj3 at a gmail account. Odd, but her first email address was an ode to a backstreet boy, so she’s in no place to judge.

Hey, Jughead!

It’s Cooper, Betty Cooper. Nancy gave me your email. Had something I wanted to talk to you about. Was just wondering if you’d like to maybe get a drink sometime?

No, no, that sounds terrible. What, is this her first time ever flirting? Is this even flirting? Technically, it’s not supposed to be. Anyway, in addition to trying too hard to be casual, asking to get drinks has too strong a connotation.

She aggressively hits the backspace button until the subject body is empty again, cradling her forehead with her free hand.

Hey, Jughead!

It’s Betty, from Random House and/or the wedding, and/or the time you ran into me under the overhang of the office.

Nancy gave me your email address because there was something I wanted to run by you. Would you be able to meet for coffee sometime?

Best, Betty

She deletes a stupid smiley face from the end of the last sentence and rereads it, her teeth nibbling onto her bottom lip. This could almost pass as a professional inquiry, just vague enough to make him consider it. Betty nods to herself. This could work.

Hitting send before she can think twice, thrice, and then rewrite it four more times, Betty pushes back from her desk, willing herself not to sit there refreshing the page until her fingers bruise.

She decides to go make some tea in the break room, and hides away there, distractedly over-steeping her tea bag, until Nancy and another fiction editor appear in the doorway, in the middle of a conversation.

Nancy flashes her a large, knowing grin when she spots her, and Betty almost knocks over her drink in her haste to flee the room, because she’s apparently still feeling painfully immature about all of this.

But Nancy doesn’t know Betty’s intentions, doesn’t know it’s not real, and that seems to makes it all the worse, because Nancy thought they made sense and it just makes her feel like an asshole.

With nowhere else to go but back to her office, she drags her feet back there, once again closing a door she normally leaves open. She settles into her chair, places the tea mug down with care, and exhales slowly before checking her email.

There’s a response.

Hey Betty,

Yeah, I can do that. Want me to come up to the office tomorrow? There’s a couple of coffee haunts around your building, if memory serves.

-Jughead

It couldn’t have been that easy.

No questioning of her motives, no suspicious doublespeak? Just ‘yeah, I can do that’? And offering to come to her, even?

Blinking, she types back, No need to battle midtown on my behalf! You live in Brooklyn, right? I’m in Greenpoint. We could meet for coffee this weekend? I know a nice little café on Manhattan Ave. Or I could come to you. Just let me know!

A few minutes later, I’m actually in Greenpoint too, or just outside of it, anyway. This weekend is kind of busy for me, in that I’m supposed to be locked away in my room, listening to the new Mac DeMarco album and trying to dissect alt-alt-alt pet sounds. So if it’s all the same to you, I could meet tonight. Lmk.

Betty stares at the email. He wants to meet tonight? She then looks down at herself, at her outfit of a simple blue button up and jeans, of the slight stain blooming on her sleeve from sloshing her tea around, and has a moment of panic.

Fake date or not, she still wants to look a little cuter than this, or at least nominally better than the time he’d seen her outside the building, practically drenched in summer sweat.

But she could always leave a little early to go home and change, and decides that maybe it’s the right move, getting this over with. Waiting till the weekend would’ve just turned her into a wreck.

So she thinks of the nicest bar with the nicest lighting within proximity to her apartment, and writes back, Alright! Broken Land, on Franklin? How’s 7? Thanks!

Yep. See you then.

Once again wondering how in the hell that felt so easy and again cross-checking if Option B could actually work, she returns to the actual work she has to get done today at rush speed; she’s pretty sure her boss wouldn’t mind her taking off early, considering she’s only ever done that so rarely and usually for a long-established appointment, but once a goody-goody, always a goody-goody, as Cheryl might say.

She was too much of a nerd to ever cut class without good reason, and this is all more of the same; if she’s going to leave early, she better be done early too. And at quarter to five, she finishes up her last draft revision and prints it out to reread tonight at home, clicks off her computer, and then darts towards the elevators.

If she hurries her pace walking past Nancy’s office, she definitely won’t admit it.

Once home, Betty throws her bag down in the hallway and rushes to her bedroom.

Before living here, she would’ve never been such an impolite roommate as to drop all of her things by the door and kick her shoes off to land where they may, but the real benefit of her best friend’s dating life is that Betty has inherited Cheryl’s old place and her rent-control, and can finally, for the first time in her life, afford to live by herself.

It’s a little lonely at times, Betty having gotten used to all those years of hearing bumps in the night and the clattering of pans inopportunely and the grinding of coffee early in the morning, but in moments like these, where she’s scrambling for time and running around the apartment in just her underwear, she very much appreciates the solitude.

The train had been delayed between junctions for twenty minutes, which had effectively thrown off Betty’s attempt at being ahead of schedule, and now it’s past 6:30, and really, she should already be leaving to meet him.

She shakes down her ponytail, but finds her hair far too fluffed out a mess to allow to stay that way, so she gathers it back up, leaving a few framing tendrils around her face, deciding it’ll have to do. Despite a constant ebbing sense of comfort in the way she dresses, five minutes before she has to leave is probably not the time to start analyzing her appearance.

Betty digs through her drawers for something that catches her eye, and with half a grimace and half a spark of excitement, grabs for the little brown corduroy miniskirt she only breaks out for dates or at Veronica’s insistence, or usually both. But sometimes showing a little leg makes her feel more powerful, so it can’t hurt this time.

Pulling on a cap-sleeved pink top but deigning to leave the top couple buttons undone, she slips into a pair of low heels and snatches her purse back up from the floor, checking her reflection in the foyer mirror one last time.

Definitely a little more skin than normal, but not more than he’s already seen, thanks to her strapless little dress from the wedding. She applies a shade of blush lipstick and nods to herself in silent encouragement, and then heads out into the night.

She’s only been to this bar a couple of times; Cheryl claims to miss it once every couple of months and insists the three of them meet there so she can properly reminisce her old stomping grounds, as if they all don’t know she’s much happier in the Upper East Side with Veronica. But Betty never minds, as it’s always the easiest trek for her, a simple fifteen-minute walk from her appointment.

The bar is just as she remembers it; ambient, dimly lit but for the string of oversized twinkle-lights lining the ceiling, though this time sparsely occupied, given it’s a Tuesday.

She does a quick scan for Jughead, but appears to have beaten him, so she presses herself against the bar and orders a hard cider. She’s just finished placing her drink request when she feels a presence next to her; Jughead has arrived, dressed in what she’s learning is a typical window display of black clothing and drumming his knuckles along the counter top.

As they’re both standing between barstools, he’s close enough to reach out and hug, but she won’t be repeating that mistake again. He shifts from one foot to another, as if perhaps expecting her to.

“Hey,” he says finally, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye before turning to face her fully. He openly looks her up and down, mouth fidgeting with something else, but the bartender is returning with her drink and looking expectantly at Jughead, so he orders a beer and they wait in awkward silence while the bartender fills a glass from the well in front of them.

He reaches for his wallet, but Betty is already sliding her card across the counter. “It’s on me,” she says, smiling at him. “It’s the least I could do, for you agreeing to meet with me.”

Jughead’s brow very briefly creases, but he nods.

“Want your tab open or closed?” The bartender asks, plucking the card up from the bar.

Betty’s eyes dart to Jughead; if she says to leave it open, it implies she wants to stay here for a while. If she says to close it out, it could say the opposite. But this isn’t quite a social call, and she’s half-sure he’s going to want to run for the hills in about ten minutes, so Betty tells the bartender to close it out. If Jughead has a reaction to that, he doesn’t show it.

“I’ll get us a table,” he says instead, disappearing into the back of the bar with his beer in tow.

After she’s signed and tipped for the drinks, Betty finds Jughead in a lowly lit corner booth. He passes her a thin smile when he sees her, and the room is almost too dark to really tell, but she can almost swear his eyes are lingering on her legs as she approaches.

“So,” she says sharply, setting in across from him.

His eyebrows rise. “So,” he echoes, with an edge of amusement. “You said you wanted to run something by me?”

“Right,” Betty sighs, staking out a stalling sip of cider. Now’s the time to make her decision—Option B or Option C. Please date me, or please, please fake date me.

Golden light glitters in his eye as it falls on her, his expression curious but withheld all the same, and even if she thinks this kind of low, warm atmosphere certainly isn’t making him look less handsome, she can’t quite bring any words to her tongue.

And in a split second, she knows it’s going to be the safe option.

“Um, so I kind of did something stupid,” she says, all in a jumble.

Whatever he’d been waiting for, it certainly wasn’t that. His composure slips, eyes softening as his mouth curls upwards and, if she didn’t know any better, maybe charmed. “How’s that?” He asks, tilting his head at her.

“I did something really stupid,” Betty repeats, taking a big breath, though it does little to calm the ringing in her chest. “I have this friend, right? Veronica. She’s my oldest friend, my best friend, actually, and I love her, but she’s really…she picks a stance and won’t budge on it. No man is an island, but she is a rock. And it’s just hard to argue with her, you know?”

Based on his expression, Jughead clearly does not know, but he at least waits for her to continue.

“The only way to get her off your back is to either bow to what she wants, or to find a solution so perfect that she can’t argue with it,” Betty goes on, wringing her hands in her lap. “So, you might remember from Nancy’s wedding that we talked about this other wedding I have to go to in a couple of months. Um, of this guy I used to…have feelings for, and Veronica was really worried about me going to it alone, let alone pestering me about why I was going at all.”

Jughead nods, still obviously confused, and Betty realizes she’s doing a horrible job of explaining. However, on the bright side, she’s definitely doing a great job at rambling.

“I know it sounds dumb, but I want to go to his wedding because I really need closure from the whole thing. I just…he’s been hanging over my head for most of my life and I’m really trying to find a way to move past it. I think seeing him get married will be the final step,” she says, closing her eyes so she doesn’t have to face his reaction. Not that it helps; she can still feel him watching her.

“That doesn’t sound dumb,” Jughead says softly, and Betty’s eyelids flutter up, unable to stave off the hope blooming in her chest.

“Veronica was just…nagging me like crazy about it, and I’d had a long day at work, and I don’t really like talking about Archie in general, and she just kept pushing and pushing for me to find a date or she was going to come herself—which she can’t, she’s his ex—and I just really wanted her to stop, so I…I sort of said…you and I were already dating.”

Unfortunately for Jughead, he had just been sipping his beer, and he immediately chokes on it, sputtering through his attempt at swallowing. Eventually, he manages it, wiping at his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “What?”

“I know it was so out of line,” Betty says quickly, her eyes round with worry. “We barely even know each other. I mean, we’ve only met twice before tonight. But you were the first person to pop into my head that my friends didn’t already know, and…I just really wanted her to stop pushing me about it.”

He stares at her, jaw ticking, but his face otherwise completely unreadable. “So you’re telling me because…what, you want to clear your conscious? Look, I’m flattered that you’d pick me of all people, but Jesus, Betty, I think you’ll still get into heaven with one little lie on your chart.”

“No, I’m telling you because…that’s part one,” she says, all in one breath. Jughead’s tongue digs into his cheek thoughtfully, as if realizing where this is going. “I’ve thought this through a lot, probably more than I should’ve, and decided if I back out of the lie, Veronica’s just going to start all over again, or worse, try to find me a date herself.”

“I get it. You want me to come with you to the wedding,” Jughead correctly summarizes, settling back in his seat and surveying her. She can’t place the drive behind his eyes, but something moves there, blinking out like little headlights upon a dark road.

She nods. “Well…knowing my friends, you might have to show your face to them at least once, twice tops. Just to sell it and keep them off my back.”

“So, wedding date, and ersatz boyfriend,” he says with a wry grin. Betty takes it as a good sign; he’s at least not storming out. He doesn’t even look annoyed upon second glance, but rather, in the right light, perhaps pleased.

“Okay, yes. But you’d really be saving my skin,” Betty sighs, looking at him. “Just name your price. Obviously, nothing…funny,” she says lamely, and he blanches, for the first time looking offended. She presses her lips together, relieved. She hadn’t really been worried about that, but, like she herself said, she doesn’t really know him. “But I can cook, or um, I’m actually pretty good at fixing things, or—”

“I want to write about it,” Jughead interrupts, looking almost like he regrets the words immediately. He pauses, swallowing whatever thought is there. “No real names, no identifying features or places. But the story of someone consciously trying to move on from an old love is a new angle for me, and the symbolism around all the wedding stuff would be a good dog-ear for that. So…I’ll fake date you, as long as you promise not to sue me for defamation.”

Betty raises an eyebrow. “Are you planning on defaming me?”

“No, no,” Jughead says quickly, leaning forward across the table. “But I’ve been trying to break out from under the reviewing side of things, trying to write articles that actually mean something more. Honestly, this feels like the pitch I’ve been waiting for. So I’ll do it, just let me interview you once, and let me stay…observational. And I’d run everything by you before I submitted it anywhere, so you could pull anything you weren’t comfortable with.”

Of all the things she had been expecting him to say or do, this was definitely not it. She feels almost…disappointed, or maybe a little bit hurt, even as she immediately tries to chide the thought, foolish as it is.

After all, it’s not like she’d been hoping he would just gather her up in his arms, swearing fealty and that he’d do it for nothing but for a chance at her heart, like something cut out of an erstwhile Byronic monologue.

“Okay,” Betty breathes, nodding. “That…sounds fair. Deal,” she adds, offering him her hand to shake on it.

He almost looks surprised that she’s agreed so easily, but then again, she feels the same way. He reaches across the table and takes her hand. It feels warm and alive in her grip, like the fluttering of a moth desperately searching for a flame to call home.

“Okay, then. It’s a deal,” he agrees, and with a growing smile.

They shake, and while Betty distinctly muses that this is the best possible outcome she could’ve hoped for, she can’t quite dismiss that now-familiar tolling in her chest, the little song that urges her to turn back, turn back now.

And yet, unable to help herself, that little moth finds its light, pressed and warmed, and she returns his smile.

#bughead #bughead fanfiction #betty x jughead #i will not make this more than five chapters i will not make this more than five chapters #otherwise known as i'm intimidated by trope tropes and #go easy on me #fics #little bells

51 notes · View notes

theemeraldcourt · 6 years

Text

“I won’t be long, Madhava,” Morrez said. “You don’t have to worry, okay? I’ll be fine.” He gave me a smile and a wave and walked out the door, but I could smell her outside. What could I say? I knew he wouldn’t stay if I asked him. We’d been separated for a while, but I thought he could trust me now. My tail wagged as I circled around to the front of the bar, still worried.

I could hear her voice through the wall, the sound sending a chill down my spine and my fur stand on end. This was something I couldn’t keep letting happen. I bolted to the door and opened it, snarling. Lilly looked up at me with a surprised expression. “Oh? What’s wrong Madhava? Something wrong?”

I didn’t bother answering her directly; there wasn’t any point in it. Morrez turned to look at me, and I could smell his stinking fear. “Barman. Inside.” My tone was perhaps a little softer than I had wanted it to be, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that. He took heed and scrambled inside, Lilly narrowing her eyes as she let him through my legs. I stood firmly in the doorway, even though I knew it wouldn’t stop her.

She tsk tsk tsk’d me, shaking her head. “Madhava Earthweaver,” she stated, looking up into my golden eyes. “Why do you protect him so, hm? He doesn’t return the favours you give him. He doesn’t seem to care to ask you your thoughts when he goes and changes things about how the bar is run. He didn’t even tell you when he left!” Lilly gave me a frown, but I could discern the sly smile she was hiding in her eyes.

“He is Mahd’s friend, first and foremost,” I said, looking behind me. Morrez had been smart to get out of line-of-sight, though I could still smell him nearby. I looked back to her before I continued, pushing up the brim of my hat. “Mahd knows what you are, and Mahdhavah is not afraid. He will protect Morrison with his life, if he has to.”

“Is that so?” Her eyebrows rose, and I pinned my ears back, readying for the worst. My muscles stiffened as she vanished, and I breathed out a large sigh as I turned on my toes and sprinted back inside. Sniffing, I found Morrison first, and I ran downstairs into my room to find her cornering the boy. “Good luck finding him, dog.” Before I could do anything, the two disappeared together in front of my own eyes.

I scowled and sighed, covering my face with my paws. Why did he have to choose one of the most powerful mages in Azeroth? No, why did she have to be so toxic and abusive towards him? I couldn’t get riled up like this. I dug into one of my bags and grabbed a few leaves and flower buds and took them up to the kitchen to brew myself some tea to relax with. Knowing Lilly, I wouldn’t see Morrison for a while.

It wasn’t until three days later did I hear the bar door open again, and I had just gotten prepared for a shopping trip to a village nearby to pick up some food supplies since we were getting low. A beaten, ragged Night Elven woman came through, and I dropped the bag I was carrying and rushed to her side. Her scent was unmistakable, and I wrapped my arms around her. “Morrison. Do tell Mahd you are okay? Please? What did she do to you? Tell me what you can.”

She? He? Morrison coughed roughly into hir arm, that distinctive black blood coming up onto hir clothes. “I… I’m alright, Mad. Okay? I just… I need some rest…” Hir voice was tired and laboured, raspy as though zie’d been yelling or screaming for some time.

“...Please, do not lie to Mahdhavah. It is imperative Mahd knows what is wrong so Mahd can help you, Morrison,” I said, easing her to sit on a step of the shallow stairs and rest against the railing. “Is… is this permanent?” I tried gesturing to hir new form, worried about hir presentation.

More coughs, and I brought up a handkerchief zie could use. “I… I don’t think so… They usually only last half a day, unless she’s there with me, you know?” Zie looked up at me, hir silver eyes shimmering. “I’m just in a lot of pain…”

“Mahd imagines… He is sorry he couldn’t save you. Please, show where it hurts?” Zie pointed to hir collarbone and chest, hir upper and lower arms, hir thighs, some hesitation, then hir calves. I shook my head. I could only imagine what she had done to hir genitals. I tried not to think about it too much, though this wouldn’t be the first time I’d healed these wounds over again. There was only so many times I would do this without lashing out at her. My patience was already growing thin, and I feared fighting hir wife for real.

I picked hir up bridal style, and even though zie had a blush across hir face, I could tell that was reflexive from how Lilly treated hir. I set hir on hir own bed and took a deep breath. “You want Mahd to heal you, yes?” I wanted to make sure before I did anything that made hir uncomfortable.

“Y-yes. That would be nice, especially before my body goes back and just makes it all feel worse,” zie said. Hir face was soft like hirs before zie was permanently transmogrified into becoming a goblin, and I couldn’t help but run a finger along it. This was getting too creepy. I stopped and opened the window, took another deep breath, and started my work.

I stripped hir of hir shirt, hir breasts bound with some kind of wrapping. I undid it, immediately finding it way too tight. How could zie even breathe like that? No doubt there was now broken ribs, but I examined the rest of hir arms, finding several inky black bruises, while the arm that zie had lost as a goblin was alive and new, but all of the skin appeared to be scar tissue. I would never understand limb creation, but the shiny perfection of it scared me.

I lightly pushed on some of the wounds to see what kinds of pressure I could use before zie would wince. It wasn’t much, and I sighed. I undid hir pants, leaving hir undergarments for now as I looked upon the damage she’d unleashed upon her spouse. Cuts, likely from a whip or a careful, thin knife. Knowing how precise she could be, it could have been, but I knew her patience might not allow that much wasted time. I honestly teared up looking at it. More regular stab wounds were found in hir calf and along her feet, and eventually I couldn’t compose myself.

“M-Madhava? Are you alright? I-it’s okay. Y-you don’t have to do anything. Thanks for trying, yeah? Just… just leave me to sleep, if that’s alright. I’ll get better in the morning, maybe,” zie said, pushing hirself up to talk to me. I hadn’t broken down and sobbed like this in a while, and I forced myself to stop as I got up and grabbed a jar of ointment from hir first-aid kit.

“Morrison?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Please, never see her again. Mahdhavah cannot handle it. You know him. He cannot get upset, and here he is…” I opened the jar and gathered some on my claw. “Morrison, Mahd will kill her if he sees her again. He hopes you know that.”

Zie paused and looked away from me, but zie nodded. “Yeah.” Hir tone was regretful, but I wasn’t sure exactly why. Did zie still love her? I could see that in hir pained expressions whenever I spoke Lilly’s name. Did zie regret putting hir love into this woman? I would understand that if that were true. “I understand, Mahd.”

I set to work, putting the ointment on the cuts since I couldn’t do much about the bruises right away. I wrapped hir up, making sure nothing got infected or any worse, though I hesitated as I looked to hir underclothes. “...tell me she did not…?” I looked up and met hir eyes, but zie only looked away. I frowned and undid it, though I wish for my own sake I hadn’t.

I could tell by the inflammation alone that she’d done terrible things, and as I even approached with my paw to examine the damage I could smell hir fear and terror. “Mahd… Mahd won’t hurt you,” I said, looking up at hir.

Zie still wouldn’t face me. “...I know. J-just…”

“What is it?”

“Just do what you can.”

I nodded and picked up some ointment, slathering it liberally where I could, and I could feel hir tense and cringe beneath me as I tried my best to help hir out. Peering up, zie was biting hir lip, preventing hirself from crying. “It’s okay. Crying is good for pain relief,” I let her know, hoping zie wouldn’t keep bottling this up. It was insanely unhealthy, and I could see the black veins start to creep up from hir toes and fingers. “Relax, okay?”

Zie nodded and stopped biting so hard, hir sharper elven teeth having cut a bit into hir lip. Zie shifted a bit under me and I stopped leaning in so hard, allowing hir space to breathe. Speaking of breathing, I hadn’t done much for hir ribs. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small seed, holding it in front of hir mouth. Zie knew what to do and opened wide as I made hir swallow it.

Giving it a few seconds, I placed both paws on hir ribs, one on each side. With a deep breath I channeled into hir, forcing the seed to split and grow, binding the bone shards back into place with strong vines. The vines would dissolve into the bones eventually as they started to heal, so I didn’t worry too much about it. Already zie was starting to breathe a little easier.

It wasn’t long before I had done all I could do, and I helped hir into a reclining position. “Morrison, Mahd worries so much about you. He worries when you leave, he worries when you’re away, he worries even when you’re here by his side. But when you’re here, he feels better, and he doesn’t want you to leave without him, okay? Mahdhavah needs you to be here. He cares so deeply…”

Just then, zie sat up a bit, then rested hir head on my shoulder, and I held hir in a soft embrace. The sun had started to fall beyond the horizon, and the light was starting to fade from the room. Hir breathing was pained, but better than before, so what could I do? I lowered my head onto hirs and stayed there until zie stirred. Before I could think much about it, zie reached up and kissed the bridge of my nose, causing me to blush this time. Not like zie could see that through my fur, of course, but…

With that, zie turned over and covered up with a blanket, trying to get some rest. Of course, I left hir to do that. Capping the ointment jar and putting it back, I closed hir door and went downstairs to wash my hands, but I still wondered to myself what that kiss was about. Morrison had never kissed me before, and zie’d only kissed Lilly before, that I knew of. I supposed it was just a ‘thank you’, and left it at that. I just wanted hir to feel better, after all that had transpired.

#c; morrez #c; lilly #c; madhava #pov; madhava #tw; blood #tw; abuse #; not sure what else to tag but i might be missing something?

0 notes

tessatechaitea · 7 years

Text

Justice League of America #7

Terrorstrike is a near perfect name for a guy whose super power is teleporting into anal.

I don't get it. Why doesn't Killer Frost just get into a lesbian relationship with Fire? Problem fucking solved!

Three pages in and so far Terrorstrike's penis has not teleported itself into anybody's anal cavity. I bet this cover was one of those lying covers that never show the actual truth of the story! Terrorstrike does arrive but not by anal teleportation (I fucking knew it was too good to be true!). Instead he just walks up to the entrance of the Unnatural History Museum, explains that he wants to see the Jackalope, exposes the cat on his shoulder hidden beneath his hoodie, and murders the guards. No wait! He refrains from murder because he needs to explain his origin story and then his motive for being in this comic book. The guards area all, "Um, hey, dude? Could you back off? Nobody cares about aliens ejaculating into your central nervous system as much as you think they should. It's probably why your wife and son can't stand you." If I were one of the guards, I'd probably just let him see the jackalope. But then I'm a terrible employee who never feels loyalty to my employer simply because they're paying me to expend precious moments of my finite life doing things they want me to do. The cover lied in another way: this guy's name is Terrorsmith. That's worse than Terrorstrike! No wonder nobody notices or respects him! You don't stick the most boring last name in the English language onto a fear invoking concept if you want to demand respect. Terrorstrike could work. Terrorsmith just means a lot of people are going to respond, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith. But I'm kind of busy here." I suppose if Bloodlines had been more interesting, I would remember more about Terrorsmith. I think I do have his appearance in Showcase '94 but I probably haven't read it since, um, you know...1994. Terrorsmith turns the guards into monsters. Get it? He creates terrors! Although can you really call two monsters attacking a museum terrors? It's not like they have brown skin and yelled "Allahu akbar!" That was another joke for my conservative readers! Of course, the real joke is that conservatives and the media seems to only think that terrorism is terrorism if the attackers are Muslim. If terrorism is committed by a black guy, it's gang violence. If it's a white guy, it's mental illness or loner who has no fucking connection with other white guys just because he's white and stop being ridiculous because guns are good and shut up. See how jokes work, Internet Scolds? It might seem like I'm saying, "Hey! Muslims are terrorists who are worse than Terrorsmith's monsters!" But what I'm actually saying is, "Hey! Why the fuck do people continue to only use the term 'terrorism' when Muslim attackers are involved? Seems like an agenda there, no?"

I love when people use vulgar in the way most people don't read the word vulgar. Also I love Lobo.

Lobo is busy beating up another alien in a casino somewhere while Black Canary shrugs and sighs and looks askance at the camera as the end credits roll. Terrorsmith has a whole cadre of monster cats that follow him around. Did I use cadre correctly? Sometimes I wish I had an editor because Googling takes too long. It's easier to just ignore an editor when they say, "You can't say so many offensive things!" But they also know all the words I don't know. So sometimes they're useful. During the battle with Terrorsmith's monsters, The Atom crashes into an Unnatural History display of Dr. Sivana's fossilized time pills. Oh, that's convenient! I mean, I don't know how it's convenient but I'm pretty sure it will wind up being convenient. I wish he'd crashed into the display just to the right where they keep Dr. Sivana's time suppositories. Killer Frost moves in to stop Terrorsmith alone. That's because he can't turn her into a monster since she already thinks of herself as a monster. That's like that time that woman touched me and tried to turn me into a God and I didn't change because I'm an atheist and apparently we all believe we're God. Or something. I don't really understand Christians who think they're smart instead of dull say that. How does not believing in gods suddenly turn into believing that I'm my own god? I just said I don't believe in God but I do believe in myself! If I thought I was my own God, that would be a paradox, dum-dum! If the idea that atheists think they're their own God comes down to the fact that they believe they're in control of their lives and their decisions then Christians think they're their own God as well. They make decisions all the time whether or not they point to the sky and wink sexily at God for the help. They especially make their own decisions when they decide that there are certain ideas in The Bible or aspects of church dogma that they can live without acknowledging. Anyway, I only like to associate with people who can determine right from wrong without somebody else having to explain it to them. I'm fairly certain a good percentage of religious people who believe the only way somebody can know right from wrong is through religion are sociopaths. Because I've never been taught religion but I was raised in a house constantly full of cats and learned a good deal about love and empathy which stand in as pretty good markers for determining whether an action is right or wrong. Sure some actions are ambiguous. And some are judgment neutral, like masturbation. If you don't think masturbation is a right/wrong neutral action, you've probably been told how to feel about it. How can you tell if making and eating a sandwich is right or wrong? I guess it depends on what's in the sandwich and what religion's list of acceptable food products you go by. It's so much easier being an atheist! Nobody ever tells me my peanut butter and semen sandwich will send me to Hell. No wait. Everybody does. That was a poor example. The Atom never gets to use his time pills because Frost's plan of threatening Terrorsmith with an agonizing death works to get him to change the guards back. Killer Frost is all, "Terrorsmith couldn't hurt me because I already see myself as a monster!" And The Atom is all, "But my penis doesn't think that! I mean my brain! I'm not trying to save you simply because I want to have sex with you! I mean, I want to have sex with you, I do! But I don't want my dick to freeze off when we do it. So I sort of have to save you! But I'd also want to save you if you were a man too! But then I wouldn't want to have sex with you! So you can see how I probably should have shut up and never opened my mouth at all and just went about trying to help you because you're my friend. I mean, we can be more than friends if you want, of course. You know? To do the sex!"

Don't worry, Frost. He's a guy. He's totally interested. I mean, he'd wrap a jellyfish around his dick if somebody said it felt as good as fucking.

Terrorsmith winds up in Belle Reve where maybe — just maybe! — he'll become fodder for the Suicide Squad. I know they generally don't like working with villains who aren't super popular these days. But at some point, they're going to need to kill somebody or the name is going to lose all meaning (if it hasn't fucking already). There's probably a generation of youths who can't figure out why the fuck the comic is called Suicide Squad. Youth: "So they, like, all want to die or something?" Elder: "No, no! It's just the missions are so dangerous that it's practically suicide to go on them!" Youth: "Wait. The missions are dangerous? Since when?!" Elder: "Well, I mean, that's the premise." Youth: "You're shitting me, right?" Elder: "Don't swear. And stop smoking in front of me. And stop having sex outside of marriage!" Youth: "Well why don't you stop being racist and homophobic?!" Elder: "Touché, young one! Touché! You have taught me this day!" This issue did not have enough Lobo for my $2.99.

#Justice League of America #DC Comics #Steve Orlando #Jamal Campbell

0 notes