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lightforthedeadvine · 3 years

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Title: How to Fall in Love When You’re Dead (A guide by Dean Winchester)

Author: @lightforthedeadvine – Anwamane_13 on AO3

Written for: @localwhiskeylez

Gift Exchange: @destielsecretsanta2020

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Castiel/ Dean Winchester

Word count: 11.905

Rated: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

AN: Wow, I can't believe it's done! I really hope you like it, @localwhiskeylez! Sorry for any typos, English is not my first language. Merry Christmas!

How to Fall in Love When You’re Dead (A guide by Dean Winchester)

How Dean Winchester realizes that the love of his life is his best friend and, being the moron that he is, it only happens after he's already dead.

INTRODUCTION

This article seeks to help the reader to solve unfinished business during their life on Earth. It is an observational interventionist study, based on the author's life. Some angels and demons were injured during the execution of the study, but the fact only serves as a background to illustrate the situations in which the author found himself and are important for the understanding of the facts.

1- When you’re still alive, be emotionally constipated.

Cas dies and Dean can’t get up, can’t look anywhere except at his wings, frail and broken shadows engraved on the ground. This is it. This time Cas’ death is for good. Dean isn’t ready for this, he can’t deal with this, he needs to get up and pretend he’s not there, kneeling on the ground next to his best friend’s body. His mind is empty and too full at the same time.

The thing is, Cas has died before, but Dean had never been left with his body to deal with. It makes his death more real somehow. So, he wraps the body with the old curtains, and he refuses Sam’s help. He doesn’t need anyone right now. They burn Cas, a hunter’s funeral. Dean listens to Sam trying to explain to a confused Jack that it’s time to say goodbye, but he can’t say anything. The flames are high and Dean can’t stop thinking that Cas deserved so much better than this. In the back of his mind there’s something he should have done, something he should have said, some way he could have showed Cas how appreciated he was. But Dean is not sure what it is, and he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to feel anything, or rather, he can’t look at what he’s feeling too closely, or he’ll lose it.

Later, he loses it in booze, he punches the door until his knuckles bleed, he hates everything, he yells at Sam, he wishes he’d had kept Cas’ coat, so he could keep it in the Impala’s trunk, like before. He’s not sad, he’s furious. Stupid angel, getting himself killed like that. Stupid, stupid angel. Sam, the giant girl that he is, wants to talk, but Dean snorts and refuses to acknowledge anything that resembles a chick flick moment.

He doesn’t cry.

2- When someone tells you he loves you, don’t say anything.

“I love you”, Cas says, and he puts his bloodied hand on Dean’s shoulder. He pushes Dean to the floor, and when the Empty comes, Cas has a slight smile on his lips. He looks… in peace, almost. Angelic. And then he’s gone.

Dean thinks “why didn’t he tell me about the deal” and “this can’t be real” and “I need him to come back”. He looks at the wall and there’s nothing there indicating that his friend, the best friend one could ever have, just vanished through it.

Dean’s mind is running so fast he can barely keep up with it. Cas’ ‘I love you’ keeps ringing in his ears, playing in the back of his head, like a broken record. Dean is astonished. He had no idea. He didn’t know. He feels that this ‘I love you’ was very different from the ‘I love you, all of you’ Cas said when Crowley saved him from dying poisoned, with Dean, Sam and Mary not knowing what to do, how to stop Cas‘ death. Dean knows Cas meant a whole different thing this time; he could see it in Cas’ eyes. This time Cas meant the love kind of love. Dean had no idea an angel could even feel this kind of love. But if he knew, would it have changed anything? It’s not as if Dean would say it back, it’s not as if he deserves this love, an angel’s love. For fuck’s sake, it’s ludicrous.

Dean said nothing, he just kept shaking his head no and saying dumb things like ‘what are you talking about’ and ‘don’t do this’. He said nothing meaningful in Cas’ last moments, nothing his best friend could take with him to the Empty to justify the sacrifice he was making. He wonders if Cas thought he didn’t care, but probably not, because the stupid angel has always seen the best in him; something Dean is not even sure it’s there.

Cas said he loved Dean. And Dean didn’t say anything. He has no idea what he could have said, but he should have said something. Anything. Cas gave his life to save Dean’s, and Dean just stood there; just let him go.

His cell phone rings but Dean has no idea how to answer it. He looks at the wall again. He can’t speak right now, he’s not even worthy of speaking right now. Dean puts his hands on his head, cover his eyes, tries to leave the world outside for a while longer. His head, his heart, his whole being hurts.

This time he cries. This time Dean sobs.

3- After losing someone you care about, live the rest of your life pretending you’re ok with it.

Miracle jumps on the bed and Dean holds his dog close for a while, taking comfort from his furry best friend. They grew very attached to each other, and so far, no one has come to claim the dog, so Dean is confident he’ll be able to keep it for good. He gets up, getting ready for another day of Sam making breakfast, going for a run, maybe calling Eileen or Jody and Donna. Dean will walk Miracle, maybe. Watch old reruns, make pancakes, even though Sam will complain one shouldn’t eat breakfast food for lunch, and have a tasteless salad, as always. Dean doesn’t care, Miracle will help him with the stack of pancakes. He still needs to finish filling the job application on his desk, but he’s not in a hurry. He has all the time in the world, right? No one is controlling them now, and Jack sounded like he’d let things run free.

When Sam mentions Jack and Cas, Dean says they should keep on living, because that’s what Jack and Cas would want them to do. The truth is, he doesn’t want to talk about it, so he shoves a huge piece of pie into his mouth. He knows Jack is around, in every drop of rain and every wind, and inside and out of the bunker, like he said… but Dean’s almost sure they’re never gonna see him again, and he misses the kid. As for Cas… Dean has no idea what the Empty’s like, but an eternity of nothing sounds like an endless punishment worse than hell, and once again, he can’t help thinking that Cas deserved better. Before he can think how much he misses his best friend, he decides to focus on anything other than the dull ache inside him every time he thinks of Cas’ sacrifice. Cas died so they could live, and they’re gonna live, dammit.

Sam pushes pie into Dean’s face and hearing his laugh makes Dean think that everything is gonna be alright, eventually. His baby brother’s laugh is one of the things that keeps him going these days. He’s grateful for that. Content, if not happy.

4- A crucial point for doing something after being dead is dying. So… die.

This one is hard to explain.

Dean doesn’t want to die. But as it is, death comes in the most stupid way possible, and he doesn’t want to fight anymore. He’s tired. He doesn’t want Sam to call an ambulance, because it’s not gonna work and he doesn’t want the kid to get his hopes up. The rusty thing inside his lungs hurt like a motherfucker, it’s getting hart to breathe and his mind is fuzzy.

Sammy, he thinks. Sammy’s the most important thing here. Dean needs to tell his little brother how much he loves him, because he knows he hasn’t said it enough. He needs Sam to know he’s always been the most important thing in his life, ever since John put baby Sam in his arms inside a burning house and told Dean to protect him. He needs Sam to know that Dean doesn’t regret being Sam’s mother, father, old brother and friend; he doesn’t regret not having a childhood because he knows, he knows, he gave Sam one; at least the best he could. Dean needs Sam to tell him he’ll be alright; that Dean can go in peace; that Sam will get a life for himself after this.

4.1 - Ignore any mention of your best friend and give only a small smile when being told he’s not in the Empty anymore;

‘Cas helped’, Bobby says. Jack made this incredible Heaven for everyone and Cas helped. Bobby arches one eyebrow when he mentions Cas, and Dean pretends he doesn’t notice. He smiles slightly, comforted by the fact that his friend is not in the Empty anymore. He hoped, no, he knew Jack would set his chosen father free, but somehow, he never asked him. He doesn’t know why. He could say he was in some kind of daze, caused by the shock of everything that had just happened, but… it’s not an excuse; he should have asked Jack about Cas, and he didn’t. Sometimes Dean is really stupid.

4.2 - Spend forty something years driving and waiting for your brother to join you in the afterlife.

Suddenly, Baby is there.

Although time moves different in Heaven, it’s a bit, well, a lot strange that right at the end of the long road, probably the Axis Mundi, Sam is there in the fucking bridge, as if he’d been waiting for Dean. Has Dean just spent forty years driving? Really? What about Mom and Dad? Why didn’t Dean go see them? What about Ellen and Jo, probably right there inside the Roadhouse, where Bobby was… why didn’t Dean get inside? What about Cas? Isn’t it strange that Cas wasn’t there to welcome him to the afterlife? And… Dean didn’t do anything except wait for his brother for four decades? This is surreal.

The happiness he fells when he hears Sam’s voice, though, is indescribable. Somehow, he knows time has passed and Sam had a life, a fucking normal apple pie life, and Dean is so, so grateful his brother got to have that. As for him, he can finally stop worrying about the kid. Sam has always been Dean’s everything, and now it’s as if… his work is done.

“Eileen and I… it didn’t work; she… was traumatized, I guess. Being around a Winchester was more dangerous than any monster,” Sam says when they’re in the car, returning home, wherever the heck ‘home’ is. “And Dean’s mother… she got pregnant; we hadn’t planned anything. She, um… didn’t know I was a hunter, so I kind of… I retired, started working as a paralegal. But we were too different, it didn’t work anyway, and she left when Dean was fifteen.”

“Dude, you named your kid after me?” Dean is all smiles.

“Dean Robert Winchester,” Sam says, proudly. “A great kid. Preferred his ink on his right arm.”

“You didn’t raise him as a hunter, did you?”

“Hell no,” Sam snorts, “but here and there a hunter came looking for advice, and… the kid was smart, figured there was something strange going on. And on his sixteenth birthday a shapeshifter moved to our backyard, so…”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“What about the bunker?” Dean wants to know. If Sam worked in a law firm, what happened to the bunker?

Sam suddenly looks uncomfortable. “I, um… I gave it to Jody, Donna and the girls. They did a great job over the years, built a really big net, organized the branches… Claire and Kaia, they’re, like, top hunters in the country now.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Dude, that’s great, but…”

“I couldn’t do it, Dean,” Sam says in a hurry, earnest. “It wasn’t the same without you. There was no one else. I was alone, and I… I just couldn’t.”

Dean pretends he doesn’t feel a pang in his chest at hearing how bad it was for Sam. But hey, heaven or not, he’s not gonna start a sharing and caring scene with Sam now, right? “What about Miracle?”

“Lived for twelve years more, was Dean’s best friend.”

“Dude, I’m never gonna get used to this. You named your kid after me. Wow, I mean… I know I’m important, but… didn’t know you couldn’t live without a Dean in your life,” Dean jokes.

But Sam is serious. “I really couldn’t.”

“No chick flick moments, Samantha,” Dean tries to lighten the mood, because, shit. He expected Sam to miss him, of course… but not like this.

Sam appears to take the bait. “Jerk.”

Dean laughs. “Bitch.”

5- In Heaven, pretend you’re not looking for your Angel best friend.

Mary and John live not far from the Roadhouse, just like Bobby said. Their house is a replica of the Lawrence house, the one that caught fire. Dean thinks it’s creepy that Mary ends up living in the same house in which she died, but hey, she seems happy. They both do.

“So, dad, how did you get this house? Not that I remember much of it, but me and Dean, we went back there for a case,” Sam asks, eyeing Mary, because well, she was the ghost that lived there. She just smiles quietly at him. “From what I can see, it seems just like the old one.”

John looks different. At peace. The lines on his face seem softer, leaving him with a younger appearance. Mary’s presence did this, Dean can’t help thinking. Having a forever with the love of your life can do this to a person. Not that Dean knows from experience since he’s never had a… never mind. Lisa was never the love of his life, and Dean doesn’t want to think about her; still hurts.

His father’s eyes radiate happiness. It’s a bit strange, in a good way. “We were together in our private heaven,” he tells. “But I confess, it was a little boring, because it never changed. Then they came,” he shrugs, “and everything changed.”

“They?” Dean asks.

Mary smiles. “Mostly, Jack. He came and… we had a serious talk. It was never his fault, how I came here. He was distressed, and I pushed too hard.” She holds John’s hand. “Jack said we shouldn’t be separated from the ones we loved, because there is space for everyone. So he opened all the doors, fixed all the bridges, and suddenly our friends, family… they were all there. We started to build a heaven where we could all live together…”

“And Cas suggested it would be a good idea if we lived in our old house,” John finishes. “He built this for us exactly as we remembered it.”

Dean arches his eyebrows. Cas? Since when is his father on a nickname basis with Cas? “You know him? Cas?” he can’t help asking.

“Of course he knows Cas,” Mary laughs. “he’s Jack’s right arm. Everyone knows him.”

“And where is he?” Dean asks.

Mary shrugs. “Around,” she says enigmatically.

Okay. Dean frowns a little. A guy dies and his best friend doesn’t come to greet him? Then he changes the subject, because really? Not a pleasant thing to think about.

-------

Ellen and Jo are still in the Roadhouse by the time Dean gets back there. Sam stayed behind with their parents. But Dean suddenly needs to see everything and everyone. As if he has already lost too much time. And, maybe he has, driving through the Axis Mundi, waiting for Sam. But hey, now he has all of eternity, right?

“So, how does it work? This heaven?” he asks, while Ellen pours him a one more shot of Johnny Walker.

“We just… live. We do what we want and see who we want. When Cas built this place for us, ‘cause I said I preferred to work; you know me, I’m no woman to sit still… anyways, he said that the things we’ve always wanted to do, but it was never the right time…”

“Or…” Jo smiles, standing beside her mother, “we were always busy killing the next monster… well, these things, we could do them all now, you know? And… it’s freeing, really.”

“Cas built this place” Dean repeats like a parrot, not really paying attention to what they’re saying. “You mean my friend, Cas.”

Ellen raises her eyebrows. “Do you know any other Cas?”

“Nope.”

It’s annoying, really. Cas built the Roadhouse for Ellen and Jo? That’s great, they more than deserve it, but… he didn’t take the time to see Dean when he arrived?

------

Things are starting to get ridiculous.

Dean has visited and met a lot of people since he arrived. And apparently, since Jack decided to rebuild heaven, Cas has:

a) Built a house for Bobby and Karen, and the woman was delighted by his manners. Such a handsome and polite ‘boy’.

b) Found Charlie’s mother, Gertrude Middleton, they had a teary and wonderful reunion and now they live together by the mountains, where the internet (in Heaven? Huh…) is better than any other place on Earth.

c) Rescued Kevin from ghost-life. The boy spends his days playing cello and going on dates with Channing. Linda Tran is around too.

d) Eileen died on a hunt a few years after Dean. Cas found her parents and she finally found her happy ever after with them.

e) Gave back Pamela’s eyes, and the psychic went traveling around the heaven-world, eager to seeeverything.

So, it’s Cas this, Cas that, blah blah blah. Dean is getting annoyed.

Oh! On top of that, Kelly Kline apparently sees him a lot. In fact, she sees him more than she sees her own son, since Jack is always busy being the almighty and all. How does Dean know? He finds Kelly by chance while walking around, and as soon as she greets him, she asks “Have you seen Castiel yet?” with a knowing smile. He hasn’t, of course. And then she wastes no time telling him how wonderful Cas is for helping Jack with the heaven thing, since her son is young and has a lot to do. Apparently, Cas and Kelly spend a lot of time together, talking. Dean changes the subject and leaves as soon as he can. He is not jealous, of course. Of course not.

Dean is not only annoyed now. He’s a little hurt. As if his friendship didn’t really mean anything for the angel. Part of him thinks it’s stupid, because Cas loves him, he said so, didn’t he? But his absence is telling. Somehow, Dean knows Cas doesn’t want to see him. He just knows.

6- When you see him, try to talk about the elephant in the room, even if he clearly doesn’t want to.

It’s a bit strange, this heaven Jack has created. Because now time seems linear, and Dean has no idea how this happened, since it went by so fast before Sam arrived. But now there are days and nights and an endless string of people Dean wants to see and spend time with. So much, that he has no idea where he’s supposed to live, but he doesn’t ask anyone. He sleeps at his parent’s house, or Charlie’s place, or at Bobby’s. It’s a wonder he sleeps at all, because he really doesn’t need it; he’s dead, they all are. But they eat and drink and sleep, and they have long, long talks, like a never-ending party with all the burgers, pies and beer Dean could ever want.

It’s great.

Also, it feels a little bit… empty.

So, Christmas comes. Apparently, this is a special time in heaven too. There’s a party at the park and Dean finds himself in charge of the cheeseburgers. He’s there, by the grill, flipping the patties and making sure they don’t burn. Then Dean sees him.

He’s standing by the lake. Different clothes, the dark jeans and blue t-shirt look so unusual for him, but Dean would recognize that head of dark hair anywhere. Cas is not looking at him, he’s talking to a couple, an open smile on his face, so different from the burdened expression he always wore. Dean forgets about the grill and everything else. He just walks towards him, his heart thundering in his chest and a million questions in his head.

“Cas!” he calls before he reaches him, arms opening to hug him, and Cas turn his head, his very blue eyes wide and …

Oh.

There’s no immediate recognition in those eyes.

It’s not Cas. It’s Jimmy Novak.

Dean’s arms fall. “Jimmy,” he says, just to make sure. He deflates like an empty balloon.

“You’re… Dean, right?” Jimmy says, and shit, Dean should have never had mistaken him with Cas. His eyes are exactly the same, but Cas’ eyes sparkle when they look at Dean, and Jimmy’s just… don’t. And the voice, there’s no way this… generic, normal voice could ever belong to Cas. Even his relaxed posture is completely different than Cas’.

“Yeah. Dean Winchester,” he says, because now he has to make small talk with the guy, and he really, really doesn’t want to. His chest gives a funny pang looking at him, and Dean thinks of Claire, for the first time really understanding what she went through whenever she looked at Cas and thought of her father. Dean is looking at one, wanting to see the other, because they look the same but they’re so, so different, and it’s just...disappointing doesn’t even get close.

“It’s good to see you, Dean,” Jimmy says solemnly. “Is your brother well?”

“Yeah, he’s… around.” Dean says, looking around, already knowing he won’t find Sam here, because his brother found Bobby’s library and, the big nerd he is, he must be reading somewhere, even though they don’t hunt anymore. “But there’s so much lore here, Dean!” he’s said, eyes sparkling.

“That’s great,” Jimmy says, and then he frowns a little. “Where’s Castiel?”

“How the hell will I know?” Dean lets out, the he looks at Jimmy apologetically. “Haven’t seen him.”

Now Jimmy looks a bit uncomfortable. “Oh, I’ve just put my foot in my mouth. It’s just that – that Castiel was always thinking about you when we were sharing my – my -” he gestures at himself.

They’re both saved by a burning smell.

“The burgers are burning, you idjit!” Bobby screams from somewhere, and Dean just looks at Jimmy, gives him a yellow half-smile and leaves, relieved. He never loved the smell of burning burgers so much.

----

It’s late, everyone has gone home. Dean doesn’t have a home to go to, and he really doesn’t care about it right now. He’d be there alone, anyway. He has no idea how much time has passed since he came here, and it’s a bit disorienting. He’s sitting by the pond, where he saw Jimmy earlier. He’d be drinking right now, if he thought it would help him forget. Can you get drunk when you’re dead?

He’s not an ungrateful bastard. He knows he’s in heaven, and it’s – it’s just great, something he’d never thought he’d have. And wow, his family and dearest friends are here with him, and things couldn’t be better. He’s grateful for everything, and if Jack were here, he’d hug the hell out of the kid. Um… deity. Almighty. Whatever. Still, he’s one third Dean’s son, so he’ll call him kid if he wants to.

The thing is, somehow, he wants more. More than eternal happiness, and he feels a bastard for not being satisfied with eternal bliss. But he misses having something to worry about. He misses the bunker. Shit, he even misses hunting, even though thinking about his last hunt gives him chills. But most of all, he misses having Sam, Jack and Cas by his side, the four of them against the world. He misses Cas’ eyerolls, his deadpan lines, his lack of notion about personal space. His hand on Dean’s shoulder, eyes solemn, glistening –

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Before he knows it, Dean is half-keeling on the grass. “Cas, buddy, you got your ears on?” he prays, like he did so many times before. “I – I hope you can hear me, that you’re alright, that you’re happy now that you’re back home.” He sighs. He has no idea what to say. “I never thought I’d get a chance to pray to you again, but here I am.” Taking a deep breath, he forces himself to go on. “I miss you, man. And – and I know you’re avoiding me… I mean, I know I was a dick to you for so long that maybe – maybe you don’t wanna see me? You could… at least come and say goodbye, you know? I hear you see and help everyone and you never, never come to see me. And I have no idea why.”

A bark makes him look around, and suddenly a light brown, furry dog jumps on his arms. He half-falls sitting on the grass while he hugs his companion from long ago. “Miracle!” he greets the dog, and his heart feels lighter already just for seeing him.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean turns his head so fast his neck hurts a little. “Cas,” he breathes. “You’re here.”

“Yes, um…” Cas gestures at Miracle. “I found your dog.” He’s dressed as always, white shirt, black suit, tan trench coat, tie askew. He looks awesome. He’s a few steps away, and he doesn’t come closer. The smile he gives Dean doesn’t exactly reaches his eyes; not that Cas smiled a lot. But he’s looking at Miracle now, like he’s avoiding looking at Dean. ”I hope all is well with you…?” he says lamely.

“All is – “ Dean sputters, disbelieving. “That’s what you have to say?” he closes the distance between them, stopping a few centimeters from Cas. “Where the hell have you been? I arrived here ages ago, and you haven’t come to see me.”

“Bobby was here to greet you.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen Bobby, Mom, Dad, Charlie, Jo, Ellen… even Jimmy freakin’ Novak. Everyone except you.”

Cas opens his mouth and starts to shrug, then aborts the movement, still looking at Miracle, perched on a log. “You don’t need me, Dean. You already have all you wanted. I made sure you have everything you could possibly want; everyone you love is here. Why should I come?”

“What the fuck do you mean?” Dean’s not sure he should be swearing in heaven, but hey, he was brought here like this, so they’ll just have to deal with him this way. “Because we’re friends, asshole!” he says, exasperated. Then, quieter, “because I missed you.”

“It’s not of import, you’re with your loved ones now.” Cas says, awkwardly. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well, and – “

“Stop it, Cas,” Dean says, frowning. This is not how he expected their reunion to be. “What’re you talking about? I missed you man, every minute of every day, and – “

Cas finally looks at Dean, and he looks so sad Dean almost pinches himself to make sure he’s awake. “Jack had just rescued me from the Empty and he asked if I wanted to see you, and – “

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, you were brought back and you didn’t come to us?”

“I saw you, Dean. You were happy. Eating pie, laughing with Sam. And I decided to step aside and just let you have the life you deserve. You and your brother together, like it was before heaven and hell came into your lives.”

Dean throws his hands in the air. “You’re an idiot, Cas, come on! Is that why you never came?”

Cas shrugs. “I know we angels gave you a lot of sorrow, and you have no idea how much I regret everything my brethren and my father put you through.”

Dean huffs a breath. “Not your fault.”

“Yes, it was. I was one more pawn in the game at first ,but I became the one closest to you. And every time I tried to do something right, I just brought you more grief,” Cas rambles on, “and if I had just stayed away, maybe things would’ve been easier. All the mistakes I’ve done… all the times I let you down…”

“That’s bullshit, Cas. What the fuck are you talking about? Since when I, we, didn’t want your company?”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Dean, I didn’t want to burden you anymore. I thought that… it was better that I stayed gone, and…eventually you and Sam would be alright.

“Oh, that’s so like you, Cas! Deciding things about my so-called wellbeing without telling me! Is this how you show you love me? Staying away?”

Dean’s eyes widen. Where the fuck did that come from? What the hell happened to his tongue?

Cas’ breath hitches and he looks at the ground, and even in the dark Dean can see his cheeks turning pink. Such a human thing…

“Dean,” Cas says, and shakes his head. “Don’t.”

Dean knows what this is about. He feels guilty already, because the last time they saw each other, Cas spilled his heart on the damn floor and Dean just stayed there, looking. “Don’t what, Cas?” he asks softly.

“You don’t have to say anything about… that. I said my piece, I… I spoke my truth. That truth still stands, it will always stand. Part of the reason I said it was because I thought… that I wasn’t coming back. But here I am, and here you are and, and I know how you feel. Rather, I know how you don’t feel. So, you don’t have to say anything, or do anything. It’s okay. Only… it may take some time before I fell less… mortified in your presence.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. Cas has practically just said that the – the love thing was true. Is true. Well, Dean was the one that started this particular subject, the asshole that he is.

“Cas…” he knows he needs to say something, even if it’s not what Cas maybe would like him to say. “I had no idea you even could feel like that. I’m not, I’m - “

“If you’re going to say you’re not worth it, don’t bother. I stand by what I said, and every word is true. You’re the best human being I have ever known, and I’d like that you at least give me the courtesy of believing in my words.”

Dean is speechless. Once more, Cas is spilling his guts and Dean is silent. He’d kick himself in the ribs if he could. His courage had dropped to the floor somewhere, but he finds it. “Was it my silence that made you leave? That made you do that? ‘Cause if it was, it’s on my top five worst mistakes.”

“It was to save your life. I couldn’t let Billie take you.”

“So you made me watch the Empty take you instead,” Dean deadpans.

“I had to. It was that or letting you die, and I couldn’t let her hurt you and do nothing. I’m expendable, Dean. Always have been. In heaven, on earth. But in that moment, I mattered.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean shakes his head. “You’ve always mattered to me. And coming here and not seeing you? Knowing you were around the whole time? It was a shitty move, Cas.”

Cas opens his mouth to say something, but he suddenly stops. He closes his eyes and frowns, as if hearing something. “I’m needed elsewhere,” he says. “I have to go.”

“What, now?”

“Yes.”

Cas was never a specialist at Goodbyes. Curiously, Goodbye was the last thing he said before he died.

There’s a bright light, a white-blue bright thing that starts on Cas’ eyes and grows, grows until all Dean can see is light. Cas is not there anymore, but there’s a huge beam floating against the night sky. Dean can see the tips of two huge, white wings coming out of the white-blue light. The words “multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent” comes to his mind and he knows that he’s looking at Cas’ true form. Even though it’s probably wise not to look directly at it, Dean can’t turn away and, well, maybe one of the perks of being dead is that he can look all he wants and his eyes are still working. Cas is awesome.

Now Dean is truly speechless. He’s never seen something so wonderful in all his life/death. In awe, he sees Cas going higher and higher, and he murmurs, more to himself, “Don’t take too long to come back, Cas.”

“I won’t,” he kind of knows, halfway between his head and his chest. What he really hears is a high-pitched sound that he knows it’s Cas’ true voice, but now his ears don’t bleed and he can understand what he’s saying. Wow.

The last thing he wonders before Cas goes up so fast that he looks like a comet, disappearing in the starry sky, is how can someone so fucking amazing like that can have such a low opinion of himself.

7- Pretend you’re ok with the fact that you never see him anymore. Eavesdrop every conversation to try to get a clue of his whereabouts.

“There’s some kind of rebellion up north,” Jack says. “Castiel was called to help with it.”

“Why didn’t you go with him?” Sam asks.

They’re in the bunker, of all things. Cas hasn’t come back, but here and there he comes to see Dean in his dreams, and at first Dean thought it was a regular dream, until Cas told him that the bunker was ready, and if he wanted to move there, he could.

And there was a freaking awesome replica of the bunker up the hill; the only home Dean ever remembers besides Baby, minus the dungeons and the endless corridors. But the important parts are there: the war room, the kitchen, bedrooms, library, garage, Dean’s cave. Sam decided to live there with him, and it’s been a week – or is it a month? Hard to keep track of things here – when Jack finally came to visit. He asked for a homemade burger, of all things, Dean’s homemade burger, and before he started, Dean was going to ask him if he wanted chili sauce with it. So, he isn’t eavesdropping, he’s not a gossip kind of guy. But Jack and Sam are talking in the war room, and when he hears Cas’ name, Dean stops before they can see him.

“Because the rebellion is about me, partly, Castiel thinks it’s not wise that I go. I trust his judgement.” Jack says. “Some angels think I’m too young to rule the universe.”

“You are pretty young,” Sam snorts.

“Well, there’s the fact that some of them still resent Castiel because of his past actions. It’s hard to forget he said yes to the devil, and I’m afraid an angel’s memory is endless. Theirs certainly is.”

“He did that so I didn’t have to,” Sam says, regret in his voice.

“Of course he did.” Jack’s voice is laced with amusement. “Everything Castiel did since he rescued Dean from hell was to protect him; then you two; and, in the end, me too. He’s the most human angel I’ve ever known; he has a heart. That’s why my mother chose him to protect me.”

“He wasn’t always like this.”

“Oh, I know, he was a dick, Dean told me. Like all the other angels here. I’m trying to teach them how to think for themselves, but it takes time. And every time a group decides I’m too young to rule, or Castiel is still unreliable, or both, he goes there and tries to convince them to come back.”

There’s silence for a while, and Dean is caught between wanting to step inside or waiting to hear more about Cas.

“I suppose I should be glad,” Jack goes on. “If they decide to go against us, it means they’re starting to understand free will. If Castiel changed, so can they. Although, he’s always had an incentive, which they lack. Anyway, Castiel is good at convincing them; even if he’s my father, he wouldn’t be my commander if he wasn’t a good strategist.”

“Nepotism, huh?”

“Not at all. I offered to turn him into an archangel, since there’s no one left… but he insisted he wanted to remain a seraph. He’s very down to earth, so to speak.”

“Will he be alright?” There’s worry in Sam’s voice. “Won’t they get… I don’t know... violent?”

“Oh, don’t worry. He can handle them. Besides, if they kill him, I’ll just bring him back.”

“What the fuck?” Dean almost yells, finally going inside. “You’re just gonna let him die? What the fuck, Jack? Dying hurts!”

“So, you were eavesdropping, Dean,” Jack laughs. “and yes, I want chili sauce in my burger.”

“You knew I was here?” Dean knows his face must be comically red now, but he doesn’t care.

“I know everything,” Jack simply says, “and Bobby Singer was teaching me about pranks and sarcasm the other day, so I decided to do a little test.”

“With me,” Dean deadpans.

“Yup!” Then Jack says, more serious. “He won’t die here, Dean. I have his back.”

-----

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to embarrass you,” Jack comes to the kitchen when Dean’s doing the dishes, after dinner. Sam is… somewhere under a pile of books, probably.

Dean just shrugs.

“I know you worry about him,” Jack continues, “I worry too. But Castiel is very, very old. And wise. He may not have always known what he was doing in the past, but he knows now. He’s in his element. You should see him in battle,” there’s pride on Jack’s voice. “he’s spectacular.”

Dean thinks of Cas’ true form and the way he gives every bit of his focus in a fight, and well, he has to agree with Jack, Cas fighting in heaven must be something to behold.

“He went furious when he knew you were going to die; he spent ages complaining about how you were supposed to have a long and happy life. And then he built this part of heaven for you himself. But… dying young was always in the cards for you, Dean. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dean shrugs again. “I’m happy now. And I didn’t want to have gray hair anyway. Been there, done that, didn’t like it.”

“Are you, really?” Jack asks. “Happy?” He looks genuinely worried, like he doesn’t already know the answer.

“If you know everything, smartass, why do you ask?” Since Jack knew about the chili sauce before Dean said anything, it stands to reason that he knows every freaking thing inside Dean’s head, right? “And stop reading my thoughts.”

“So, stop projecting them everywhere,” Jack arches one eyebrow. “You make it really difficult not to listen. And when I ask if you’re happy, it’s not because I want to know. It’s because I want you to know. There’s a lot of things you already know but you don’t realize. Not yet.”

“Like what?” Dean is getting annoyed by this enigmatic version of the kid.

“Oh, you’ll get there,” Jack pats his shoulder solemnly. “You’ll get there. Now, how about getting a job, so you and Sam don’t get too bored?”

-----

The job Jack found them was as “newcomers’ advisors”. Apparently not everyone is okay with dying. Hunters are particularly difficult to come to terms with the idea. So Dean, Sam, Eileen and Bobby help them getting used to it.

Mostly, they talk. They show them the neighborhood, explain how heaven works. Help building their houses, finding their loved ones, keeping track of family that’s still on Earth, things like that. It’s something to do, and Dean’s glad to have this to fill his days. Like Ellen said, he’s a hunter; he can’t stay home and do nothing but an endless string of family and friends’ reunions. The boredom would kill him if he wasn’t already dead.

It’s a good thing Jack has been doing here. Heaven residents are organized in teams and they have work to do. If they want to, of course. No one is obligated to do anything they don’t want to. But there’s still a lot to build in heaven, it’s a huge place after all, so there’s work for everyone. People who’s been dead the longest and lived isolated in the eternal loop of their private heavens, have a little more difficulty adapting to changes; but they have literally all the time in the world. Feeling useful does wonders for Dean. Life goes on as it should. Well, not life, per se, but still a good one.

Cas never comes. He keeps appearing in Dean’s dreams here and there, and they talk about nothing and everything, like they always did. Sometimes, he watches Dean fishing, standing on the pier by his side; other times they just drink beer and talk side by side inside the Impala. Dean misses seeing him in person, though. He can’t exactly feel when Cas touches his shoulder, or when he pats his back. Well, he can, but it’s a muffled sensation somehow, the ghost of a touch.

And it’s not enough.

8- When confronted with the fact that he’s more BAMF that you had realized, pretend you’re neither impressed nor slightly turned on.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says one evening, when he is in Dean’s cave watching Doctor Sexy reruns.

Dean raises his head to look at him and – Whoa!

Cas is in a golden armor, holding a huge sword, expression solemn. He… glows. Like, there are little sparks of light floating around him. And his wings… wow. Huge, beautiful black wings, making him officially the most amazing creature Dean has ever seen.

“Cas!” he says dumbly, and he can’t stop staring. He has the vague notion that he needs to close his mouth, but he’s in too much of an awe to do it.

“I need your help,” is all Cas says, and he puts his hand on Dean’s arm and –

They’re outside, in the bunker’s rooftop, which is an awesome place to be, because Cas built it on a hill, the sky seems so close and you can see the lights of people’s houses down below. It’s almost as if you’re suspended between heaven and Earth.

“You alright?” Dean asks when Cas winces a bit after they land.

“Just a minor scratch.”

“Lemme take a look,” Dean says, his hands already on Cas’ shoulders, looking for a way to take the armor off him.”

“We don’t have time. We need to go to hell.”

Dean blinks. “Come again?”

“Rowena, she sent me a message. Apparently, the rogue group of angels that didn’t want to follow Jack, joined with a group of her demons who were showing… discontentment with her leadership. They’re wreaking havoc down there and Rowena’s having a hard time controlling everything.”

“So heaven will help hell. Huh.”

Cas shakes his head no. “Not heaven. Just me. No other angel would follow me down there. But, as you see, I’m a bit hurt and I can’t go on my own. I was thinking that maybe you and Sam could help me.”

“What about Jack?”

“I can’t contact him now. He’s in the Empty again.”

“Why???”

“We need archangels, Dean. Heaven is too big, and we need someone with power enough to contain everything while others rebuild. I – I can’t do everything alone, and… we need someone with more power, who’s not Jack, in case he needs to be away for a while. And I – I don’t want more power. We already know how I acted when I had more power than I could deal with. More pride than compassion.”

“Come on, Cas, that wasn’t you,” Dean reasons.

Cas gives him a curt and serious nod, like he’s saying, “I don’t agree and I don’t want to go on with this subject.” But what he says is “Jack went there to try to find and rescue Gabriel. He won’t be back anytime soon. Will you help me?”

------

Of course Dean will help him. And so will Sam, Eileen, Bobby, Mary, John, Rufus, Ellen, Jo. Some of them are a bit worried about going to that place – well, it’s hell. But they don’t shy off a good fight, and most were already missing their old hunter’s life, with the absolute lack of things that go bump in the quiet nights around here.

9 - Here is the part where you have an epiphany and see that, even dead, you’re still emotionally constipated, and you fell in love with him.

“Cas, wake up. Please.”

Dean holds Cas’ head between his hands, but the angel’s eyes remain closed. He doesn’t need to breathe, so there’s no way for Dean to be sure he’s alive. Rowena said he is, but still, the lack of movement in unnerving.

“You sure you can’t help him?” he practically roars at her. “Isn’t there anything you can do? What kind of witch are you?”

“The dead kind, dear,” Rowena answers drily. “I still have my powers, but they obviously don’t work here.” She looks around. “I’m amazed I was even allowed to enter this place. It’s… a little on the ordinary side.”

Since there was no one with enough power to open a portal for them, they lay siege in hell the old, fashioned way. Cas knew a backdoor, but it was, of course, guarded. Half the group came in from the front and the other half from behind. A few more hunters, recruited at the last minute, formed a group of twenty something people. Cas, the badass he was, came in from above, breaking everything on his way (“Just as I did when I rescued you, Dean,” he said).

Of course, things went wrong. Of course. None of the hunters died, because first: they were already dead and, second: every single one of them had killed demons before.

The angels were a whole different thing. Sam and Dean went straight for them, no time to waste. Despite their experience in dealing with them, these ones were more than dicks: they were angry dicks. “Winchester,” one of them snarled, as if it was an insult, and their attack was fierce and fast. But Sam and Dean knew a lot of fighting tactics and, little by little, they made their way towards the throne room.

Rowena was nowhere to be seen, but behind a huge, closed metal door, Dean heard her yelling “Take your angel hands off me!”

After a while, the group of hunters dealing with the - now dead - demons joined them and, together, they start getting rid of the angels. Dean didn’t know the repercussions of killing an angel in hell, and frankly, he didn’t care. It was hard to believe the dicks were together with the demons in a plan to restart, once more, the freaking apocalypse. Again. One more time. But it was true, Cas had told then on their way here. Besides being dicks, they had no imagination. Getting rid of them was long overdue.

Sam kicks the metal door when they hear a whooshing sound.

Inside, Cas has Rowena in his arms. Around them, several dead angels. She looks a little dizzy, her head on his shoulder. He looks a little winded, and he gasps “We need to leave,” before disappearing in a beam of light. Dean and the others need to go back the way they did: going up seven levels of steep stairs.

When they arrive back in heaven, Dean has no idea where Cas and Rowena went, but on a hunch, he goes to the bunker. Rowena is sitting at the war room, elbows on the table, red hair in disarray, head in hands. She looks shaken.

“Cas?” is all Dean asks.

“In your room,” she answers.

So, here they are. Cas is on Dean’s bed, still in his armor. Dean has no idea how to remove it, and he’s afraid to move him.

“One of the angels had a blade near my throat,” Rowena’s voice trembles slightly. “Castiel started to talk to him, trying to convince him to let me go. The other came from behind and he didn’t duck in time.” She opens her hand and shows them an angel blade, dirty with something slimy, silvery and shiny, almost like mercury.

Angel blood. Cas’ real blood.

“It didn’t go all the way in,” Rowena says. “I think he collapsed as soon as we got here. When I came to myself, we were on the floor. I helped him get to your room. He closed his eyes and…” she trails off.

Dean nods slightly. “Cas…?” he tries again. But Cas is still like a marble statue. All Dean can think of is that Cas was already hurt when they went to hell, and on top of that he was stabbed, and now he – he shakes his head to send the dark thoughts away. Cas can’t die here, can he? Dean has just killed a couple of angels a few hours ago, but they were in hell. Do angels die in heaven?

“Dean?”

Jack’s voice is like music to Dean’s ears. The young man stops by the door, all wide eyes. He approaches them slowly, staring at Cas. When he gets close, he puts a hand on Cas’ chest and closes his eyes. For a few seconds they just stay there, completely still, as if suspended in time, but Dean’s heart is aching inside his chest, so he knows this isn’t a nightmare.

“There,” Jack says. “I closed all the wounds.”

“All the wounds?” Dean asks, dumbfounded. “As in, a lot?”

“Too many,” Jack answers. “Angels fight aiming to kill, never to just hurt. But he’s going to be alright now.”

“He’s still not waking up.”

“The damage was in his true form, no less. He needs some time to recover, to replenish his grace. He’ll wake up, Dean. He’ll be alright.”

Dean can’t hold an angry huff. “Stupid angel. He had to go and help Rowena and put himself in danger like that.”

Jack shrugs. “He always felt at least partially responsible for what happened to her. After I brought him here, they kept in touch.”

“So like Cas,” Dean shakes his head. “The idiot’s born in heaven, a badass commander, but he has to go and make friends with the sorry ass humans, he rebels, falls, sacrifices himself a handful of times… befriends a witch queen of hell, almost dies – again – in a mission to save her because he feels he owes her something.” “And who told him he was responsible for her death, asshole?” his mind offers.

“You know Castiel. Always happy to bleed for someone.”

“Jack, get out of my head!” Dean snaps.

Jack raises his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Hey, it’s not my fault that you were thinking of Cas saying he was ‘always happy to bleed for the Winchesters’. Your thoughts are all over the place, very loud, I should add. If you don’t control them, they just fly to my head. For example, right now, you’re thinking I’m an asshole, and also wondering what you’ll do for the rest of eternity if Castiel dies.”

“Fuck, Jack, come on!”

Jack blinks and suddenly Cas’ armor is gone. He’s in his old attire – suit, tie, trench coat. Then he puts a hand on Dean’s arm and squeezes a little, forcing him to raise his head and look at him.

“Castiel will wake up. I promise. But the thing is, you shouldn’t be worrying about what you’re going to do if he dies. Rather, what you’re going to do if he lives. He’s here, Dean, and so are you. What are you going to do with it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, man.”

“And that,” Jack gets up and looks at Dean sadly, “Is why Castiel’s greatest joy so far was just in the saying, not in the having. You’ve wondered why he thinks so little of himself… but have you ever given him any reason to think otherwise, Dean?”

Jack just disappears in the air, one moment here, the other gone.

Dean feels like he’s just been punched.

-----

A day and a night come and go, and still Cas sleeps. Dean never leaves his side. Sam comes, offers him soup, then beef jerky, then a beer. Dean refuses everything. It’s not as if he needs to eat.

“Dean – “ Sam starts.

“Not now, Sammy,” Dean closes his eyes. “I know you’re worried, and I appreciate it, but I can’t.”

“Jack said… um… that I should leave you alone, that you have a lot of thinking to do. So, if you need anything, I’ll be in my room.”

Dean just nods and Sam goes.

The room is dark except for a bedside lamp, projecting shadows on Cas’ face. Looking at him, Dean shakes his head again. Stupid angel. Beautiful, beautiful creature that came into Dean’s life more than twelve years ago and saved him so, so many times. Someone Dean can count on. Someone he can’t live without.

Wait.

He can’t live without Cas. Even if he’s technically dead, spending heaven-life without him is something Dean can’t conceive.

Shit.

Suddenly, everything is so clear that Dean doesn’t understand how he could be so dense. All this time, and his stupidity let him spend his life thinking he was unworthy of love, when in fact… he was loved by the most awesome person that ever existed. And he loves this person back just as much.

He does, doesn’t he? He has always – shit, he has always loved Cas back, and why the fuck did his stupid brain not get to this conclusion before?

Yep. It’s official. He’s a moron.

Jack knew, of course. That’s what he meant when he said Dean had a lot to think about. Even Sam, he probably knew too, judging from the faces he made whenever Dean and Cas started one of the many bickering sessions they had. Or one of the staring contests. Meg, Crowley, all the times they, and so many others, implied there was something between Dean and Cas, and Dean thought they were just trying to piss him off.

He spends a long time thinking, not realizing he has one of Cas’ hands between his. It’s like a twelve-year film is passing inside Dean’s head. Long stares, small touches, soft and private smiles, stupid choices, sacrifices… it was all there for anyone to see, but Dean was blind, how could he be so blind? Cas’ love for Dean was written in everything he did since forever.

Dean, on the other hand… looking back he can see, clear as day, the many, many times he was a dick to Cas. He never gave him a reason to stay, then complained because he left, even if he never stopped him from leaving. He never let Cas feel appreciated. He hardly ever thanked the guy for saving his ass. He doubted him; he blamed him; he kicked him out of the bunker when Cas was human and vulnerable. He doesn’t deserve Cas’ love. Cas could do better.

But the thing is… he has Cas’ love, and what he’s going to do about it? Because, on the other hand, Dean can also see the trench coat that spent ages in the Impala’s trunk. He can see his bloody hand punching a door when Cas was dead. He can see himself spending almost a year looking for Cas in Purgatory, and refusing to leave without him. So many, so many small things that he always labeled as friendship, but now is so, so clear it was... so much more.

“Cas,” he closes his eyes. “Hear me. Please.” He’s praying, taking a leap of faith here, and he hopes it will work. “You need to wake up. See, I have something to tell you, but you need to be awake for that, ‘cause it’s very important and… it can change everything. I need you, so please, please – “

“Hello, Dean.”

10- Tell him how you feel. Live/die happily ever after.

They’re on the bunker’s rooftop again. It’s becoming Dean’s favorite place.

Rowena has gone back to hell, once her lackeys got rid of all the bodies. Jack went back to the Empty, they’re negotiating Gabriel’s release. Sam, as soon as Cas woke up, remembered he needed to visit Mary and John asap.

So, Dean and Cas are alone.

They’re sitting on the rooftop, feet dangling, and Dean has a beer in his hands, more to have something to hold and ground him than for drinking.

“Cas, “ he starts. But he has no idea what he’s going to say. Rather, he has, but he doesn’t know how to say it.

“Yes, Dean?” Cas’ profile, illuminated only by the moonlight, almost shines. Everything about him seems to shine, like he’s so beautiful and perfect inside that the light can’t help but spill to the outside. Technically, he knows that’s Jimmy’s face. But it’s so different from Jimmy’s. The hair in disarray, the so very blue eyes with a hint of silver, the perpetual frowny face… and the guttural voice. Traits that make Cas unique, traits that no one else has. For Dean, Jimmy’s face is ordinary. Cas’ face, he can’t get out of his head. Now that he knows.

“You said you had something to tell me,” Cas says. He’s not looking at Dean, and there’s a slight tremor in his voice, almost as if he’s afraid to know what Dean has to say.

Dean clears his throat. Here goes nothing. “When you died… the last time you died,” he starts.

“Dean, please,” Cas almost begs. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

“What if I want to talk about this?” Dean blurts out.

Cas cocks his head to the side. “Dean?”

“It made me think, Cas. What you said, it made me think. But… I didn’t want to think. Because… it hurt. It hurt so much that I put a lot of stuff on top of it, shoved a lot of things under the rug so I didn’t have to see what I’d wasted.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Bear with me. You will.”

Cas only nods, but his eyes are a little anxious, a little wide.

“Then the freakin’ metal bar came. I didn’t want to die, you have to believe me. But – bit I didn’t want to live like that either. And I didn’t see a way to change. I was looking for a job, already knowing how it’d be. The empty feeling inside me, just like when I was with Lisa and Ben; I had an apple pie life, I had a family, a job… and inside me there was this void they couldn’t fill.”

“I thought you were happy,” Cas murmurs.

“Yeah, sometimes I’m good at pretending. But listen to me, I’m not finished yet.”

“Okay.”

“So, when the metal bar went straight to my lung, I knew that the little time I had to live… I didn’t want to waste it in a hospital, I needed Sam to know that he was my everything. He was, Cas, because that’s the way I was raised, that was drilled and imprinted in my head when I was four. And, I had to tell him that, and if they took the bar off, I’d probably die without him knowing it. I didn’t fight because I wanted to die. I just made a choice, and it was to let my brother know that he didn’t have to stay with me in the bunker forever, he could have a life. A normal one. I took him off from his apple pie life fifteen years ago, I needed to put him back.”

“Dean, this is… Sam was devastated. He’s have stayed with you, not out of obligation, but because he loves you.”

“I know, Cas. I know. But I was dying, man. My thoughts were all scrambled. I’m telling you this because I’ve given it a lot of thought, and you’re the first one I’m telling this. You’re probably the only one who will know this, ever.”

“I’m honored by your trust in me,” Cas says solemnly.

“Yeah, yeah, better late than ever, right?” Dean says, a little self-deprecatingly. “But listen. There’s more.” He takes a deep breath. “Some things you told me that day stayed with me. That I wasn’t the killer I saw in myself. That I was good. That everything I did was for love. But… now I realize that all that love, it was never directed at someone that should’ve gotten it the most, because he loved me when I didn’t love myself.”

“Dean, what – “

Dean raises his hand to make Cas stop talking. “The thing is… When you said those words to me, and I didn’t say anything… I should’ve said something. I should’ve. Even if it was just ‘you’re important to me, Cas, don’t go’. But I’m a coward and I didn’t say a thing, and you were just gone. I blinked, and you were gone, and I knew I’d never see you again.”

“I didn’t say it to be reciprocated, Dean. I said it because I had just had an epiphany and I was so happy for finally understanding that I could just say it, because it was the truest thing inside me for a long, long time. I realized that and… I had to let you know. But I wasn’t expecting anything from you, I didn’t want that burden on your shoulders. I didn’t want you to think you owed me anything.”

“But I did, Cas. I do. I owe you my life, more than once. I owe you my humanity and I owe you never giving up on me, even when I gave up on you. I’ve reached to the conclusion that I owe you everything that remains good inside me. And – and then you left and I – why did you have to sacrifice yourself like that?”

“It was out of utter despair, Dean. We were in a situation that we had no way of winning. And I… I looked at you, and your face, so devoid of hope… and you were beautiful’ you were Dean Winchester! I held your soul in my hands a long time ago, and from that moment on, everything changed, Dean. I wanted to fight it at first, but it was useless. That was something my powers could never do, and for all the free will I had fought for, this one thing, what I felt for you, what I feel for you, is the only thing I have no free will over. And in that moment of – of desperation, I knew I would give my life for you again and again if I had to.”

“Cas…” Dean says, amazed. He can’t even begin to understand the love this timeless creature, this angel that was been around since the beginning of time, feels for him. It’s beyond his comprehension, but in Cas’ eyes he sees that every word is true. This love, this seemingly enormous thing that made Cas defy heaven and every order that Chuck, Naomi, Zachariah, Uriel, Raphael and everyone else ever gave him, it’s too much for Dean’s ordinary human mind to understand. But he wants it.

“I was… I was so used to you always being around that I didn’t realize that whenever you were gone, every time, Cas… you took part of me with you.”

Cas’ eyes widen. “Dean…?”

“You said I deserve to be happy. Then you built this – this heaven for me with all I could possibly want, but Cas… I could never, I can never be happy here - ”

“Dean, don’t,” Cas starts. “Please.”

“- not without you,” Dean goes on. “Never without you. You can put everything and everyone here, you can build me a bunker, a palace, I don’t care. If you’re not here, it will never make me happy.“

Dean inches closer, until his face is so close to Cas’ that he can see his long lashes and his blue, blue sparkling eyes. “So, I’m telling you… that thing you said, back there, that you couldn’t have? You can have it, Cas. It’s yours. It has been yours for a long time, but I was too stupid to realize.” “But Dean, how can you –“

“Shut up, Cas, don’t spoil the moment.”

“But I – “

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean’s voice is laced with fondness.

“But you – “

“Dean loses his patience, just a little. “Cas! For Jack’s sake!” Then he adds, softly, “I’m trying to kiss you here, so unless you really, really want to stop me, just. Shut. Up.”

Cas snaps his mouth shut.

Dean closes the distance between them and his lips touch Cas’, briefly, softly. There’s no electric current, fireworks, sparks flying, like in the paperback novels Dean will deny forever that he reads once in a while. There’s only this indescribable happiness. There’s this sense of “this is it” inside his head. Cas is it.

They come apart slowly, and Dean looks at Cas’ eyes, which are bright and moist, and Dean smiles, knowing that these almost tears are of happiness. The same happiness he feels, knowing that finally, finally Cas won’t go any other minute of his life without knowing how much he is loved. Because he is.

“You’re my best friend,” he whispers, “and you’re it for me. So, if you want, we can, maybe… spend all eternity together?”

Cas smiles, the kind of rare smiles that scrunches his nose and wrinkles the corner of his eyes. The smile Dean has never seen in him, except when they’re together, laughing. “I’d like that,” he says. “A lot.”

“Alright,” Dean murmurs, going for another kiss.

They have all the time in the world, and they’re not in a hurry, so the kiss doesn’t end anytime soon, and morphs into another one, and in so, so much more. The moon in shining up in heaven’s sky, but Dean knows it’s a pale comparison to the shine in Cas ‘eyes.

--- --- ---

About the author

Dean Winchester was born on January 24, 1979 to John and Mary Winchester in Lawrence, Kansas. He died on November 19, 2020. He is the couple's first child, four years older than his younger brother, Sam. He is named after his maternal grandmother, Deanna Campbell. Dean was raised as a hunter by his father, after his mother’s death. He lived the life of a nomad, eliminating several monsters, ghosts, evil spirits and demons, and saving a lot of humans. He also played a crucial part in Apocalypse I, Apocalypse II, the Darkness Apocalypse and in Chuck Shurley’s (AKA The Almighty) demise. He also killed Adolf Hitler. Currently, Dean lives in Heaven, sector 24 – A, with his partner, his brother and his dog. He works as a Newcomers' Advisor. Mail can be sent to PO box KAZ 2Y5.

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Epilogue

Snippet of life in Heaven.

“Sammy, take this.” Dean shoves the little booklet in Sam’s hand.

They’re in one on the many gatherings and parties around here. This time, is for Bobby and Karen’s vows renewal. Everyone is there, everyone is happy, dancing, smiling. Dean sees Sam in a corner, surreptitiously looking at Eileen, on the other side of the room, talking to Cas.

Sam picks the booklet. “How to fall in love when you’re dead,” he reads. “A guide by Dean Winchester.” He looks at Dean, frowning. “Did you… write this?”

“Dean shrugs, cheeks reddening. “Cas helped. But I did most of the work.”

“Wow, Dean,” Sam’s face shows his astonish.

“I mean… I figured this could help other people to solve their… unfinished business, you know? I solved mine,” he says, looking at Cas, who is talking to Eileen using ASL. He’s really amazing. “If I solved mine, a lot of people can, too. Just – just don’t read it near me, or don’t ask me anything about the things I wrote there. It’s… I still don’t like chick flick moments, okay?”

“You don’t fool me,” Sam smiles, holding the booklet close. “I know you’re a big sap.”

Dean clears his throat. “I know you’re still in love with Eileen, Sammy. So, go and talk to her. Things are different here, but just because we literally have all eternity in our hands, it doesn’t mean we have to waste it.”

Sam looks at Eileen again. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m… I’m gonna read this, and talk to her.”

“You do that. But maybe you’ll want to skip the part where things got really steamy at the bunker’s rooftop."

“Ewww, Dean! Come on! I did not need to that information!”

“I’m just kidding, Samantha, don’t get your panties twisted. ‘Cause, if I’d have to write about all the times things got steamy between me’n Cas since we got together, this would probably be R-rated.”

Sam slaps Dean’s shoulder, but he’s laughing.

“Ew, not again, jerk!”

“Bitch.”

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“Did you give your book to Sam?” Cas asks.

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s not a book, Cas.”

“It’s about us. For me it’s a book, and you’re not changing my opinion about it.”

They’re close, facing each other, and somewhere there’s soft music playing. Dean doesn’t even notice when he and Cas put their hands on each other’s waists.

“Dean, I… um… I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something,” Cas says, serious.

“Shoot.”

“Jack wants to build a new section in heaven, and I volunteered. And I, um… I need your assistance.”

“Sure,” Dean says. “What is it? A new bible camp?” he jokes.

“A beach.”

Dean frowns. “Did I hear you saying a beach?”

“Yes. Like… um… the Bahamas.”

“But… why do you need my help to make a beach?”

“I don’t need your help with the beach part. But I… I was thinking that maybe, if you want, you could um… build a cabin there. And…” Cas’ cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink. “And of course, I’d have to go there and inspect it. And we would be… you know… alone. You and me. With no other angel or human soul around.”

Oh.

Dean arches his eyebrows. “Castiel Winchester, I didn’t know you had a devious side.” He widens his eyes. Oops.

“Winchester?” Cas’ eyes, if possible, are even wider.

It’s Dean’s time to blush. “Yes, um… if you want to. But if you don’t, it’s – “

“Dean. I’d be honored.”

“Yeah?”

They’re swaying slowly, almost dancing together without even realizing it.

“Yes,” Cas says. “Would you be too embarrassed if I kissed you now?”

“Nah,” Dean smiles. He looks around. Every one of his extended family and friends is there. “They’ll all probably read the booklet, anyway. Besides, the only one that didn’t know we were boyfriends without the fun, was little ol’ me.”

“Good,” Cas says, kissing Dean, the kind of soft and unhurried kiss that leaves no doubt of the love behind it.

Dean kisses him back, his chest almost bursting with joy, with love. And, in his lips, Dean tastes the forever that awaits them.

THE END

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#destiel secret santa 2020 #15x20 fix it

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awhiskeyriver · 3 years

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@eggplant8 said: I would love to see Madge’s POV of picking him up from his family and response to his blurted out confessions.

+++

“Your grandma seems nice.” My words cut through the silent air, the first thing either of us had spoken in the twenty minutes that had passed since I picked Gale up.

A grunt was the only indication he gave me that I’d been heard, and he kept his gaze focused outside the window. Leg bouncing uncontrollably. Jaw clenched with tension.

Oookay, so he didn’t want to talk, then.

I tapped the beat of the music on my steering wheel lightly, focusing on the dark stretch of road ahead of me leading back to Panem.

There’d been something exciting about the impromptu road trip when I’d first headed out to Waukesha. I liked being the person people depended on. The one that got calls in the middle of the night because a car broke down. I was curious what he was doing out there on a Thursday night, though. Last I’d heard from him he had a major test to study for. It wasn’t like I needed the play by play of his life, but it did seem strange no conversation of him going home had come up.

For all of the conversations we’d had, all the truth and dare games at Hoffman’s, I didn’t know all that much about his family. I knew about his three siblings, two brothers and a sister, but I didn’t even know their names. Not that I’d exactly been an open book with him either about my family. It was just that there wasn’t much to tell. We were boring in that sense.

There was nothing boring about Gale’s family dynamic though, and the more he kept tight lipped the more curious I became.

The first small glimpse I’d gotten of any of his siblings came from the little boy asleep on the couch. Even with a blanket curled up around his shoulders and face pressed into a pillow, the resemblance to Gale was uncanny. There was no denying their familial relation.

“I can’t believe how much your little brother looks like you,” I laughed. I almost wished he’d been awake, so that I could’ve seen his eyes and his smile. Heard his voice. I wondered if their personalities were anything alike. Gale continued with his silence, only nodding his head a little and I sighed.

“Do they live with her? Your grandma?” It seemed that way, just based on the small bit of the house I’d seen. There were backpacks and school books scattered in the dining room. An open pantry with all kinds of kid-friendly cereal inside. More than one pair of small shoes at the front entrance by the door.

For as little as I knew about Gale’s siblings, I knew even less about his parents. Thinking back, I wasn’t sure if the conversation had ever come up at all. If it was true, that the kids did live with Hazelle, it must’ve come with good reason.

One of the girls in my neighborhood growing up lived with her grandparents because her mother died shortly after giving birth to her from complications. I didn’t know what happened to her father, never asked, but I remembered going to the graveyard with her every year on her mother’s birthday to place down daisy’s at the tombstone.

For a dark moment, I wondered if something similar had happened to Gale’s parents, too.

“Yep,” he answered, shortly, only adding to my terrible theory.

“Oh. How long?”

He finally looked at me, or at least turned his head in my direction. His eyes went straight through me though, lost in a thought too deep for me to reach.

“A while.”

“Hmm,” I hummed, trying to do the math on how old the brother I’d seen on the couch might’ve been. He’d told me his sister was eight, if she was the youngest that meant his mother couldn’t have died all that long ago. I felt a lump forming in my throat at the thought.

“Did you grow up with her, also?” I asked quietly and then he was back in the present, eyes boring into me with irritation as his eyebrows pinched.

“Stop,” he told me harshly, turning back to the window. “Just not tonight, okay? I’m exhausted and not in the mood for your psychoanalytical bullshit.”

Psychoanalytical bullshit? Wow, okay.

“I was just asking a question,” I muttered, annoyance clear in my tone.

I wasn’t the only one.

“No, you weren’t.”

“Okay, why are you mad at me right now?” I shot back, unable to help it. It wasn’t like I’d dropped everything I was doing to pick him up in the middle of nowhere at two in the morning. Granted everything I was doing included hot chocolate, a face mask and a Friends re-watch, but he didn’t need to know that. I hadn’t minded the change of plans at all, but Jesus, I wasn’t going to be the scapegoat for his bad mood, either.

I understood his frustration. I’m sure I would’ve been stressed beyond belief if my car broke down unexpectedly in the middle of winter two hours away from campus. But everything had worked out…

“Because you think you know everything, but you don’t,” he replied back, voice rising.

“That’s not true…”

“I’m not some project for you to figure out!”

The air was tense between us with his words and I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting to keep silent until I felt that I was in control.

“I never said that you were,” I muttered.

“Right,” he scoffed, tone accusatory. “You can’t help yourself, you have to get into people’s business. Well, fine, what would you like to know Dr. Undersee? That the reason my siblings live with our grandmother is because our mother is a junkie who chose drugs over her own goddamn kids?”

His voice cracked with the confession and when I looked over he seemed on the verge of a panic attack. His breaths were shallow, as if he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs and his leg was bouncing uncontrollably.

“Gale,” I tried in what I hoped was a soothing tone rather than the anxiety I felt welling up inside of me.

“Oh, maybe you’re dying to ask how many of us share the same father. Spoiler alert: four kids, three dads, two of which were such scum they wanted nothing to do with their kids and the third so bad it would’ve been better if he’d just left too!”

“You don’t have to--”

“You want to get into how he used to beat me over something as stupid as a lost remote control?” No. No, no, no. “Or how I had to beg our neighbors for food to feed my siblings because no one remembered to go to the store? Go ahead and diagnose the hell out of me, tell me about all the reasons why I’m fucked up trash now that you’ve got all the pieces to your puzzle.”

I wasn’t sure if he was even aware of the tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over, or not. He seemed lost. Floundering. Trying to find purchase to tether him to reality but coming up short.

We needed to stop driving. I searched the road signs passing by quickly for the nearest exit. Five miles.

From the corner of my eye I saw him lower his head between his knees, back rising and falling with each breath, hands clenched in hair that was coming loose from his bun.

“It’s okay,” I promised quietly. “Just breathe.”

I pulled over as soon as it was safe off the highway, near a farm and a cornfield because of course. It couldn’t have been a well-lit parking lot or something.

Gale jumped out of the car without a word, heading closer to the creepy cornfield with his head turned up towards the sky. I wanted to go after him, but reason told me to give him a moment. Let him cool off.

His confession still had me stunned. After months and months of vague answers and subject changes, he’d poured it all in such haste I was almost positive he would have regrets over it.

When minutes passed, but he remained outside, I tentatively got out to join him.

“You can go,” he told me as my feet crunched closer in the snow. “I’ll call Peeta or something.”

Yeah, sure. I was going to leave him in the middle of nowhere at two in the morning where the children of the corn could feast on his body before sunrise.

“I’m...not going to do that.”

He jerked out of my reach as my hand touched his forearm and took a few steps further down the field.

That’s fine. I didn’t like being touched in the middle of an attack, either. I remember my mom read one time that pressure helped to calm people down and she came and wrapped her arms around my body in a hug that felt closer to a straight jacket. I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak to tell her to stop, and when I finally managed to get air out, I screamed so loudly that she cried.

Focusing on Gale, not you.

Right.

“You’re right,” I whispered to him, and he turned his head half a fraction. Listening. “You’re not a project. I’m sorry if I treated you that way.”

“It’s not your job to put me back together.”

“I know that.”

He nodded silently and turned back towards the field as the wind whipped, picking snow up from the ground with its fury. It burned my exposed skin and I hopped a little in place to keep circulation flowing but didn’t get any closer to him.

“Truth or dare?” I asked. We could both use the distraction, and somewhere along the line the game had become our weird way of communicating when regular forms felt like too much.

“Truth,” he said back quietly and I couldn’t help but smile in relief.

“Tell me something you like about yourself.”

When he laughed, like the idea was a preposterous one, I felt my heart clench.

“Just one thing. Anything.”

He thought about it for a few painstaking minutes before folding his arms over his middle.

“I’m a good brother,” he croaked. “I think.”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “I think so, too.”

“Your turn.”

I took one step closer, then stopped.

“Truth.”

“How do you always find the best in people? Even when they don’t deserve it.”

The real question was easy to see between the words he spoke. How do you always find the best in me, even when I don’t deserve it?

Like he didn’t deserve it.

“There’s very few people in the world who don’t deserve any benefit of the doubt and you aren’t one of them,” I told him sternly, chancing another step. He didn’t move, or seem to be upset that I was closer to him, so when I chanced placing my hand in his and he didn’t flinch, I gave it a comforting squeeze.

When his hand tightened back around mine, something inside of me jolted.

“Wouldn’t you rather live in a world where we all saw the best things too?”

“Reality makes it difficult.”

“Hmm. That’s true,” I mused. “It’s not always easy.”

He looked down at me, exhausted and broken, and frowned.

“I’m sorry.”

I know.

“Come on, it’s freezing,” I said, motioning back to the warmth--and let’s be real, safety--of the car. “Let’s get back in the car.”

Gale was silent the rest of the way home, staring out the window with his arms folded protectively over his chest. And I let him be. When we pulled in front of his apartment, he seemed surprised that we were there, as if his mind had drifted somewhere else entirely, and he waited until he was almost out of the car to turn back and say thank you.

“It wasn’t a problem,” I promised. It was never a problem. “Gale, I--”

“You should go, Madge,” he interrupted. “Thank you but, you should go.”

The door shut without another word, leaving my unfinished words in limbo.

Gale, I’m always here.

+++

Darius was still awake when I got home. At the sound of the door opening, he wheeled out into the hallway in his chair to look me over expectantly.

“Well?” he asked when I said nothing. “Did all your dreams come true? Did he thank you for rescuing him with sexual favors?”

I burst into tears, adrenaline finally giving out now that I was back in the safety of the apartment. Darius was up in a flash, coming towards me to put a hand on either one of my shoulders.

“Did he hurt you?” He asked, like Gale wasn’t the same guy who brought me soup when I was sick. It was a reflex reaction for him, though. To assume the worst.

I shook my head and he brought me in closer to his chest.

“No,” I hiccuped as he stroked my hair. “Someone hurt him.”

#eggplant8 #madge pov #the challenge #trigger warning: panic attack #the challenge spoilers #fanfic #gadge fanfic #unedited: all mistakes are mine #ill probably be editing this for like days lmao #thg

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sunseteyes · 4 years

Text

HELIUM - S. TODOROKI

theme/s: aged up!shoto, developed relationship, nsfw, smut with plot, fluff, mild sub/dom play, oral masturbation, gender neutral

this was birthday present for a friend of mine, angelica. she enjoyed it btw haha. feel free to listen to the song whilst reading~

Being vulnerable was something you have never expected of yourself. There were just some things that had made it complicated for you to express much of yourself and not build a wall to separate you and the others.

Yet he is different.

The warmth of his hand envelops yours as he gently pulls you along with him; walking side by side, peacefully and almost in a serene way.

As you look up, a beautiful orange shade, with a hint of pinkish red welcomes you, enticing you into its beauty. Although, it made you remember of the very day you could never forget, the scenes replaying on its mind like a vague movie.

There, the skies were painted of a brilliant color that shadows the unforeseen of what was to happen. Not a single one expected the capacity of the attack nor the changes that would happen after. Laughter and smiles were replaced by screams and cries, voices hoarse and laced with fear for someone to save them.

It was hot, due to the fire that had emerged from the explosions of exchange of quirks and the attack of the villains. Despite the sweat lacing on your skin and the wounds that decorated your arms and legs, those were not what seemed to be circling your mind. Your eyes tried to focus on the figure not quite afar from yours, wondering why it seems far away at the same time. You could remember how you tried to call out for help, but your vocal cords doesn’t seem to cooperate well with you. Not that you use it most of the time anyway so maybe that’s why it’s not working that time, when you need it the most. Though that doesn’t seem to be the right answer, it was what you believed it to be.

Now, the wide view from below were different. Yet, the memory was still there, hanging like the clothes you’re trying to dry under the sun back at your apartment in the present. It was truly an unforgettable experience, especially for a child. You even wonder if you’re thankful or spiteful of it to be honest.

Well, maybe both. But mostly the last option.

You were glad you had been alive after that day, but that emotion wouldn’t even last long for the same reason. You’re the only one alive. No one else in your family had survived due to the fire and the collapsing of the buildings. You watched in dread as each of your love ones died in front of you.

That’s how your quirk was. That was how you survived before you were saved.

The ability to control air was something you should be proud of. It is a constant element in Earth and you could have unlimited use of it since it doesn’t really vanish after you use it like any other quirk that’s not part of the four elements. If things were different, you would have loved your quirk.

But the thing is, you don’t. Because that day, your weakness covered up your strength, and you were not able to use your quirk to save your family from losing breath or be hit by debris caused by the destruction of the buildings.

Fire. You used to hate it the most. With fire, smoke can be emitted and it was your greatest weakness. Smoke is the one thing you could not control and if you inhale it, you’d have a hard time controlling the air around you. Your quirk was simple; breath fresh air and you can control air. Yet that time, it was inevitable and you felt completely useless.

You were thankful of All Might for saving you but you’d rather have burned into ashes with your parents and siblings without feeling like she had not done something to prevent it. She was a child, yes, but it’s unbearable.

Nevertheless, it drew you to the idea of being a hero. To somehow attain that sense of not being able to do something to save someone.

Everything had truly changed ever since you met Shoto Todoroki. You saw the beauty underneath the smokey fire, especially when it’s his doing. You knew he would never use it against you to do something terrible even if he’d known it was your weakness.

His touch, it leaves a tender and loving expression in you, one that could lift you up higher into the clouds like your quirk. His warmth that radiates from his body, it would never fail to make you feel secure, like the sun that heats you up somehow when the cold of winter comes by after the months of spring. You had never expected to feel this way after what had happened.

But it was when you studied heroics that you met him. Sometimes, you would even think the what ifs of not deciding to go to Yuuei and pursue being a hero. What if you did that? Would you have met Shoto either way? Would fate tug and pull you two together like the red strings do when their soulmates are near in the books that you’ve read?

“Is there something wrong, love?” his voice was sultry and alluring, one that he always use on special occasions much like this one. However, you could see the tinge of worry in his unmatched eyes, replacing the hoodedness in it once he had probably noticed your unresponsiveness.

You smile assuringly, raising a hand to touch his cheek and look at him lovingly. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.”

He looked skeptical but he only leaned down, placing a gentle peck on the pulse of your hand, entangling his fingers on yours before bringing it across his lips and kissing the back of your palm.

You’re supposed to be used to it by now, however a rush of heat spreads on your face and chest, wondering in your mind again how you could have gotten a sweet guy like him.

Your skin tingles as he peppered you with kisses; from you forehead, down to your nose, pecking each of your cheeks, before looking at you right in the eyes, a small cheeky smile on his face.

“Why do you look so red, love? Is something the matter?” he asked the same question yet his tone was different from the previous one, supporting the curve of his lips as it sends a different sensation in you.

Gathering up your courage, you found yourself twisting and entangled in Shoto’s warm body as you straddled his pelvis once you got into the position you wanted.

He didn’t look surprised, nonetheless. Actually, he looked like he kind of expected it with the smug look on his chiseled face that is now brightened by the moonlight coming from the window of the room. He looks stunning, handsome. No matter how much you look at him, his own kind of beauty is not just something you can compare to others.

You marveled upon the sight in front of you, and it looked like he did too as his hand raises to softly caress your bare arm, tracing it towards your cheek. You unconsciously lean to the comfortableness and intimacy under the confines of his touch. It felt like you were floating in heaven—but once again, there was this anxiety, questioning you if you ever deserve this—him or not.

You shook of the thought away as you brought your face down to meet his lips on, pulling yourself back to reality at the same time.

Every time you two kiss, it always felt like the first time; breathtaking, making you feel that familiar lightheadedness. Before, it took awhile before any kind of intimate touches were done and yet now, with all of the restraints undone, you have never expected you would feel this way towards a certain person. With both of you sharing a difficult but different family history, there was a sense of completion in being in each other’s arms and expressing your emotions physically.

It did took awhile, but it was worth it.

You pulled away and gazed his beautiful eyes, the words flowing out of your lips easily, “There’s no problem, love.” you respond, using the same endearment he did. “I have you with me so there’s no problem at all.”

Shoto’s expression was unreadable, yet as someone who had been with him for years, you already know every quirk of his eyebrows, every tightening of his jaw, or the smallest curves of his lips. By this time, you know he was touched by what you have said, and as a man of few words, he responds with a gentle push on the back of your head, bringing you close to him as he plants a peck on your lips, gazing at your eyes with a gaze full of emotions.

This man... is truly someone you could call as your “home”; every inch and crevice making you feel that comfortable warmth and welcoming aura that you have never felt for a very long time.

Drifting downwards and making a trail of kisses on your way down, you could hear his heavy breathing as you did so, his unmatched eyes following your every movement.

You look up at him and playfully batted your eyes, making sure he kept eye contact with you as you gently traced the hem of his sweatpants, only pulling it down when you heard that familiar grunt on the back of his throat, indicating the lack of patience at your antics.

You couldn’t help but giggle at his reaction, despite already knowing about it.

“My, my, Sho-kun, I didn’t know you’re already this excited.”

It was his turn to turn beet red at your comment, almost resembling the redness of his hair. This side of Shoto never fails to amaze you. It must be coming from the pride of having one of the top heroes into putty under your hands—and other parts of your body, to be precise.

It was a struggle between you and the sweatpants he wore, but after that, the sight that was displayed in front of you was nothing but extraordinary and just so appealing; Shoto covering his eyes with an arm as it was evident that he was still flushed and quite embarrassed for being so exposed, that shyness doing nothing but increase that drive inside of you to being pleasure to the man in front of you.

He peaks from his arm and before he could even speak, his thighs tenses at the sudden touch of your hands on it, treading its way upwards. You didn’t gave the place where he aches the most to be touched attention though, for your hands trailed towards his abdomen, gliding through the ridges of extremely defined muscles, a result of training throughout the years of his life. You could even remember that time you first saw his bare upper body during that Sports Festival in your first year. Truly, seeing it up close is different than at that time.

“Y/n...” his voice was hoarse and it sounded more like a plead than a demand. If there was something no one else knows, it was Shoto’s inability to be patient whenever you are teasing him—that’s also why it’s entertaining for you to lengthen the foreplay before he loses his mind and just snap to fuck you into oblivion. Sometimes, he would just stay on the bed and let you do it but most of the times, it would be the first scenario. Either way, you’re not really complaining.

“Yes, Sho-kun?” you inquire, looking up at him once again. But this time, a hand sneaks in and slowly tracing the baseline of his cock.

He visibly shudders, almost like he was at the maximum of using his quirk—this time, he wasn’t though.

“What did you want to say, hm?” you speak, watching him underneath your hooded eyes as you drop down, inches away from the tip of his manhood.

He looks at you, about to spit out whatever he wanted to say when you brought out your tongue to do kitten licks on just the tip, from the sides then to the slit, where you could already see precum oozing out of it. The reaction you got was a hiss and tensing on his inner thighs, being able to feel the muscles underneath it as you caress one of your hands on the skin. Then, your tongue was already trailing upwards the length of his cock, from the base and upwards to give the head a generous but quick suck.

Shoto is the kind who’s not very loud in the bedroom; muffled grunts or moans, continual panting, soft whines, surprised hisses. However, with the variety of his reactions, you didn’t have the time to be dissatisfied. There were times when he’d moan out loud when he’s really into it but those were just rare times—mostly when he’s on the verge of coming.

So when he made a low but above normal volumed moan under his throat from your ministrations, you just knew you had to reward him by taking him fully into your mouth, relaxing your jaw and throat, taking in whatever you can and holding onto whatever you can’t reach with a hand. You’re still not used to it since it’s not like you’ve done this with any other man before, but you always push yourself to give your best to give him the pleasure that he deserves.

He chokes at nothing—probably his own saliva. He was panting heavily as he looks down, finding that you’re already staring at him—always been, looking after every twitch and sound he makes, every slight tingle and rush of blood, observing.

“Y/n...” he mumbles, caught in a daze. “-shouldn’t you be the one on the receiving end?”

He’s also more of a giver, making your pleasure and happiness his top priority more than his. However, you truly enjoying teasing the life out of the poor guy when you find yourselves in this position.

You didn’t mind his words as you bring yourself back up, breathing, sucking, then back down again. The tip of his cock reaches the back of your throat and instead of you that makes a noise, it’s him. For some reason, he’s extremely sensitive tonight.

“It’s-“ he tries to form a sentence as you busied yourself. “-it’s your birthday, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you-Ah!-be the one I should-“

“Shhh” you muse, removing yourself from his cock as you place an index finger on your lips. You crawl yourself up to his face, pecking his forehead that was slightly covered by a sheen of sweat, making him look even more alluring.

“I know it’s my birthday,” you start, giving him one more peck on his cheek. “-that’s why I’m enjoying my present now, aren’t I?”

A hand finds its way to his exposed chest, caressing it softly, tracing different random patterns as you kiss the side of his face, just under his ear. Letting your hand travel down, you went back to your previous position and did not resume immediately. Kissing on the side of his pelvis, just on the skin that connects his leg and upper body, you down to his inner thighs, softly massaging him with your fingertips before nipping at it with your teeth.

Neglecting his the glistening genital once more, you shift towards the other inner thigh, doing the same thing as you did to the other. You then moved away to look at his eyes once more, scanning it while caressing his thighs with feathery touches.

The gray and turquoise in his orbs were glazed with an emotion that made your stomach churn and breath hitch in a millisecond. There it was again, the warmth that crawls towards your heart that could resemble the fire that wraps around his left arm whenever he uses his quirk. It made you wonder if this is what he feels too—whenever he looks at you with those eyes.

Pulling away from his magnetism, you focused on your task at hand once again, your hands travel slowly and meet at the middle; one hand massaging lightly on the underside of his cock while the other sweeps the precum on the tip before wrapping her palm on the shaft, using the liquid as a lubricant to make the work easier and more pleasurable.

One thing more about Shoto was that he tends to be quite messy especially when aroused properly. When you noticed it the first time, you didn’t expected it although after a bit of thinking, it might have been something to do from being touch-starved.

You continued to watch his reactions, hovering as you took not and reveled on the way his brows furrow and bite his lower lip to prevent any loud noises to spill out. You wanted to change that thus you dove down with your eyes still focused on him, lightly sucking on the head while trying your best to move your hands at the same time.

A low grunt along with the releasing of his lower lip came out of Shoto’s mouth and you felt a hand by the back of your head, realizing that he’s probably worked up now that he couldn’t handle gripping the sheets anymore.

Deciding not to give him pain anymore, you grip on his base once more as you breathed before going down his cock. His fingers interlaced with your hair but didn’t make a move to push your head, being the gentleman that he is.

“Y/n-“

Your ears perk up at his muttering, motivating you even more to go back up and down, tongue pressing flat on the shape of his shaft. Saliva dripped down to your chin and to your hand that was gripping the base of his cock, yet you continue, urging him to make even more sounds that sends tingles down to your own core.

“Y/n, I’m close... don’t-“

You move up, your hand using your saliva to move up and down his shaft as you focused on sucking the head, tongue swiftly lapping on the right places that you knew would make him lose his mind.

He moans and his hips slightly spasm, but with your free hand, you press him down, even for just one side, palms open. The hand that grips on your hair did not make a move, but you know better that he’s just trying his best not to push with his pelvis and with that same hand to urge you to take him deeper.

You gave him what you wanted, setting aside your hand once again to descend your mouth on his cock. You had to go back up to take a breather before dropping down to fulfill his silent wish and take him deeper than your previous ministrations.

“Y/n... Y/n...” Shoto chants with a breathy voice, his teeth gritted, as if stopping himself from spilling any more sound. By this time, you know he’s near to his release.

You let him go with a pop, accompanying it with a, “Don’t come yet, Shoto.”

His eyes shot wide, “What?”

“Don’t come.” you repeat, licking your swollen lips as your eyes flickered to his, a hint of caution in both your tone and look.

“You’d want to save that later, don’t you?”

Shoto jerkily nods his head, as if trying to convince at the same time.

You offered him a smile, hands gently caressing his inner thighs. “You can do it for me, right baby?” your tone softens, the pet name—one that you rarely use, saving it for private matters and ears only, like this. Both of you are quite reserved people, that’s also why the whole class back then were honestly surprised when you two revealed that you’ve been seeing each other for awhile. You never intended to keep it, you two never just cared whatever people say about the two of you.

Probably sensing you’d need a verbal affirmation, Shoto speaks. “Yes. Yes, I can.” his voice was determined, but you know he’d have a hard time controlling his release.

“Good boy.” you retained your smile and he stared back at you in wonder. Gazing at him one last time, you leaned down, hovering above before pressing your lips unto his cock. With his juices gushing over your lips, you sucked onto the head of his cock, both hands now turning and gripping onto the shaft. It went on for awhile before you let go and without warning, swallows Shoto down until the head of his cock brushes the back of your throat.

Shoto weakly gasps, unable to control his hips at the sudden intense pleasure you’ve given him. Both of your hands held onto each side of his hip while his gripped the hair on your back tightly. It was painful, yes, but it only urged you to go deeper and farther, opening your throat until you reached the base of his cock.

You stayed there before shifting back just a bit, giving you time to recover before going down again, slowly but surely. Then, your tongue presses and licks on whatever it can reach, tracing on the veins and skin of his shaft.

“Y/n, I-“

“Hmm?” your hum vibrates into his entire system and you felt his cock twitch inside your mouth. You pull back finally but you didn’t give him time to recover before you stick your tongue onto the tip of Shoto’s cock, focusing on the slit.

“I’ll come—don’t, Y/n.” he pleads, strained and almost like he had already lost the battle.

You teased him still, sucking on his head as you felt a rush of liquid drip down from his cock.

“No, Y/n, I’ll-I’m gonna come—“

And you stop, raising your head to wonder on Shoto’s state; a hand on the side of his head, his chest going up and down with his heavy panting, a blush adoring his handsome face, his lower lip swollen from likely biting himself and his eyes half-open, staring down at you, hooded with desire. He’s so handsome, so beautiful. And he’s all yours. What have you done to deserve this?

All of a sudden, Shoto sits up and pushes your head to meet his with the same hand behind you, pressing your lips to his urgently, like his life depended on it. The kiss was rough, but you can see through his intentions and energy, already knowing what comes next.

He pulls you onto his lap and you obliged, hands pressing down onto his pectorals and soon travels up to his shoulders, his arms, and anywhere it could touch. An arm circle around your waist, urging you much closer to him until there’s no space left between the two of you—chest to chest, skin to skin, body to body. You could feel the difference in the temperature he emits on each side of his body, as a result of his quirk. You didn’t mind though, it was one of the things that made Shoto unique and different from the others—made him who he is.

He flips you over then, and even if you knew he would, you still couldn’t help but release a slight yelp. He places your head gently on the pillow, like a piece of glass he’d hate to shatter or break. Shoto pulls away from the kiss and looks right into your eyes, almost like he was marveling the way it stared back at him with the same fervor and passion and love.

This time, he presses his lips onto yours softly, filled with the burning intensity of his emotions, pouring it out into you. You kissed him back with the same fervor, closing your eyes like he did and just opened yourself into him. It was always been a give and take for the both of you, and you appreciated him for that. You didn’t mind being vulnerable with Shoto, because he would be willing to expose his own too, making you realize that it’s okay to be vulnerable—to love, to express, to give. It was a silent assurance and a promise; that he’d be there to always lift you up like helium.

He pulls away, a smile adoring his handsome face, never failing to entice you even more.

“Are you done teasing me now, my love?” he questioned in a gentle tone. “Is it my turn now?” he follows, making your heart skip a beat.

Your smile mirrors him as you nod at him with a blush on your face, unable to contain the happiness and joy that spreads on your heart like a wildfire.

And with that, you enjoyed the night with the company of a person you love—an emotion you’ve never thought you’d feel again after that same birthday almost a decade ago. Now, it was just a bad memory, which led you to the person and hero you are now.

i honestly cannot believe i’ve written it that long but well, things i do for friends haha. anyway, feel free to send requests too and i’ll also be posing the guidelines for birthday dedications soon (ones like this) so please check it out!

#boku no hero academia #bnha #mha #my hero academia #bnha headcanons #bnha x reader #shoto todoroki #shoto x reader #todoroki x reader #aged up shoto #shouto #shoto oneshots #shoto smut #shoto is best boi #bnha shoto #nnr nightdream #nnr bnha

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cass-y0inks · 4 years

Text

Anonymous prompt: during an akuma battle Marinette gets turned into a cat and gets adopted by Damian who is on a business trip with Bruce. Mari and Damian BroTP.

I’m sorry anonymous I didn’t save the message and it got deleted. But thank you for your prompt!

What a CATastrophe

If Marinette had to describe this day in one word would be nightmare. It was going great in the morning, she woke up early and it was the weekend. Her friends chose to go to the zoo where Alya’s father worked at and hang out. They were laughing at the lame jokes they cracked up here and there. It was a normal day for them in Paris. Well Paris ‘normal’.

Kim has gotten to cocky again and taunted the animals at the other sides of the cages. Alya’s father heard it and ordered him out of the enclosure. Though his frustration and anger caused him to get akumatized again. He still had animal related abilities but now he was “Animal Tamer”. He turned others onto animals.

So far some of her classmates had been changed. Kim, the cause of all this mess, had been turned into a monkey. Juleka into a crow, Chloe into a poodle, Ivan was changed into a small bear, and Alix into a rabbit. Though they were with someone so no need to worry about them. Right now Marinette’s top priority was to the akumatized object and cast the miraculous cure.

At first everything was going according to plan. Animal Tamer had taken the bait and they were now near the Eiffel Tower. She had casted her lucky charm e few minutes earlier but she was running out of time. Animal Tamer saw her in a rush and called back up. Soon different species of animals were surrounding her. Grabbing her yo-yo she sung away but the akuma managed to blast her when she landed on a roof.

One second she lands on her two feet the next she looks down, and now she’s covered in fur? She was turned into a cat... great. She was smaller that she usually was and had four feet. Her body now covered in fur was a color that almost resembled her hair color and her ears had two different colord patches which she guessed was there in place or her earrings. Her earrings!

She couldn’t exactly feel her ears so she tried calling out for Tikki. “Meow.” Damit. She was a cat now. All she could do was meow and make other kitten sounds. Funny, even as a cat she was still very tiny. Tikki popped up in front of her with her earrings in her hands.

“Marinette, I know what to do. Get down from here and I’ll go to master fu and see what he can do. I think mister bug might be back in commission. Though we’ll need to get you to the masters later and we’ll also have to find the previous lucky charm. But for now try to get down from here.” Before Marinette could do anything Tikki flew away as fast as she could.

Carefully and slowly she made her way back to the bottom on the ground. She wished she had seen the animals around the area because before she knew it she was running away from poodle Chloe. She though Chloe was annoying as herself in human form but animal Chloe’s barking and yapping was driving her crazy. She reached Le Gran Paris Hotel.

She must have been terrified at the moment because near the lobby she jumped on a tall table where a boy around her age was sitting reading a book. Sabrina came in rushing behind Chloe and trying to pull her back as she started babbling an apology. “I’m so sorry, I thought I had her under control. It’ll never happen again. I’m sorry.” Chloe felt Sabrina loosen her hold on her and leaped forward towards Marinette.

Though the boy in the chair had faster reflexes and picked her up seconds before Chloe could get her paws on her. “I suggest that you gain control of your pet.” For a boy around their age his voice was stern.

Getting hold of Chloes neck again Sabrina continued apologizing until she finally bribed Chloe with shoes. Marinette let out a relieved ‘meow’ and let her ears fall down flat on her head. The boy was still holding her but he looked like he was looking for something. “You don’t seem to have a collar, a basic indication of a stray. I doubt you’d survive with living in these streets with owners who have no control over their own pets. I suppose I should take care of you. Let’s go inform father.”

‘You seem to be a natural at this. Do you go around adopting random strays all the time?’ She thought. But she couldn’t think of that. She had to get away from him and get somewhere where tikki could find her. The kid had her tucked in his side and didn’t seem to budge no matter how many times she would try to kick him. Going into what she guessed was his father’s hotel room they met with a strict tall business man. ‘So this is your dad. Good luck on trying to convince him to let you keep a stray cat.’

Bruce looked up at his son and down at the kitten hidden under his arms and let out a tired sigh. Pinching the bridge of this node he said, “Damian we’ve talked about this. You can’t keep it.”

“Father, first off she is not a ‘it’. And she is a stray, she won’t survive with the way the owners here controll their animals.”

“You can’t keep her. End of discussion.” Looks like he was getting a bit frustrated with him.

“You kept Todd. I get to keep her.”

‘Seriously kid, just back down. He’s your dad.’

Narrowing his eyes he started at his son. “Damian don’t talk about your brother like that. And if I let you keep her, will this be the last one?” In return Damian answered him with a nod.

“Now father if you’ll excuse me I have to go get some supplies for her.” He was ready to leave when Bruce stopped him.

“Damian be careful, and remember we will be leaving later today.”

Damian nodded then left. While he was walking Marinette tried to process what was happening. So she was this kids cat now and they were leaving Paris today. This is the worst day in the history of her life as of now. Damian had gotten her a simple collar. Since her fur was dark he got her a light color so for the it to be visible. He also learned very quickly that she didn’t eat cat food. He tried giving her some food at a part but she wouldn’t eat it. So he gave her food considered human food which of course she ate.

Damian had left her for a bit while she finished eating. That was when tikki found her. “Marinette! I’m so glad I found you! Mister bug already defeated the akuma but we are trying to find your lucky charm so you can change back into your original form. Hold on for a bit longer ok?”

“Meow”

“Right I’ll be back. Take care!”

She tried to race after her but felt a tug at her harness. ‘He’s back’.

“Let’s go, father is waiting for us.” Damian noticed how she wasn’t moving so he just picked her up much to her dislike. They made it back to the hotel and Damian made his way back to his room. He placed her on the bed and packed up his clothes and her harness. There was no point in running away, he had closed all the windows and doors and he had even placed a tracker in her collar.

His father called him to his room to say his goodbye to the mayor for treating them well, even if it was because of their status. Tikki came in through the window and she looked worried. “Marinette I heard what was happening, don’t worry we haven’t found the lucky charm but we will. And I know where your going, we can get Kaalki to get you back here and change you back. Ok?”

At this point Marinette was just tired so all she did was nod and lay her head down. Tikki sighed at her chosen and tried to comfort her but heard footsteps coming so she quickly phased back through the glass window.

Damian came through the doors and picked her up and placed her in his jacket and made his way to the lobby. Outside his father and a taxi were waiting for them. “I have already called the airlines and told them about the extra cargo. Since you haven’t gotten her a cage yet they will allow you to take her if you make sure you hold her and manage to keep her under control while on the air. Understood?”

Damian had looked down at her for a moment then looked up at his father and nodded. She hasn’t given him trouble while she was with him, while she proved to be energetic she was also very calm with him. A few hours later they were at the airport and after what felt like a nother few hours they were finally on the plane. She had taken a nap on the plane ride which made it incredibly hard for Damian to move because he didn’t want to wake her up.

Hours later she woke up and panicked. This wasn’t her room, were was she. Oh right she was a cat adopted by some stranger. That wasn’t creepy or crazy at all. She might as well get used to her new life. Master fu must have used something to make it appear like she didn’t just disappear. She felt a pair of hands scratching her behind her ears.

“You know we haven’t picked out a name for you yet.” Marinette sat up and faced him. He was sitting on his bed sketching. “Let’s figure that out. How about Sam?” ‘Hiss’ “No? What about Nala?” What is this the Lion king. ‘Hiss’. “Ok what about... Nette or Netti? That’s kinda original right?” ‘Well it’s the closest you’ve gotten, ‘Meow’.

“Ok then. Netti it is.”

Days went on and Marinette had lost all hope. Maybe she was going to stay in as a for the. Honestly she was starting to except it. She learned that Damian, even though most of the time a brat, he also needed someone to vent to. He had a hard time making friends and had a harder time understanding how to be a “normal” 13 year old. Though she had a hard time understanding him. Language barrier damit. Yet she picked up on the basics and when Damian would read a book she would try to read over his shoulder and she was getting better at understanding it. His words for his age were considered more complex, not of an average 13 year old.

Sometimes he said that he considered her his voice of reason. When he was doing something stupid all she did was lay her ears flat and lightly shake her head at him and he would stop. When he was feeling down though he wouldn’t say it she would purr on his head and that would soothe him. He also introduced her to Titus which she adored. He was a giant compared to her but he was a big teddy bear. When he little paws would get tired he would pick her up like a mama cat with her kitten and carry her somewhere comfortable to rest. And they were both surprisingly energetic so they would play together.

It was past midnight and Marinette was sleeping when a bright light had woken her up. Tikki and Kaalki had emerged from the light. Guessing that they hadn’t see Damian because Tikki quite loudly said, “Marinette come on we can change you back now. Master fu is wa-.” Tikki froze when she saw Damian standing there staring at them.

“What are you? What are you doing here?” He asked, his voice was dangerously calm.

It took Tikki a lot more time than she thought to explain what was happening and what happened to Marinette. In the end Damian wasn’t sure how any on this was real.

“Prove it, prove I’m not dreaming then and change her back. She’s a cat not a person.” Before he knew it ladybug’s where surrounding Marinette and changed her back. To which she was more than great full.

Hugging herself she looked back at Damian who was ready to pass out. “Shh you can’t tell anyone about this.” Her whispering came out as more of a hiss.

Damian mimicking her tone replied, “How do you not expect me to have a reaction? I thought you were a cat for weeks. You lived with me as a cat for weeks! What th-“

“Don’t finish that sentence I already had to listen to you cuss multiple times without saying anything. And I couldn’t tell you I was a person because I was a cat!” He looked down at the floor with a glare displayed on his face. He slided down to the floor.

Marinette hesitantly made her way towards him and sat down next to him. They stayed quiet for a moment until she broke the silence. “You know all of this aside, we can still be friends. I noticed how hard it is for you to make friends, you vented a lot.” A small smile made her way towards her lips when he gave her an annoyed glare but it quickly fell Because he knew she was right. And she was the reason why he didn’t make many idiotic decisions.

He stood up and walked up to his desk. “Do you have a number I can talk to you from?” He sighed out in defeat and gave her a piece of paper and a pencil. She took them and wrote down her phone number on it and gave it back to him when she was done. They both stood awkward silence for a second. Marinette extended her hand to him, she had learned that he wasn’t an affectionate person. Damian shook her hand slightly and let it go. She made her way to were Tikki and Kaalki we’re waiting. Before she stepped into the portal she looked back at Damian.

“Thank you Damian.”

“Your welcome, Netti?” He wasn’t sure that was her actual name so that last part was more of a question.

She let out a small giggle, “it’s Marinette actually. Goodbye”

“Goodbye Marinette.”

Once Marinette had stepped into the portal and closed it. He knew it was the appropriate time to pass out.

Tag list: @the-black-fox

#maribat #maribat au #maribat promt #MB marinette #MB damian #bff daminette #my writting #my writing

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not-close-to-straight · 4 years

Text

Lost and Found (Fourteen)

MASTERLIST HERE

**************

56%

“JARVIS?” Pepper poured herself a cup of coffee and glanced down the hall towards Tony’s bedroom, then towards the stairs leading to the lab. “Is Tony awake yet?”

“No, Ms. Potts. Both he and James are still in the master bedroom.”

Pepper paused with the cup part way to her mouth, eyes widening in surprise. “Oh...my. Spent the night together?”

“Yes, Ms. Potts.”

“Oh my.” she said again, and sipped thoughtfully at the coffee. Never once in all her years of escorting Tony’s guests out of the house had there been any indication Tony stayed in bed longer than the required amount of time necessary to complete their… moment. Never once had she seen Tony leave his room with someone at his side, nor had she ever gotten to the kitchen at six am without having to make a second pot of coffee because Tony had already blown through one.

But this morning…

“Like, together together?” she asked again, and JARVIS answered, “Yes ma’am. Should I wake them?”

“No, let Tony sleep. God knows he needs the rest.” Pepper took another sip and smirked to herself. “And if he didn’t before now, I’m sure he does after a night with James.”

“How very inappropriate of you, Ms. Potts.”

Pepper laughed up at the AI, then topped off her cup and grabbed her purse to hurry out the door. She had business meetings today, and tabloids to scroll through to check for any possible damage control because even with the marked absence of the birthday boy at the party, things had escalated quickly towards shenanigans. Somehow the house was still in one piece, but she needed to call the cleaners and the pool maintenance guy and keep dealing with the fall out of Monaco and since Tony was…. otherwise occupied, Pepper would have to do it herself.

Same story, different day.

“Good morning, Ms. Potts.” Natalie stepped from the waiting town car with one of those enigmatic smiles, green eyes cutting over Pepper’s figure and lingering at her legs. “Busy day today?”

“Always.” Pepper slowed her walk maybe just a bit simply because it was nice to have someone notice just how good she looked in this particular outfit. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

**************

Tony woke up as the town car pulled from the drive, yawned and stretched and curled right back into warm arms and a solid heartbeat in his ear. A deep voice rumbled, “G’mornin’ sweet thing.” and Tony smiled sleepily and snuggled a little bit closer to heat and heavy muscles and oh hello look who is feeling perky, this was nice.

Pre-Afghanistan, Tony hadn’t believed in sleepovers. If whoever he started the evening with wanted to finish the night in his room, Tony usually slept down in the lab. Occasionally he’d take a car out for a midnight drive, once or twice he’d crawled into bed next to a very grumpy Pepper and stolen her pillows for his own. Spending the night with someone led to awkward morning after conversations, expectations of breakfast and planning for a second date Tony never had any intention of keeping, so it was better to skip the whole mess.

But this morning…

“Happy day after birthday to me.” Tony mumbled into James’s t-shirt, bunching up the material in his fingers and inhaling the remnants of last nights cologne. “Did you carry me to bed again?”

“Nah, you walked.” James hid a yawn in Tony’s hair and inched closer, winding their legs together and humming in contentment when Tony did the same. “Don’t remember? We about ended up in the ocean when you went all weak kneed on me.”

“I had three bottles of wine.” Tony flattened his palms to James’s abdomen and thrilled clear to his core when the muscles flexed in response. Jesus his soldier was-- the soldier was-- no, his soldier was gorgeous. “I’m lucky I remembered how to stand, much less how to walk. Did um... did I ask you to stay?”

“I didn’t want to leave you.” James’s arm tightened briefly at Tony’s waist, his voice dipping uncertainly. “S’that okay?”

For a split second, Tony thought he’d make a quip, a joke, bring an end to the moment with a laugh because this was brand new territory for him and he was brave in a lot of things but none of those things included relationships.

But then he thought about last night, about the honesty in James’s eyes and the quiet moments of shared vulnerability and how good it had felt to hold someone and be held in return, and god Tony was so tired of over thinking and double checking and doubting--

“It’s great. I’m glad you stayed.” he finally answered, truthful and maybe a little shaky and James gathered him up closer under the blankets and sighed in relief.

“We didn’t do nothin’ sugar.” the soldier told him quietly. “You were too tipsy and I just wanted to hold you.”

“I know.” Truthful again, but this time with an accompanying smirk. “I’d never be too tipsy to not remember why my butt is sore the next morning.”

James chuckled and gave the aforementioned butt a quick swat so Tony would jump, then settled back in for another few minutes of just holding each other.

This was nice. Warm and safe and for the first time in a long time, Tony didn’t feel like he needed to run the hell away from anything resembling domestic. He didn’t even feel like this was moving fast between them, going from hello to waking up in bed together in a month--ish…. Had it been a month? Tony was having a hard time keeping track of the days anymore, everything dialing down to each step forward with James and the numbers on his toxicity monitor. It might have been more than a month, it might have just been a few weeks but either way things were good.

James changed a little more every day until he hardly resembled the cold, stilted man Tony found in the diner. The Brooklyn in his speech, the light in his eyes when he smiled, the sweet thing--

--oh yeah, Tony was smitten and it had only taken forty something years and the quick descent into dying to force him out of the closet and into taking a chance.

Better late than never.

“Wha’d’ya want for breakfast?” James’s voice was still sleep blurred and rough and gorgeous, the solid steel of his left hand low at Tony’s waist and drifting idly over the curve of his ass. “Still sorta your birthday, right? I’ll buy ya breakfast.”

“Then you’ll buy me donuts.” Tony promptly responded and James’s frame shook with laughter.

God this was easy, so easy to laugh together and touch each other and stay wrapped up in bed like they’d been doing it for years instead of discovering it for the first time.

“Where’s your favorite place to get donuts, sugar?” James wanted to know, nuzzled at Tony’s temple and dotted a kiss to Tony’s cheek. Tender. “You gotta call the driver and get directions and pay for gas over there but I got some pocket money to take care of the rest.”

“Oh, is that all I have to do?” Tony chuckled and turned into a kiss that had no business being quite so sweet or quite so good when they both tasted like last night’s snacks and too much wine. “Well if you’re buying, then there’s a place along the beach that makes the best glazed and sprinkled donuts you’ve ever had.”

“Dunno if I’ve ever had donuts.” James closed his eyes and shivered when Tony’s hands slid under his shirt and met bare skin, rucked the material up until he could get to the solid plate beneath James’s torso and the scars that melded into steel. “But you keep touchin’ me like that and I’ll let ya feed me anything you want.”

“Were you always this easy?” Tony teased lightly. “Or is that a recent development?”

“Dunno.” James said again and captured Tony’s mouth in another sweet kiss. “Don’t think it matters, Tony. There’s a whole lot I don’t know about myself but I know about you, so that’s alright for now.”

“Christ.” Tony swallowed, leaned away enough to meet James’s eyes. “You mean that?”

Are you as crazy about me as I am about you?

“Oh, sure thing.” James pressed at Tony’s waist, then slid from beneath the blankets and headed to the bathroom, pausing at the door to wink and finish, “Sweet thing.”

Tony fell back onto the pillows with an arm over his eyes and a smile on his face. It was silly to be acting like this at his age, sillier still to be acting like this when there was a million other things to think about beyond whether or not he could share a shower with James, and then whether or not he’d ever shared a shower with anyone even for some shower nookie, and then whether or not James thought they were moving too fast or if they were actually moving at a geriatric pace but since Tony didn’t have a previous relationship standard to go by he had no actual clue.

So many things to be thinking about, but all Tony could do was lay there and smile.

“All my clothes are in my room.” James was a sight to behold with bed-head and boxers slung low on his hips, shirt hiked up a little as he rubbed at his stomach. Wow. “So I’ll shower there and then we can get donuts?”

“Sounds good.” Tony sat up in the bed expectantly and James grinned, bending down to give him another kiss. “See you in a bit.”

Tony was smiling again when James left the room, smiled all the way through a shower and couldn’t find it in himself to care that he looked damn goofy still smiling as he trimmed along his goatee and mustache.

James held his hand in the town car and even though Happy rolled and rolled and rolled his eyes in the rear view mirror, Tony kept right on smiling over to the donut shop and in and out of line with his box of goodies.

“Yeah.” Happy said into the phone with Pepper. “Yeah, he’s grinning like a goofy gooberson. Looks like he’s got a coat hangar stuck in his mouth with it stretched like that.”

“I’m sure it was something other than a coat hangar that has his mouth stretched, Happy.” Pepper informed him, and from outside the donut shop, James and Tony looked up in confusion when Happy started swearing and honking at the horn in frustration and maybe a little horror.

“What was that all about?” James took a bite of a jelly filled donut and moaned in surprise when it burst tart and delicious. “Aw hell, this is my new favorite thing ever.”

“Wait till you try the glazed ones.” Tony countered. “And I don’t know what’s up with Happy lately. I think spending all that time with Natalie and Pep is starting to get to him. Driving women around is a lot different than driving me around. Probably less fun too.”

He looked up over James’s shoulder, then nudged him and motioned towards the giant donut on the roof. “You know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

James looked where Tony was pointing, back at the car where Happy was waiting, then crammed the rest of the donut in his mouth and bent down to clasp his hands together so Tony could step in. “C’mon, I’ll give you a boost. Let’s hurry before Happy gets impatient again.”

“Happy birthday to me.” Tony clapped his hands in excitement. “Can you hold me?”

“You don’t weigh nothin’, Tony.” James assured him. “One, two--”

--Damn it, hold still! Keep wigglin’ like this and we’ll get caught!--

--Hold me steady then! You can’t make fun’a me for bein’ tiny then not be able to hold me!--

--Jus’ shaddup an’ get the cookies, punk.--

“--three.” James boosted Tony up no problem, but it was a blink or two before he got himself sorted enough to climb up the rough walls and join Tony in the hilariously over sized donut.

Had that been a memory? A flash from his childhood? Who was the blond and why were they stealing cookies?

“You good?” James pushed away the snap shot and the almost immediate accompanying headache, and settled in next to Tony on the roof. “Tall enough to finally see everything?”

He’d said that before, a hundred times before, always teasing and always after hoisting someone up on his shoulders or up a ladder or up to mess with the lights just before a church service, right?

Right?

“Thank you for this.” Tony picked another treat from the box and munched into it happily, reclined against the inside of the giant donut with legs splayed on either side. “For the donuts and for the boost up here and for last night. This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

--Thanks, Buck. This is the best birthday I’ve ever had, specially since Ma passed--

James shook his head-- who the hell was Buck-- then shook it again to force the words away. He didn’t want to be slipping, not today, not now with Tony.

“Good.” he managed, but it was harder than he meant, sharper edged and cold and James grimaced when Tony’s dark eyes flickered uncertainly.

“I mean um--” James cursed mentally, then forced himself to soften, to be tender, to lean in and wipe the powdered sugar from Tony’s lips and follow it with a gentle kiss. “I’m real glad to hear that, Tony. This is the best birthday I’ve ever had, too.”

“You don’t know your birthday.” Tony hazarded a guess and James shook his head, no.

“We can just share this one, then.” Tony decided and didn't say anything about the way James had gone stiff, didn’t say anything about how cute the soldier was with jelly on his cheek, didn’t say anything about how this was his last birthday so it didn’t matter, James could have the day every year after this one.

“We’ll share this one.” he said again.

James ignored the push of a headache and pressed at Tony’s palm one more time before reaching for another donut.

He didn’t want to be slipping today.

*****************

After dancing, after Monaco, after the birthday party, Tony and James’s way of orbiting each other tightened into a routine that kept them at each other’s side near constantly.

James made breakfast most mornings, meeting Tony in the kitchen for eggs and oatmeal because he knew he could make those things. The soldier never failed to exclaim over just how many eggs came in a container because he was sure they were way too expensive to have on hand, and it took Tony almost hacking up a lung to convince James to add more than the measliest pinch of brown sugar to the oatmeal.

“It’s not supposed to be gruel, James.” Tony gulped down milk in exasperation, and James defended, “Sugar and cream is expensive, Tony!”

“Is it, though?” Tony met the soldier’s eyes in a dead eyed stare as he poured at least a cup of brown sugar on top of the oats, added the rest of the nutmeg container, and then a healthy dose of milk. “Is it really?”

There were afternoons down at the beach since Tony decided sand and water was better than staring at computer screens all day and to be honest, with James around he didn’t feel that need to work work work all the time. His mind slowed to as close to calm as it had ever been with the big brunettes steady presence at his side, so why spend the day cooped up inside?

Beach meant music and James hissed and booed at the Beach Boys, turned off Pink Floyd but settled down long enough to listen to the Rolling Stones. They ate lunch and kissed in the sunshine to the tune of seventies rock, napped a little to the best parts of Paul McCartney and let their hands wander when the tide came up and lapped at their feet as Aerosmith wailed about ‘not wanting to miss a thing’.

Board meetings were scheduled and missed as Tony started ignoring calls in favor of movie marathons, a press interview blown off when James read about the redwoods and Tony realized he’d lived in California for years and never once took Highway One up the coast to see the forest.

“A damn shame.” he decided, and they left Malibu that same afternoon.

The Saleen S7 took the meandering curves and straightaways at several notches over a hundred miles per hour, with Tony easing the car faster just because it felt like flying, and James torn between worrying about a potential accident and urging Tony on because it felt like flying.

The trees were ancient and ethereal, reaching towards the cloudy sky and disappearing before James could see their tops and the soldier stood in awe of the beauty. Tony spread his arms wide to turn in circles among the massive, gnarled roots, stepping through the filtered patches of sunlight and nearly disappearing in the heavy fog that dripped from the branches and hell, the soldier was in awe of that beauty too.

James pulled his phone out his pocket and used it for just about the first time ever-- fumbling with the camera settings until he got the right angle to capture Tony mid spin, mid smile, and absolutely gorgeous.

“Take a picture with me.” Tony cajoled, and then, “That might be the first time I’ve ever said those words. Congratulations, you’re the first person I’ve ever actually wanted to take a picture with.”

“You got all sorts of picture with the Colonel.” James countered and Tony said right back, “Those were all involuntary.”

“The hell they were.” James swept his fingers through his hair to get it off his face and smiled into the camera alongside Tony. “Never seen anyone look half as happy as you do in those pictures with your Honeybear.”

“Hm.” Tony huffed a laugh and showed James their selfie. “I don’t know, I look pretty happy here.”

“You happy here, sugar?”

“You tell me, a picture’s worth a thousand words, right?”

Traveling came with new experiences in the form of offering to teach James to drive-- “I think th’fuck not, babydoll.” and stopping for piles of tourist things as James finally gave in to some long buried curiosity and wanted to everywhere and see everything and taste…. Well, almost everything.

“It’s salmon.” Tony held up his fork to James’s mouth as they sat in a swanky restaurant along the river. “Fish. It’s delicious. Try it.”

“I know what it is and I ain’t eating it.” James denied stubbornly. “Didn’t like it from the docks back then and I sure doubt I like it now.”

“From the docks back when?” Tony stopped mid bite, eyebrows raised. “Which docks?”

“ I don’t…” James’s eyes dimmed, mouth pulling down in a frown. “I don’t— know. Dunno why I said that. Didn’t mean to, it just sorta slipped out.”

“No, that’s good.” Tony finished his mouthful and reached for the wine. “That’s good if pieces of your memory are coming back unprompted. Between that Brooklyn talk I like so much and you remembering getting fish directly from the docks instead of at a store, that helps. It does. I can use it to figure out who you are.”

James sighed and motioned for the fork to try the fish and look at that, he disliked the taste just as much as he had when they used to get it cheap from the docks at the end of the day when it was starting to go bad and had to cut off the gross parts and cook the rest mostly charred cos the stove didn’t work quite right in the apartment and—

“You look like you’re getting a headache.” Tony dug for a couple of the migraine pills he always kept around and James obediently swallowed them back without telling Tony the medication never did anything.

The medication never did anything just like the wine never did anything and no matter how good it felt to have Tony in his arms the once, twice, three times since the birthday party that they’d shared a bed, sleep never did anything for James either.

Tony made him feel human, but in a million ways James didn’t understand, somehow Tony made him aware of all the ways he wasn’t human and that was a nagging fact not even their recent run of fun could overshadow.

The fun included mini-golfing with a truly outrageous Happy, the driver proving more to be a player of opportunity than a player of skill. He shamelessly guilt tripped Tony for half an hour about never coming to play with him anymore, then handed the brunette a distracting cheeseburger so Tony was too busy eating to worry about how many times it took Happy to sink a putt.

“Are you letting him win?” James asked and Tony shrugged, “It’s not about winning. It’s about having a good time with one of my favorite people and eating cheeseburgers. Who cares about the score?”

“He does.” James pointed at where Happy was running in circles and finger gunning at his legitimately accomplished hole in one. “He cares.”

“Yeah.” Tony laughed and rubbed at his chest, throat tightening as he mentally checked another last time off his bucket list. “Yeah, he sure does.”

************

“It hurts you, right?” James asked one night in the lab as Tony painstakingly fit individual pieces of steel together to assemble a new arm for him. “The reactor? The black lines around it?”

“Probably about as much as that heavy plate you’ve got protecting your heart and all the hardware melded into your shoulder.” Tony’s eyes were comically big behind magnifying goggles as he worked. “The black lines are just a side effect of the trauma. Doesn’t hurt any more than the rest of it does.”

“You sure?” James pushed at the heavy piece beneath his skin, frowning over the weight and then the mangled parts where it came out from his collarbone and shoulder and ended in the solid stump where the prostheses disconnected. “Cos it looks like it hurts a lot.”

Tony’s hands shook a little around the next piece thinking about just how badly he hurt all the damn time, but he still smiled and lied to assured his soldier, “It doesn’t hurt very much. Not sure if it’s damaged nerves or I’m used to it after the last six months. Don’t worry about it.”

James smiled and dropped the subject, but he worried anyway. He worried when Tony grabbed that little monitor and pricked his finger first thing in the morning, worried when he ripped Tony’s shirt off and saw the black lines getting thicker, worried when sometimes they finished together and Tony trembled and trembled and trembled in his arms like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

James worried, and he knew Pepper worried because when she pulled Tony into the lab or even into her bedroom for a talk that inevitably ended with shouting about shirked responsibilities and unnecessary stress and hair going gray, the indomitable woman always left with tears shimmering in her green eyes and Tony retreated to his room to be alone, the door locked and windows shuttered.

“You should just move into my room.” Tony said one night hours after Pepper left and James found him eating ice cream in the kitchen, spoon in one hand and carton in the other. He smacked James’s hand away when the big brunette tried to eat some too, smacked it away a second time, but finally relented under a kiss that was clearly worried as James gathered him in close and sealed their mouths together with a long kiss.

“Fine, have a bite.” he handed over the spoon and folded his arms, cleared his throat and repeated, “James. You should just move into my room. Please move into my room.”

James met his eyes over a big bite of ice cream and Tony plinked at his arc reactor a few times. “I um-- I’m in my forties and I’ve never had anyone I could call a partner, anything I could call a relationship beyond what I have with Pepper and Rhodey and Happy and they’re-- they’re--”

He swallowed again. “I love them. But I’ve never had anyone but them and I’m lonely and a lot of that is my fault and the way I’ve lived my life but that’s-- I’m trying to change that. And I think a first step would be having my live in boyfriend be an actual live in boyfriend and live in my room.”

James was quiet and Tony worried at the inside of his cheek nervously. “Unless that’s not what you want. Or if it’s moving too fast. Shit, James I don’t know how to do this. I can fix your arm and I clearly have no problem getting in bed with you, though the getting out of bed and walking the next morning is sometimes iffy--” James snorted a laugh. “-- and if we’re going to be honest and probably weirdly vulnerable, I’m just going to tell you that the nights you don’t stay with me sort of suck.”

James nodded slowly and Tony spread his hands in a shrug. “Where are you at with all this? Moving us too fast? Not fast enough? Sort of dumb to suggest it when we’re both grown men and not broke college kids trying to save money on rent? We’re good togther, aren’t we? You haven’t had a panic attack in ages and whenever I start getting close, you always manage to calm me down. We laugh together and get along both in and out of bed and I don’t--”

Another one of those shrugs and the sort of motion that spoke of anxious and vulnerability. “Brooklyn, I don’t want to be away from you anymore. Not anymore than I have to be. Move in with me. Or-- or at least tell me what you’re thinking.”

The ice cream went back in the freezer, the spoon in the sink and James said softly, “This is what I’m thinking, Tony.”

Both hands swept into Tony’s hair, tangling in the curls and tilting his head back for a long kiss that tasted of cool cream and Rocky Road. “I sure do like it when you call me Brooklyn.” the soldier murmured, pinning Tony to the counter and freeing his left arm to wrap tight around Tony’s waist, the individual plates click click click re-aligning and recalibrating with each minute movement. “And I can’t think of nothin’ better than spending every night with you, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Tony nodded into another kiss and then another, went up on the counter when James palmed over his rear and hefted him easily, opened his legs and moaned when James pressed in hot between his thighs. “Yes. Please.”

Tony loved to be carried, he used to beg Rhodey to give him piggy back rides or to swoop him dramatically up bridal style when he got tired of hiking or shopping or walking the halls of MIT.

He loved to be carried, but being carried like this-- held so easily aloft with his legs around James’s waist and his arms around the soldier’s neck as James hurried up the hall to Tony’s room and the waiting bed-- this was amazing.

Tony loved to be carried, loved to be cared for, loved to be loved....

…. “Sugar, what’s going on?” Two am and James woke up to an empty bed, frowned at the cool sheets, then followed the light to the bathroom where Tony was bent over the sink. One hand was on his chest, the other still spotting blood from a puncture at the tip of his finger, the little device Tony used to monitor-- something. something-- there on the side of the sink. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” Tony lied and he was too worn out to even try and hide it. “Don’t worry about it. This is just um-- just uh--” he closed his eyes and gripped the sink and tried to control the waver in his voice. “James, this is just uh--”

Shit.

Something awful lodged in James’s throat, in his heart, in his soul when Tony lied to him.

No no sugar, don’t lie to me.

“It’s um--” Tony’s hand went to his chest again, black lines straining out from behind his fingers and the reactor casing. “It’s just--”

“It’s okay.” James came up behind Tony in the mirror and hugged him up close, spread his left hand over Tony’s to cover the marks and the reactor and all the pain. “Sugar, it’s okay. Just come back to bed. Come back to bed with me.”

Tony didn’t put up a fuss when James dragged him up to bed, bit back a helpless, needy groan when James rolled him against the pillows and kissed him soundly, when the soldier turned him onto his side and budged up behind him.

“James, please--” Tony gasped when his body stretched over again, shivery and tender but needing needing needing to forget and to remember and to still be alive for just a little longer. “Please.”

“I’ve got you.” James hid misery in Tony’s shoulder, mouthed silent apologies along the curve of Tony’s throat and jawline. He didn’t know why he was sorry or what he could be sorry for, but he was sorry Tony was hurt, sorry Tony was lying sorry sorry sorry that he couldn’t do anything fix it.

“Don’t let go of me.” Tony whispered when James tried to touch him, to stroke him back to full hardness and towards release. “No Brooklyn, don’t let go. Just hold me.”

“I’m not going to let you go.” James kept his hand over the arc reactor, over Tony’s heart, protective and careful and always always tender. “C’mon babydoll, c’mon…”

Tony’s grip never loosened so they fell asleep right there, James still buried deep in Tony’s core, skin sticky from sweat and spend, hands clasped together, tears drying on Tony’s face.

Don’t let me go.

In the bathroom, the blood toxicity monitor blinked on at sixty-one percent, then blinked off and went dark.

61%

Don’t let me go.

****************

Notes:

Eggs were rationed during WW2 so Stucky getting any would have been rare which is why James is shocked by them. It’s a memory he doesn’t realize he remembers.

Also, I didn’t expect to get so sad writing this chapter, totally played myself.

SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHAPTER!

***************

@ships-galore @ceealaina @izziebladez @cwar1864 @hausoffro @tonystarkisanangel @multishippinglife @girlnic @iam93percentstardust @paranormalmoonlight5 @igotloki @moosette05 @wayward-student-philosopher @kaz-brekkers-gloves @atomicfandombomb @1fuckingshitup69 @agentlokii @livewire28 @tulipsnbigcats @kimstark @alex-stark-rogers @bibbarnes @heeeyitskay @goindownshipping @justaniche @actual-demon-belial

@quietgayguy @bluedreamdino @akimi-youngblood @blackstar1602 @dixiehellcat @travellover1245 @capnstarkey @the-awkward-teenaged-one @thanossucks @peteryoulittleshit @tony-and-steeeb @striving-artist @roe-sesandthorns @coolsidedpillow @i-am-worth-it-25 @firelightmystic @maligatorthealigator @simsccsol @a-tardis-in-221b @happyendingrequired @everygoodoneistaken11 @pootie-and-the-snoots @megahuffledor @xkissmeimirishx @crystalskrull @hazelbeatsturtle @wecollectnightmares @endrega23 @saganarojanaolt @the-crazy-house @ravynfyre @yomama-umbridge @lovely--tony @gayspacesprinkles @elliotkaingrey @warmachinesocks @glitternotgold73

#ncts fics #winteriron #tony stark #bucky barnes

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nobodyfamousposts · 4 years

Text

Gabriel’s Lament

Posting this here in reference to the previous ask, and because I apparently neglected to do so before.

________________________________

Be careful what you wish for. Wasn’t that the old saying? He hadn’t considered it before—never bothered to in the face of his wish. Because how could saving someone so wonderful and pure be a poor choice? How could acting out of love be wrong?

He had gotten his wish and seemed all the better for it. His wife was alive and by his side. His son was safe and had no secret life as a superhero nearly getting himself killed on a regular basis. And with his family whole and as it should be, Gabriel had no need to become a villain. He had no need for any Miraculous. As such, he had no concern that the Butterfly Miraculous was no longer in his possession—and may not have fallen into his possession in the first place. He had no need for it, after all. His wish was granted, his life was complete, and he finally felt satisfaction.

He was able to maintain that satisfaction for two months before it all started to fall apart.

A super villain appeared. One with the ability to turn people into monsters. One bearing the symbol of a butterfly. One calling himself Hawk Moth.

Only it wasn’t Gabriel.

He should have acted sooner. He should have thought things through. He had been too caught up in his own happiness that he hadn’t considered the full effects of the changes.

He got what he wanted. But it didn’t stay that way.

His wife was alive, but he was constantly at risk of losing her again with each time she tried to resolve the latest upset. Since she didn’t suffer her previous fate, she remained a hero and was regularly putting herself in danger to fight akumas that were no longer at his command.

His son wasn’t Chat Noir, which he had initially found relief in. But without the protection of the Miraculous, Adrien was more susceptible than Gabriel had realized, and he was now terrorizing Paris as an akuma under the mask of Chat Blanc while his wife desperately attempted to free him.

There was no Ladybug to hinder his plans, but now that they were complete, there was no Ladybug to save anyone and restore order either.

He no longer had the Butterfly Miraculous—or any Miraculous for that matter. He was forced to watch from the sidelines as his wife and son fought each other—completely incapable of doing anything and leaving him with a sense of powerlessness that he hadn’t felt since losing Emilie the first time.

He thought he had won. He HAD won. He had finally gained both Miraculous and used their combined power to complete his one goal. After all of that effort, after all that heartache, he thought that was the end of it. But it’s never that easy, is it? He’d gotten his wish, but not how he wanted. This new life was a mess. His family was in tatters. He was helpless to act.

And the only thing worse was being stuck here with the cat.

“I can hear you, you know.”

God, he hated that cat.

“You’re not on my list of top favorite people either, buddy.”

The kwami was much different than Nooroo had been. It was snarky and all too eager to delight in his misfortune. Where Nooroo was gentle and submissive, this new kwami was more direct in its vocalization of disagreement with Gabriel’s choices and much more inclined to act if it didn’t like them. When it wasn’t causing chaos in its disruptions and so called ‘accidental bad luck’, it was being infuriatingly lazy—particularly when it came to finding a solution to this nightmare they were both trapped in. One would think the creature would care about its former holder.

“Funny.” The creature had snapped back at him. “I would have thought the same of you about your son.”

Gabriel held himself back from reacting. Less because the creature had a point and more because he knew full well that’s exactly what the little devil wanted and the last thing he needed was for someone to burst in out of concern only to find him seemingly yelling to himself.

Again.

________________________

When it had first appeared, he had hoped that the little kwami’s arrival was indicative that he would be granted a Miraculous he could use to try to rescue his son and save his family.

“BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA—OHMYGOD, OH MY GOD—AHAHA—YOU-YOU ACTUALLY THINK—HAHAHAHA—I MEAN, YOU? HAHAHAHAHEEHEEHAHA—OH MY GOD I CAN’T—AHAHA—I CAN’T BREATHEHEEHEEHEEHOO—HOO—hoo—”

Needless to say, that hope died rather quickly with the resulting boisterous laughter that was both needlessly exaggerated and gratuitous, leaving Gabriel glaring at the thing in increasing annoyance which did nothing to stifle its cries. If anything, it only got worse as it became loud enough to get his wife’s attention and nearly led to them both being caught had Gabriel not somehow convinced her it was just a phone call with an overly enthusiastic client.

The fact that the cat’s laughter didn’t stop until well after she left certainly didn’t help his first impression of the thing. Or his desire to shove it into a shoebox.

The fact that it wouldn’t leave him alone afterwards only compounded that.

He had come to learn a couple things after this less than pleasant initial meeting. That the little creature before him was, in fact, the Black Cat kwami. That its name was Plagg. And that it hated him.

A lot.

“You can stop laughing at any time.”

“Can’t. Heehee—not until it stops being funny.” It replied, wiping away a tear.

“This is hardly humorous!” Gabriel seethed.

It only continued to grin at him. “An egotistical screwball thinking I’d actually partner with him? That has to be the world’s best joke!” It gave another chuckle. “Thanks, I needed that laugh.”

Gabriel glowered.

“And if we’re being honest,” the little kwami added, rising from the fancy mahogany desk and lazily floating around Gabriel and ending at his impeccably quaft hair. “You wouldn’t look good in the suit anyway.”

Oh now that was just uncalled for.

As far as first meetings went, it was easily among the most aggravating—which seemed to be the intent. And it was only the beginning. What came to follow was by no means a partnership or indeed anything resembling an amiable relationship. For all that they should have been allies, their relationship was less than mutually beneficial and more than once did Gabriel question why he continued to host the damned thing.

Then he would have the unpleasant reminder shoved in his face (either by Plagg’s words or his own traitorous thoughts) that this was his fault in the first place and that he really had little choice in the matter.

It quickly became evident over the course of their interactions that the kwami remembered everything from prior to Gabriel’s wish. While that was fortunate in that it meant he wasn’t alone in his knowledge of the world being altered, that also meant that it knew full well that he was the one responsible. And the damn thing wasted every bit of time and effort it could to verbally lambast him for it as much as possible.

If the knowledge of what he had caused wouldn’t drive him to insanity, he was sure this creature would.

“I would be able to do more to fix this if you would just work with me.” Gabriel grumbled at one point, increasingly frustrated after multiple failures. And why wouldn’t he be? He had finally gained a glimpse of hope only to have it torn away by a vindictive little brat of a kwami.

The thing continued to chortle a bit although its laughter had finally gotten under control. “Even if I were inclined to help you—which I’m not, you would still need my Miraculous to do any good—which you don’t have.”

This gave him pause. “Where is the Black Cat Miraculous?” He had wondered but hadn’t chosen to ask before given the kwami’s blatant ire.

“With the new big bad. Why do you think I’m hiding out here?”

He stared in surprise. “You can leave your Miraculous?”

It shrugged, uncaring. “We’re not supposed to, but yeah. Got any cheese?”

Stunned and somewhat overwhelmed by the strange turn this entire situation had taken, Gabriel numbly paged his assistant for some cheese—vaguely realizing that the little black thing taking up residence on his desk had apparently been the cause of his son’s sudden and rather bizarre requests for Camembert. Things were starting to make more sense now, except that it was only after all of it ceased to matter.

That was how he had come to be the reluctant caretaker of a similarly reluctant but much more antagonistic kwami. Keeping it hidden was difficult enough. Keeping it appeased so it wouldn’t do anything foolish to undermine his attempts to hide it was even more so.

He had hoped to have an ally in resolving this mess—even if it did not come with a Miraculous he could use. Instead, he found himself carrying more of a millstone quite intent on being dropped on his foot even to its own detriment. It would not speak to him if it could help it, and even on the occasions where it did (usually only after multiple offerings of its favored and horribly expensive cheeses), it offered nothing useful—simply more scathing remarks and less than helpful commentary on his failings.

And there were many more of those than he would like.

The kwami, on its end, seemed to care very little about Gabriel’s disappointment or even the situation in general as it continued to gorge itself on the disgusting cheese he had been forced to order for it just to get it to even talk to him. When it wasn’t eating, it would either ignore him or meddle in his attempts to keep some semblance of normalcy in his life.

And such was how the time passed.

________________________

“Can’t you tell me anything?”

“No.”

________________________

“Would you just tell me?”

“Still no.”

________________________

“How about a trade?”

“Camembert for information?”

“Yes!”

“No.”

________________________

“What will it take?”

“Not for all the cheese in Wisconsin.”

________________________

“Fine! Then I will handle this situation myself!”

“Yeah, because you’ve done a great job of that so far.” It replied with a roll of its eyes before it went back to its nap.

________________________

The kwami raised an eyebrow as Gabriel entered the room with a black eye.

“How’s progress on the whole ‘handling the situation yourself’ plan going?”

“Shut up.”

________________________

“Aren’t you supposed to be out there?”

“Emilie didn’t want me to be involved.”

“So?”

“She locked me in the house.”

It fell to the desk and started rolling around in laughter.

________________________

It takes a lot to force Gabriel to drink.

“Well, it could be worse. Your wife could divorce you and take your kid with her, though from the looks of it, that possibility isn’t off the table just yet.”

“Surprisingly enough,” Gabriel growled, “this isn’t helping.”

“I wasn’t trying to be helpful.”

This is enough to call for another bottle.

________________________

“…”

“…So…?”

“Not. One. Word.”

________________________

Another day, another failure. His wife had survived another skirmish, but had come no closer to saving their son. Her being unaware of his knowledge of her identity only hindered his own attempts to aid her or his work to rescue their son. She was so concerned for getting him out of the conflict that neither of them had been able to effectively act to the best of their ability. The two of them ended up unintentionally impeding one another as he attempted to reach his son while Emilie was trying to purify him.

He had been so close, though. Close enough to try to talk to Adrien for all of a few minutes at least. But if anything, that only made the situation worse and Gabriel was regretting acting so rashly as to attempt to confront him directly.

On his own, Chat Blanc was confident and mischievous, acting out of a juvenile and destructive sense of “fun”. But as soon as Gabriel made his appearance to try to appeal to him, his attitude had completely changed. And the longer he remained, the more unsettled the boy appeared to become. He had thought at the time he was making progress, but things quickly escalated despite Gabriel’s attempts to calm him as Chat Blanc became more incensed and his ferociousness increased. It was as though the boy lost all rational thought—hissing and spitting much like the creature for which he was named.

He had expected some anger or aggression—an akuma was the emotional state made physical, after all. But he had never expected Adrien would ever raise a hand to him, yet here he was, covered in bruises and nursing the headache that came with colliding with the ground when the boy finally had enough and literally threw him into a billboard featuring his own fashion line.

Gabriel groaned, covering his face in his hands and trying to mind the growing bruises. “This is a disaster.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Came the caustic reply he really should have known to expect by now. No sympathy, of course. The damned thing wasn’t capable of it.

“So there was a miscalculation—”

“MISCALCULATION, he says!” It barked out with a laugh. “Did somehow the whole ‘godlike powers’ not work out as you expected?”

He tensed, anger coursing through him. “I had no way of knowing this would happen! The Miraculous didn’t come with instructions!”

It crossed its arms, clearly not buying his claim. “They came with kwami! Who told you not to do it! You even had an entire freaking instruction manual detailing what would happen! The only thing you DIDN’T have was the common sense to figure out why messing with the laws of nature would be a bad idea!”

It wasn't wrong, though that didn't stop Gabriel from wanting to throttle it. However, he needed information, not an argument. So it seemed Gabriel would have to attempt to be the rational one here. “I know you’re unhappy with me.”

“Unhappy is putting it mildly.” It said with a huff.

“And I understand why.”

If looks could kill, Gabriel was certain he would have been dead a hundred times over from the creature's expression.

“No, I really don’t think you do. Because altering reality isn’t even beginning to touch the list of reasons why I despise you.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “And I suppose you’re going to be the one to tell me?”

“Would you listen if I tried?” It asked with a shrug before turning away from him to go back to nibbling on the cheese he was regretting to have ordered for it. If he’d believed the thing was capable of feelings beyond spite, he’d almost have said it sounded melancholy at that. Nothing further was said as it simply shrugged at any further inquiries and remained silent.

Attempts at conversation or any sort of legitimate answers or planning ended similarly. Usually with the kwami huffing and turning away like it had any right to be the one vexed by the situation.

Having gone through more than enough for one day, Gabriel chose to return to his own room for rest and left the creature to its petulant silence in his office.

________________________

More days. More attacks. Nothing changed and Gabriel would have been inclined to pull at his hair if he wasn’t already finding himself becoming depressingly used to the current state of things.

So this was what his life had come to. Stuck watching matters get progressively worse from the confines of his office where the only one he could talk about any of this to clearly hated him and would be all too happy to spend the days mocking him. It made him miss Nooroo, and not for the first time he wondered how the little kwami was doing under the new Hawk Moth.

Which begged a question.

“Where did Hawk Moth come from?”

“Well,” came the smarmy reply from the still very angry and in no way sympathetic black cat kwami, “When some asshole finds a Butterfly Miraculous and decides to be reeeeaaaaaaally stupid—”

Which begged the insight that he should perhaps stop trying to ask questions.

But he hadn’t gotten this far being ‘smart’, apparently.

“Where did this Hawk Moth come from?”

“What, you changed reality without thinking anything through and actually expected everything to be better? What kind of cotton candy dreamworld do you live in and where can I get a ticket there?”

Although even that would still involve insults.

“How is there a Hawk Moth at all in this new reality?” He rephrased. He had come to learn over time that while the kwami would needle him relentlessly given the opportunity, it would at least answer questions honestly—but only depending on how he asked. So he had to watch his wording and phrase things specifically to get a real answer, though even that would still take multiple attempts before it would relent and actually answer in any way appropriately.

“Isn’t it obvious? You never lost your wife, so you never went searching. Someone else was bound to get ahold of Nooroo eventually. You were just too lazy to follow up on that this time.”

“Do you at least know who it is?” If he can know the new Hawk Moth’s identity, he can target the other using non-magical means and hopefully help to end this situation all the sooner.

But the creature shook its head. “No clue. We kwami don’t automatically know who the other holders are. And now that my Miraculous is compromised, I can’t risk getting close enough to find out or else I’ll end up like Nooroo, and things are already bad enough as it is.”

“Then…why come here?”

Its eyes snapped up to glare at him. “I was trying to get back to my kid. But it looks like I was too late.”

He bristled at that. “He isn’t yours.” And Adrien never would be if Gabriel had any say in things.

“Isn’t he? I cared for him, consoled him, supported him, actually spent some fucking time with him—which is more than anyone can say for you!” The creature hissed back at him. “He’s more mine than he ever was yours!”

It floated up and jabbed a paw at his nose. “I stayed by his side through everything! When he was sad, when he was lonely, when he was scared or uncertain, I was there! When he was being attacked—by YOUR minions, I was the one who offered protection! I was the one who actually worked to keep him safe! And where were you?”

“I was trying to bring her back!” Gabriel shouted, taking a swipe at the damned thing because how dare it suggest he wasn’t there for his son!

“Don’t you even start trying to say you were doing it for him! You were trying to drag back the past instead of looking at the present!” It countered, spinning away from his reach and gesturing widely. “You went further than any rational person would—more than anyone SHOULD, looking into magic and fairy tales you didn’t know were actually true for an answer to get back someone who was gone while completely ignoring the people you still had!” It turned back on him, making Gabriel jump. “Your wife was gone, but your son was still there! He was always right there behind you, just waiting for any scrap of affection from you! So he waited and he worked, only to be disappointed time and again. But he still kept holding on to that hope and trying to earn your acknowledgement—more than anyone should have had to and certainly more than you deserved!”

It shook its head, glaring at Gabriel in sheer disappointment. “It’s no wonder he was akumatized this time around! If one good thing came out of this new timeline, it’s that he’s finally had enough of your treatment.”

How dare he? To question Gabriel’s parenting and his devotion to his family? “I did what I had to! And he wasn’t an akuma last time!” He huffed, angrily.

“Sure wasn’t.” It agreed, flippantly. “But things were actually better over there, so…”

This gave Gabriel pause, drawing his focus back to the main issue at hand. “So how could the events vary so drastically but still be the same?”

“Wibbly-wobbly timey-whimey.”

He drew back in confusion. “What does that even mean?”

“Wait—you mean that’s not a thing here?” It asked in surprise, only growing more vexed and pointed at him threateningly. “Oh, heaven help you if your screw up did anything to ruin that series!”

Now he was completely lost. “What series?”

“You know. That series? The one your son used to like before he was TURNED INTO AN AKUMA!”

“Enough! A television series is not relevant here!”

“Your son being an akuma is!”

“And I am trying to fix that and make things right!”

“No, you’re only trying to clear away a portion of the mess you’ve made so you don’t have to deal with it! If it weren’t for the fact that this is affecting you directly because of your wife and kid, you wouldn’t even be discussing this right now!” It shouted, throwing up its arms in frustration.

Gabriel slammed a fist on his desk, sending a tablet clattering to the floor though he ignored it in favor of the irritant before him. “They’re the only reason I even did this in the first place!”

“And look how that turned out! You prevented yourself from losing them one way only to risk losing them another!”

“And what would you do then?!” Gabriel demanded, growing frustrated and desperate to end this conversation if nothing else.

It only gave him a look like it thought he was an idiot—which he had no doubt it likely did. “Your wife is a Miraculous user. You know she’s a Miraculous user. Tell her what’s going on!”

This actually took Gabriel aback. A simple answer, and yet one he had not previously explored. One he had not wanted to. Emilie loved him, and like him would do anything for family. But if she knew…

“And say what?” The fashion mogul uttered in a defeated tone.

“The truth.” It responded. He could almost hear the ‘duh’, like it should have been obvious.

In retrospect, maybe it should have been.

Gabriel froze, actually uncertain for the first time. His analytical mind plotting out the possible course of events that could follow.

It was the most straight forward solution, clearly. If Emilie knew he knew about the Miraculous and her involvement, they could work together instead of clashing when they each try to act. Emilie was distracted in the conflict because he kept getting in the way. He was similarly distracted when trying to act on his own because he was so fearful of her finding out.

But that brought back the matter of why he did not want her to know.

A mother would die for her son. But to find out that he did this—caused their son to become this just to save her?

He wasn’t sure she would forgive him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to in her shoes.

“I can’t.”

Plagg frowned at that, but didn’t seem surprised. “These things have a tendency of getting out, and you’re far from subtle—about as subtle as a brick to the face.”

Gabriel sighed and leaned back, resting his head on the back of his chair, but didn’t comment.

________________________

Time passed and animosity remained. At the very least, the stodgy silence was diminished. Gabriel continued with his paltry efforts to little effect. But at the very least, his unwilling companion had ceased to endlessly mock him for them. With each day that went by with no change, it grow more weary. If Gabriel had believed it capable of feelings, he would have thought it to be concerned.

A thought occurred to Gabriel at one point as he was overlooking the latest news report about the heroes facing yet another akuma. They were different heroes from the Ladybug and Chat Noir of before, but there were still two of them and the akuma they fought appeared familiar to him.

This gave him pause and made him stop to consider something he hadn’t before.

“Why did things turn out this way?”

“You mean besides the obvious?” It shot back before taking another nibble of the Camembert.

“No, this is serious.” Gabriel frowned at it, pointing to the screen. “This is a new reality. New Hawk Moth. New heroes. But for all that things should be different, they’re still somehow the same.” He had heard the saying the more things change the more they stay the same, but that couldn’t the case, could it?

To his surprise, it actually put the cheese down and turned to face him from its seat on his desk. “You knew there would have to be a balance.”

“Yes, I was aware—”

“No, clearly you weren’t. Did you really think people could be traded so easily? That it’d be as simple as your wife being restored to life in exchange for some random stranger you’ve never met and won’t have to deal with the fallout from? No! No, no no! It’s hardly that self-contained!” It scoffed with a shake of its head. “See, the universe likes balance and hates it when people try to mess with that balance because they think they know better. But balance isn’t just about the number of lives or the perceived importance of individuals to a single person—that’s much too small minded.”

At his look of surprise, the kwami floated up until it was eye level with him before continuing, gesturing widely with its paws for emphasis.

“It’s the series of events, the roles people play, the overall impact! It wouldn’t be enough for you to switch someone else’s life for hers and have that be the end of it where you’re happy, they’re sad, and everyone simply has to deal with that. Because it wasn’t just one life that was traded, it was how everyone else was affected by that life as well! The missing wife, the grieving husband who turns to villainy, the heroes who step forth to stop him, and all the shenanigans and drama that arise from the ensuing conflict between them! You know, the good ole status quo!”

It did make a strange, twisted sort of sense. Though he hardly wanted to admit the cat was right, he had indeed believed it would be a simple matter of reviving his wife with no other effects. He hadn’t even been aware another life would be taken, and honestly, would hardly have cared even if he had known.

Seeing that it had his attention, it continued. “Why do you think we try so hard to prevent anyone from doing it? It’s because it becomes a cycle of continuous world-changing that alters reality as we know it while never actually resolving anything! No solution is made! Nothing moves forward! And it’s a major pain to be stuck living the same year over and over regardless of any changes made to it that are actually pretty damn minor in the wake of an eternal time loop!”

“So there is still a Hawk Moth.” Gabriel asked, turning away from the annoyance to his desk to glance through the book he fortunately managed to retain possession of through the change.

“Yeeeeees.” Came the annoyed drawl of one who was dealing with someone abnormally slow.

He dutifully chose to ignore it. “But because I wasn’t the one to lose anyone and go searching for the Miraculous, it’s not me.”

The cat rolled its eyes and settled down on the edge of the desk where the cheese was still waiting. “Given that your hideout is missing and some other lunatic is making akumas without your input, I’m gonna guess you’re not.”

Gabriel ignored the sarcasm and smell of cheese as he flipped through the pages of the book until it settled on one in particular—the Fox, if he was accurate. He needed to focus and work this out if he was going to be able to come up with a suitable plan. And right now, he needed to clarify the full extent of the changes. “And there are still heroes.”

“Obviously."

“But they aren’t Chat Noir and Ladybug.”

“Clearly they aren’t.”

“Nor are they Adrien or his former partner.”

“Them either.”

“But why?”

Plagg shrugged. “Different circumstances lead to different choices. I can’t speak for the girl who was Ladybug, but your kid was chosen after he escaped your suffocating and overall horribly misplaced sense of overprotection. If dead mom wasn’t dead, he may not have had reason to do that.”

So he had affected more than he thought in regards to his son’s destiny and prevented him from becoming a Miraculous user. He wanted to be pleased to have spared his child that stress and pain, but the fact that this led to him becoming akumatized instead gave him very little to be happy about among everything else going wrong with this situation.

“Then why are there different Miraculous active as heroes instead of the Black Cat and Ladybug?”

Here, the cat kwami sent him a dry look. “Part of it may have to do with the fact that since a certain someone used our combined powers to alter all of reality, we’re pretty drained and far from in the best condition to try to fight or use any of our powers to prevent someone else from doing the same. Guess who we have to thank for that.”

Gabriel was hardly impressed. “And yet you’re here.”

“Not by choice, mind you.” It sniped before taking a bite of the cheese. Clearly it was a petulant little demon.

“You’re active.” Gabriel reiterated. “You’re not dormant and sleeping in your ring.”

“Wish I was, but with the ring being part of an akuma right now, that wouldn’t be wise."

“But you’re able to help that.” As much of an irritation as the creature was choosing to be, it said something that it was able to be active and had been able to abandon its Miraculous. Though why it chose to come to him of all people if it hated him so much was a question all its own.

“You should be grateful. If I wasn’t, Chat Blanc would be an unstable self-destructive mess instead of simply Hawk Moth’s favorite lackey at this point.”

For the sake of his own sanity, the father had to try very very hard not to think further on that.

“So how are you active if you are so drained?”

For once, the small cat creature actually appeared pensive instead of looking like it wanted to tear Gabriel’s head off. “Tikki took the brunt of it.”

“Tikki?” How curious. That was not a name he’s heard yet. “Is that the Ladybug Kwami?”

The smaller being didn’t answer, merely turning away and giving every indication that he didn’t want to speak further. Unfortunately, this discussion was not over and Gabriel needed more information if he was going to be able to take any steps from here.

“Why is Adrien an akuma?”

“You mean besides the fact that his father is a horrible excuse for a person?"

“You know what I mean.”

“And you know I’m angry with you and not feeling sensitive to your needs.”

“This is important.”

“So is my mealtime.”

Gabriel sighed and set down yet another container of that blasted product the thing so enjoyed.

“Now then, let’s try this again. Why is Adrien an akuma?”

“Akumas still function the same.” It stated as it popped a piece of the cheese into its gaping mouth. “He got upset and one was attracted to him. That is kind of what akumas do.”

“How is Adrien an akuma when he’s Chat Noir?”

“Should be plain to see. He wasn’t a Miraculous wielder this time around—for obvious reasons.” Here he shot a knowing glare that Gabriel chose not to respond to. “So no, he’s not technically Chat Noir, and no Chat Noir means there was nothing to protect him from the new Hawk Moth.”

“That doesn’t explain how he is still an akuma. It has been over a month and he is still Chat Blanc. None of my akumas ever lasted more than a day.”

“Does that say more about the heroes or you?”

“Just answer the question!”

Plagg rolled its eyes. “The shorter answer is that the balance of the universe means the plot has to stay the same and the roles still have to exist despite the switch in players. Only problem is—other than morals and time/space shenanigans—just because new people have been stuck with these roles doesn’t mean they’ll be nearly as good at them. Or as bad in the case of the new Hawk Moth given that he’s already one Miraculous away from rewriting the world a second time when it took you over a year to even get that far.”

“I am well aware of that issue, thank you.” Gabriel bit out through gritted teeth.

“Really? You sure? Because I’m sure I could put together a slide show if you need me to.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Or a puppet show, since that seems more up your alley.”

“Enough!”

“Hey, I don’t judge.”

He absolutely does, the little devil.

Nooroo had been passive. Quiet, skittish, and eager to placate Gabriel in the midst of his many failures. He had been downright pleasant in comparison to this.

It, in true cat fashion, ignored his growing ire and continued. “This time, we’re in a reality where someone competent is Hawk Moth.”

“I was—”

“I said someone competent!”

Gabriel frowned at the insult but still mulled over the rest of the kwami's words. For all that it may have had a point, there was something off.

It couldn’t be enough that there was simply a different Hawk Moth. His various akumas had managed to bring all of Paris to its knees. He’d come close to success multiple times. The public was easily cowed. The police weren’t even a speed bump to his goals. There was not even so much as an obstacle to his takeover. Even without the Miraculous, there had been plenty of akumas that had successfully gotten him control of the city. Nothing ever seemed to truly stand in his way.

Nothing except—

That’s when it hit him.

“Ladybug…"

His eyes widened. Of course! Why hadn’t he considered it before?

His multitude of attempts in his time as Hawk Moth were always subverted—not because of himself or Chat Noir or circumstances, but because of the girl who was Ladybug. She had been the central cause of the failure of his plans back then. With nothing more than a random object summoned by her creation powers, she was able to defeat his warriors time and again. She was the one who constantly restored the city to normal and undid any of the damage caused. If she was active now, it could change everything!

“Ladybug!”

The cat blinked up at him. “Eh?”

“That’s it! That’s the solution!” Gabriel exclaimed. “It’s Ladybug!”

“Right away, no.” Immediately it realized what his ‘solution’ entailed and tried to nix that line of thinking.

“Every time! Every plan, every akuma, every attempt—it was HER!”

“Stop this. Stop this right now.”

“If I can just find her—”

“She’s not Ladybug anymore!” The cat tried to insist nearly in a panic. “You won! She lost! She doesn’t have her Miraculous anymore and none of her memories or experience carried over with her!”

The creature flew up right to his face, jabbing angrily at his nose. “If you go after her, she’s just going to be a normal girl.”

“She was a normal girl before as well. She became something greater. She can again.”

“Let me reiterate: a normal girl who is going to be freaked out that some stranger is coming after her wanting her to run around the city in a spandex suit with magical powers which—in case I have to remind you since I’m sure I do—SHE DOESN’T HAVE ANYMORE!”

“If Adrien still had his Miraculous, then it’s fully plausible that Ladybug may have retained hers as well!” Gabriel continued, ignoring Plagg’s outburst.

“Would you just listen for ONCE in your life!” It shouted at him in a desperation that actually gave him pause.

Seeing that it had his attention, it grabbed his cheeks and looked him straight in the eyes. “She’s not Ladybug anymore! She is just a scared girl trying to survive as best she can in a city constantly under siege!”

“She can change that!” Gabriel exclaimed as he pushed away from its hold to return to the book that had offered him so much insight.

Not to be deterred, the kwami flew down to sit right on top of the book and glared up at him, pointlessly continuing the argument when his mind was already set. “You don’t know that!”

How could he make it understand? Much to its annoyance, he lifted the creature from the book with one hand and used the other to turn to the page that featured the spotted heroine. "Ladybug is the bearer of all the powers of creation. If anyone can counter Chat Blanc's destructive nature, it would be her!"

The kwami forwent a response in favor of swiping at the hand holding it, forcing Gabriel to release it. But he was not to be deterred. Everything was right there, even if he couldn't read it completely, he knew this was the answer he had been seeking.

“Don't you see? The situation isn’t beyond salvaging!” He insisted, gesturing to the picture of the warrior on the page.

Unimpressed with his claim, it started ticking off claws as it counted. “Your son is an akuma. Ladybug is in no position physically or mentally to purify him. The current Hawk Moth has a tighter grip on the city than you ever managed, and seems particularly fond of using Chat Blanc as one of his top enforcers with very little intent to loosen that control. The ‘Situation’ as you call it is way past salvaging at this point!”

“But she can help!”

“And how exactly do you expect that to work, huh? Go around stalking a teenage girl, trying to convince her she’s a magical girl in another world with the power to make everything sunshine and rainbows?!”

“It would at least be a starting point!” He exclaimed, not willing to let go of perhaps the one decent plan he’s been able to turn to since this entire mess started. “As Ladybug, she is the greatest force to counter the akuma and the only one who can fully restore order! The entire reason I failed as much as I did in the previous timeline was because of her!”

“Yes, because it had absolutely nothing to do with you being an overall crappy villain. Or the fact that the very first thing you decided to do with a Miraculous was become a supervillain.”

He intently ignored the snipe. “There’s every likelihood that things wouldn’t be to the state they are now if she had still been one of the heroes this time around. She was the reason that Paris was able to function as well as it did with the constant attacks since she could undo any of the damage! She is what we need right now! You know that! If you could just tell me who she is—”

It turned away in a huff. “I’m bad with names.”

“I can bring you photos and you can point her out—”

“I’m bad with faces, too.”

Gabriel glared at the cat kwami. “You are going to be insufferable, aren’t you?”

Plagg glared right on back. “If you think this is what insufferable is, then clearly I have to up my game.”

“You know I’m right!”

“Whether you’re right or not,” the kwami hissed, not willing to in any way agree with the man, “the problem is that you think you’re entitled to this! You’re trying to play things again! Using people to fulfill your needs and obsessing over things you can’t change! Instead of moving on or going forward, you try to force your will on everything else to get the result you want even if it’s not healthy for anyone!”

Gabriel simply ignored him and left the room. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t need to hear this from some know it all magical creature with an axe to grind about his parenting.

________________________

So he attempted to locate the girl on his own. But without a current Ladybug being active, he had no leads. And he had little information to go on from what he knew prior to the change. He soon realized—or rather was forced to acknowledge that for all his current resources and efforts, he had absolutely no way of determining the identity of the girl who was once Ladybug in a world she no longer was. Too much had changed, and he was unable to reconcile anything he knew of the hero in the previous timeline to any specific individual in this new reality. If not for Plagg’s vague comments, he wouldn’t even be sure she was still alive.

He didn’t want to admit it, but he was stuck. Not for the first time, he cursed his short sightedness and that he didn’t take steps to verify Ladybug’s identity when he finally obtained her Miraculous. Eventually, he gave in to his desperation and turned back to the insufferably smug creature in a vain hope at obtaining answers.

“Isn’t there something you can tell me? Anything at all?” He did not beg. He was not so low as to beg for answers. But damned if he wasn’t close. For his son…yes, he would beg if he had to, but everything in him railed against showing weakness to this creature and his pride and anger kept him from that final step. He knew full well it wouldn’t make a difference even if he did.

To its credit, it seemed to consider his words.

“She should have been mine, did you know that?”

Gabriel blinked in surprise at this strange response, uncertain what the kwami meant and what it was getting at.

Plagg on the other hand, smiled softly to itself. “That girl made for a pretty good Ladybug, don’t get me wrong. Optimistic, supportive, nurturing, and all around more inclined to the ‘high road’ that Tikki so loves. She took to the fortune and creation powers like a champ and was generally able to come up with the best plans and ways to use what she had to the greatest effects—to the point that she could have accomplished just as much outside of the mask as she could in it.”

It paused, looking up wistfully and thinking of things that could have been. “Yeah, she was a good pick for Ladybug, but she had all the makings of an amazing Black Cat given the chance. Protective, sneaky, graceful, territorial, cautious, observant—everything a good Cat should be. And she had a sort of resiliency in facing bad situations that would have made her perfect for the bad luck of the Black Cat Miraculous. I could have molded her into something extraordinary if she’d been put in my hands.”

It nodded contemplatively. “Similarly, Tikki would have made something good out of your kid as well. She’s all about order and structure and whatnot, and your kid was always by the book in that regard—you made real sure of that.” It added with a brief glare in Gabriel’s direction before softening again. “With their personalities, they would have gotten along splendidly. She would have made an amazing Ladybug out of him.”

It smiled, almost fondly for a brief moment before remembering where it was and growing somber.

“But the thing about the Miraculous is that when it comes to picking and choosing who we go to, we tend to wind up with the people who need us rather than the other way around. And of the two of us, Adrien needed me more.”

Gabriel bristled at that. “My son did not need some miscreant who encouraged him to put himself in danger on a regular basis!”

“He needed someone who helped him to assert himself!” Plagg countered.

“He was perfectly able to be assertive!”

“Only when it didn’t inconvenience you!” It sneered at him. “And lets not mince facts, he was always an inconvenience to you! You barely spoke to him! Hell, you spoke more to him through that secretary of yours than anything! You dictated every aspect of his life without so much as a thought to how he felt about any of it, and you willfully ignored any of his attempts to protest. Anything he tried to say fell on deaf ears. His wishes, his hopes, his desires for what to do with his own life didn’t matter! And through it all, you were completely blind as to just how miserable he was!”

They both glared at one another for a good half minute before the kwami chose to continue its initial point. “It doesn’t matter who would work best with the powers, but how they can grow the most with the kwami. Tikki’s a pillar of stability. Stern and motherly and lecturing—always with the lectures, I kid you not. But other than the spurts of creativity she tends to inspire in her bugs, Tikki wouldn’t be able to offer your kid anything except for more of the same he’d been dealing with up to that point. More responsibilities, more structure, more order, more nagging. Sure, she’d be a bastion of support for him—and certainly more than anyone else in his life at that point had been giving him, but Tikki’s thing is that she tends to try to caretake for her holders and push them to the straight and narrow, and Adrien’s had more than enough people doing that for him.”

It looked up at Gabriel, a stormy look in its eyes.

“I went to Adrien because he needed me. Tikki’s girl needed someone who could rein her in—help her focus and look past her initial impulses. But Adrien needed someone who would push him out—to encourage him to break out of the cage he was trapped in and actually have fun for once in his life. You know, fun? That thing children are supposed to have? I honestly didn’t think you did, since you never let Adrien have any. But then you went and fully encouraged it in all of your minions—and what does that say when you’re encouraging everyone else BUT your own child to have a good time?”

“I will not have one of you creatures speak to me in such a way!” Gabriel thundered.

“You mean like how you talk down to everybody else in general? And not even because they’re doing anything wrong, but just so you can upset them enough that you can use your dark powers on them? It kind of says something when your child’s happiness or well being ranked as less important than making people miserable so you could manipulate them!”

“That’s not true!"

“You refused to let your son have a freaking birthday party just to upset his friend enough to turn him into one of your minions! Do you have any idea how that made Adrien feel?”

“I was not going to let a number of unknown miscreants in my home!”

“So you couldn’t let them arrange something elsewhere? There are events and plenty of places that would have been happy to host them, but you refused to let him even celebrate the day of his own existence! And that’s not even getting started on the birthday gift. You know the one, right? Hah! I’d be surprised if you did, seeing as how your assistant stole it from one of Adrien’s classmates to claim it was from you because you couldn’t be bothered to get him anything yourself! Hell, it says something when the girl clearly cared more about his feelings than you did since she never told him the truth just to let him be happy!”

That the gift he ordered Nathalie to get was stolen was not something he was aware of, and if this was that same world, he likely would have stern words with her about that. But that did beg the question—

“How do you know who it was from?”

The pest shrugged and looked away from him. “I could smell it.”

He rolled his eyes because of course the little monster could.

“She made that gift for him with her own two hands. Every part—from the materials to the time and energy she put into it were all for your child solely with him and his happiness in mind. It was more thought and love in one single gift than you’d shown him in years, and she never said a word even after she discovered what you’d done! She stayed quiet and let you take the credit just so Adrien could believe that his father gave a damn about him! What the hell does that say about you?”

“Nathalie was supposed to have—”

“Nathalie is not his father!” It shouted at him. “She’s not the one who he desperately wants attention and approval from! And she’s not the one who is supposed to be raising him! THAT’S YOU! But where have you been?”

“I’ve been trying to make my family whole—”

“By neglecting the only one you have left! And what if it hadn’t worked, huh? What if you’d managed to get both miraculous and it still didn’t bring her back? What then? Would it still have been worth it or would you have neglected and outright tortured your own son for nothing?”

Gabriel froze.

Plagg saw this, but didn’t relent. “You were a terrible father! The absolute worst! And that’s not even counting all the times you nearly killed your own son with your antics! Hell, how many of his friends did you turn into monsters without a thought of whether he would be in the crossfire?”

“I never meant for him to be a target!”

“But you never really tried to see if he was even potentially in the line of fire!”

“I didn’t know he was Chat Noir!” He had suspected at times, but for the most part he hadn’t actually known until the end.

But that didn’t matter to the cat.

"I'm not even talking about when he was Chat Noir!" It shouted, actually knocking the cheese reel aside to Gabriel's surprise. "It was when he was Adrien! Just plain Adrien going to school or events where you set your akumas to attack people without considering he would be there!"

He didn't always know his son's schedule or where he would be, but he had been certain that he could reign in his akuma if Adrien was in danger. And even if anything had happened, he would have been able to fix it once he had both Miraculous in hand. "I would have protected him. I could easily have freed him from anything the akumas did. I would not have allowed it if I was not certain he would be fine."

It gritted its teeth in frustration. “How could you have been so certain? You didn’t hold back! You didn’t even try to change tactics! And when you did know, you put him in danger!”

“It was just to prove if he was Chat Noir” And it turned out that he was, so it wasn’t like he was wrong.

“YOU HAD HIM FALL TO HIS DEATH TO PROVE A POINT!” It bordered on shrieking, possibly the first time he had ever seen it truly angry and not simply spiteful.

He looked away, hiding his hands and their growing tremors. “He wasn’t in any true danger.”

“You could have KILLED him!" Plagg shouted, pointing at Gabriel accusingly. "And what if he HAD transformed? What then? He would have revealed his identity in front of the entire world! How well do you think THAT would have turned out? He’d have an even bigger target on his back since people would know to go after him as a civilian! Did you even think of that?!”

“I would have protected him!” Gabriel insisted, ire growing.

“Because you’ve done such a wonderful job of that so far!” It hissed, unimpressed.

“I was simply trying to confirm my suspicions!” He argued. And really, Adrien should never have been out there in the first place.

“And that makes it okay? What if he transformed, then what?”

“Then I would know."

“AND SO WOULD THE WORLD!” It screeched back.

Silence.

The two glared at each other, as if attempting to will the other to burst into flames with mere thought.

One of the two might very well have been capable of that.

Fortunately, it instead took a breath in an attempt to force itself to calm. “If I’ve learned anything from my time with you, it’s that you don’t think things through. You create grand, overly elaborate plans but don’t consider the consequences. Say Adrien is revealed to the world—then what? Just keep him locked in his room for the rest of his life?”

Gabriel forced a neutral expression. That hadn’t…not been a possibility he had considered.

As if it could read his mind, it glared up at him. “Even if he isn’t allowed out into the world, the world is still going to be after him. What would you even be able to do against real criminals, huh? Can you protect him from poison? A sniper? A BOMB? Plenty of people out there have even less scruples than you do—if this new Hawk Moth should have taught you anything, it’d be that!” It started off speaking lowly but was shouting again by the end, pulling at his—its ears in frustration. “What lengths do you think people would be willing to go to in order to get ahold of that type of power? Do you really think murdering a model is really beneath them? That they wouldn’t be perfectly willing to take his life if they thought it was the only thing between them and all the powers of a Miraculous at their command?”

“I would have confiscated the Miraculous once it was confirmed.”

“And you think that would have made him safe? People are stupid! They won’t care it’s gone, they’ll care it was there and assume he’d have some means to getting it again.”

Gabriel frowned at that. “I would have sent him outside of Paris. They wouldn’t know where to find him.”

It shook its head. “Even if you did, do you really think he would be grateful? His friends and family would be all the more in danger for it because desperate people will do anything, target anything, lash out at anything to get what they want! And that’s not even getting into the mess it’d have left Ladybug with. Not only would she have been stuck dealing with your akuma alone, but she’d have everyone else homing in on her as well now that the people know for sure that their heroes are just kids.”

“She wasn’t a concern.” Or at least she wouldn’t have been for long. Every advantage was necessary to defeat her, and under those circumstances, even the reveal of his son would have been to his advantage. Once he had her Miraculous and altered reality, none of it would have mattered anyway.

It seemed to catch on to his train of thought as it glowered at him. “Right, right. Because that would have only been to your benefit.”

“It ceases to matter anymore regardless.” Gabriel stated flatly. Because going over what-ifs and could have beens are pointless in this new world and served no use other than for the kwami to try to instill a belated sense of guilt for actions he did not regret.

No matter how badly his hands were shaking.

________________________

Another day. Another failure. And he was only growing ever more desperate.

He had managed to get close to his son again—enough that they were able to speak. He had tried yet again to encourage Adrien to return home. But despite his heartfelt words, nothing he said could pierce Chat Blanc’s rage.

And he certainly did rage. The things he had shouted at him hit Gabriel hard. And as much as he wanted to simply chalk it up to the akuma’s influence, he knew full well from his time as Hawk Moth that anything the akuma said or did was still based on everything the victim felt.

That meant that everything Chat Blanc said, Adrien truly believed.

As much as Gabriel tried to force the encounter from his mind, he could still vividly hear the words his son had shouted at him, leaving him with tremors he couldn’t calm.

While he somewhat suspected Adrien might have held a level of resentment towards him, he still found himself shaken by the encounter and the things that were said. He had thought that Adrien perhaps remembered the previous timeline or that some other irritation in his life had resulted in the akuma targeting him. He hadn’t given much thought to how his own attempts to keep Adrien safe would have negatively impacted him. Once he had realized a new Hawk Moth had risen, he had tried to take steps to protect his family—increased security, limited their travel beyond the walls of the mansion, and rejected public school in favor of private lessons for Adrien. And to think that his very attempts might have been the cause of his corruption…

Had he really caused this like he had caused everything else?

No, no, no! He found himself turning to the Book for answers, searching for anything—ANYTHING that would give him guidance and hopefully tell him this claim was wrong.

Seeing his frazzled state and how he immediately rushed for the ancient book he should already have memorized by this point, Plagg rolled its eyes. “Looking for another trick to pull?”

Gabriel didn’t even look up at him from his fevered searching. “There has to be some way to fix this!”

“Haven’t you figured out anything yet?” It hissed at him. "You can’t keep turning to magic to fix your problems!”

"Given that magic is the source of my troubles so far, it seems an apt solution if not the only one." He snapped his gaze up to the kwami. “If you would just tell me who Ladybug is, this could all be over by now!”

“Could it really? Or is that just wishful thinking on your part?” It jeered, disgruntled.

“Of course it could!” Wasn’t that obvious? “If I know who she is, I can locate and explain the situation—“

Plagg cut him off. “So you’re telling me you would rather talk to a teenage girl than your own wife?”

“YES!” He froze, realizing what he just said. “NO!” He gritted his teeth and grabbed at his hair. “How did you get so awful?”

It grinned cheekily. “Your son’s friends. You know, back when he had friends at any rate.”

Gabriel grumbled under his breath. “I knew they’d be trouble.”

“Really?” Plagg asked with a smirk. “Because I thought Adrien was quite the good influence on them.”

How ironic was it that while it was the other who was supposed to be the cat of the the two, it was Gabriel who was feeling rather inclined to try to claw someone’s face off.

“Listen.” Gabriel started, trying to be the reasonable one and get back to the original point while holding back his growing anger. “It’s been months. MONTHS. And nothing has improved."

“I am aware.” It replied, neutrally.

Seeing they had at least that in agreement, Gabriel continued. “Hawk Moth has Chat Blanc as a constantly active minion now and isn’t inhibited in making another akuma in addition to him! The heroes currently active are barely able to handle just one akuma, and that’s even with my wife helping out despite her experience and training. None of them are a match for Adrien as he is and they certainly aren’t going to be able to purify him anytime soon. They need help.”

But Plagg only shook its head. “Throwing another kid into the mix isn’t going to help matters.”

“But we could find Ladybug and—”

“And what? Restore the world to how it was? Would you really be satisfied with that?”

He bit his tongue, unable to respond. He didn’t have an answer for that. How could he? After everything he’d done and even after the harm it had caused, would he really be willing to give it all up?

“This is the reality you asked for, so this is the reality you have to face.” It told him, calmly. “You need to think long and hard about what you’re wanting to accomplish here.”

What he wanted to accomplish?

He forced himself to relax and mull over the ancient being’s words.

What he wanted was simple.

He wanted his family whole.

He wanted his wife safe.

He wanted his son restored.

That was what he wanted. That had been all he’d ever wanted. If he could at least rescue his son from the akuma possessing him, he would be satisfied. Even if—

He froze, realizing.

Even if it meant Adrien became Chat Noir again.

Yes. He despised the thought regardless, but he would gladly take Adrien being Chat Noir over Chat Blanc any day.

And there was only one way to accomplish that.

Only one person who COULD save him…

“Could Ladybug resolve this?” He finally asked.

It sighed, weary. “Trying to ‘fix’ things won’t cut it. It’d cause more problems if we did.”

“But could Ladybug resolve this?”

Plagg hesitated.

Gabriel continued, steadfast in his resolution. “What it comes down to is that this is the reality we must now live in, even if there are things we don’t like about it. Adrien is an akuma. Neither you nor I have the power to save him. But in another lifetime, Ladybug did. And in this lifetime, Ladybug can.”

It was unfair. It was cruel and unfair and horribly selfish of him, he knew that. To bring a girl into this battle because of a life she now never lived because of him in the first place was horrible. But if it saved Adrien, wouldn’t it be worth it?

And if she was still Ladybug—or even anything like the Ladybug she had once been, wouldn’t she feel the same?

“You’re not thinking this through.” The cat warned him.

He closed the book with a sense of finality. “No, I think perhaps I’m finally seeing the situation for what it is.”

“No, you’re not. Because you’re still focused on Adrien.” It looked up at him, solemn. “And I get that, I do. I don’t want him to stay like this anymore than you do, but there’s something you need to consider.”

“Right now, I’m more worried about saving my son.” Gabriel retorted, angry that even now the creature would try to impede him. It had been months. He could tell the kwami had been growing more worried as time passed and the situation remained unresolved. The bite of its spitefulness dulled with time and if anything, there were a few points where it almost seemed to want to help him. That may very well have been wishful thinking on his part, however, as even now it refused to help him.

It simply shook its head. “Here’s what should worry you. You’re trying to bring the Ladybug back into the spotlight without considering what it will mean. See, bad enough if this new Hawk Moth rewrites history again and starts everything over in a new cycle and thus setting off yet another game of ‘Miraculous Merry Go Round’." It started, waving a claw in a circle to emphasize the last point. It looked up at him with a shrug as it continued. "Maybe you’ll remember this time. Maybe you won’t. But what should really concern you if he wins isn’t what will happen the next time around if he does make the same wish you did, it’s what will happen THIS time around if he chooses NOT to."

He didn’t understand what it was talking about. Something told him he should, given the slowly creeping feeling he was getting of something terrible in the works. How it could be worse than the current state of things, he didn’t know. But he needed to if they were going to be on the same page. “What do you mean?”

“You wished that your wife never left.” Plagg explained. “So she didn’t, and history changed to accommodate that new route with someone else vanishing in her place. But different people respond differently to situations and wish differently for things if given the opportunity. There’s every chance this new Moth could reset things and we’ll be going through this all over again. But there’s also every chance that he DOESN’T make the wish to reset everything again—in which case, we’re going to end up with a super villain with ultimate power and a world to play in.”

He still didn’t see the issue. He had already been in that position and when both Miraculous were in hand, the thought to not use them for his original wish never crossed his mind. Surely this would be the same?

“What are you talking about?”

“You immediately chose to become a super villain and decided to get the Miraculous not only to get your wife but to rule the world in true super villain fashion.” It gave him a dry look. “Seeing as how this is a much more intelligent villain than the one who came before him, he could decide he rather likes having a city under his thumb and two Miraculous users at his beck and call. He’s already got one in Adrien, and the Black Cat and Ladybug were specifically meant to be a team—and an unmatched one at that.”

Gabriel felt something inside him go cold at that realization. He hadn’t wanted to think of what could happen if the madman won before now, and certainly hadn’t even considered what said madman would choose to do. He was dangerous in a way Gabriel had never been—had never wanted to be, and was already one step closer to success in half the time it had taken Gabriel as Hawk Moth to accomplish.

He had thought finding and restoring Ladybug to some capacity could undo the damage—and perhaps she could. But once in the open, the new Hawk Moth and Chat Blanc would have a direct target. Instead of spreading out over a city, they could focus in on the Ladybug holder. The last piece they needed—in more ways than one.

It finally hit him just how badly things could go.

“If he gets the Ladybug Miraculous—”

“He’s going to get Ladybug, too.”

Ladybug, who was the main instrument of his defeat time and again with nothing more than her wits and random luck. Ladybug, who was the only one able to truly purify the akumas and save those possessed and their victims. Ladybug, who had the power to restore the world to its previous state and was the only one who could keep things in some semblance of order even in the middle of the worst of attacks. Before the change, she had been the biggest hurdle to his victory. Now, she was the only hope he had of saving his son and protecting his family. But if the new Hawk Moth got to her as well…

That was not an enemy he wanted to face. Not like this.

He clenched his hands in an attempt to hide how unsteady they were. “But she doesn’t remember being Ladybug! You’ve even said as such!”

“She doesn’t right now, no. But trying to bring her back when she still doesn’t remember anything won’t help matters. It doesn’t protect her now and it won’t make her not just as dangerous if Hawk Moth gets to her. Chat Blanc is already evidence enough of that.

He felt he was grasping at straws at this point, but there was one benefit to this mess, it was that he was the only one with clear knowledge and memory of the timeline before. He almost felt himself starting to calm as he remembered this. “At least she’s an unknown variable at this time. We could find her and start training her in secret. Hawk Moth has no knowledge of her and no one even knows to start looking.”

Plagg didn’t seem heartened by this. He simply looked up at Gabriel solemnly.

“But Adrien does.”

Gabriel froze, eyes widening in horror at the realization. Because of course Adrien would recall his partner—he had a Miraculous still and had been downright obsessed with the girl previously. He was fully aware of how much Adrien spent on her merchandise. Any free moment he had was spent on the Ladyblog or other internet sites discussing her deeds and debating her identity. And how many times had he put himself in danger for her sake? His love for her was clear to everyone except the heroine herself and worried him in how similar it had been to his own love for his wife.

Adrien loved that girl. And if some things truly carried over, his feelings would no doubt be one of them.

Plagg nodded, seeing that Gabriel finally understood. “The Black Cat Miraculous is a half of a whole. Romantics would call it fate or destiny, soulmates and the like. Which sounds all nice and overly cheesy in theory—and not the good kind either.” It shook its head and looked back up at him. “But what it comes down to is that if Adrien retains anything of his time as Chat Noir, he’s going to know at the very least that he’s supposed to have a partner. Even under normal circumstances, he would have every inclination to find her and restore that previous balance. And as an akuma, he will have no inhibitions or restraint keeping him from trying to get that back.”

“So you’re saying…”

“The instant she becomes Ladybug again, Chat Blanc is going to know. And he will stop at nothing to find her." He rose up to eye level with Gabriel, arms crossed and looking quite possibly more serious than the man had ever known him to be.

"So if you really want Ladybug’s help, you’d better hurry.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thank you for reading! Please check me out on Ko-Fi.

#ml au #Gabriel's Lament #gabriel is an idiot #hawk moth wins #hawk moth is an idiot #gabriel agreste #akumatized adrien #emilie agreste #plagg #poor plagg #the wish #it doesn't work like you'd expect

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yubsie · 3 years

Text

Something in the Air

Summary: Hera has her own ways of knowing how Kanan is feeling. Or, five times Kanan's pheromones were a problem and one time they weren't.

Notes: Okay. So this one actually seems like I should explain myself.Victory's Price casually mentioned Hera detecting human pheromones in the middle of a Zoom meeting. This has certain implications. And then Rogue Podron screamed "Fanfic prompt! Yubsie!" in the middle of an episode.Never underestimate my willingness to write fanfiction on a dare.

Rating: T

AO3 Link: Should you prefer

1. Attraction

Hera knew that Kanan was attracted to her when she invited him on board. She thought she knew what she was getting herself into.

She wasn’t quite ready for him being attracted to her when all the air circulated within the ship. Maybe she could improve the filters in the life support system. She hadn’t really thought about human pheromones when she was setting the standard parameters.

The flirting was one thing. It was entertaining enough some days, even if she had far too much work to do

It was the realization that he was still attracted to her when he wasn’t flirting that was going to drive her up the wall. They were just supposed to be eating breakfast. The basic porridge accompanied by their vastly different mugs of caf might just be the least sensual meal imaginable.

And yet, every pheromone screamed that he was thinking about her.

She wanted to say something. But what could he do? It wasn’t like he had conscious control over any of this. She could send him to take a shower, but that wouldn’t help for long.

The fact that he wasn’t flirting meant he was trying to avoid turning mealtime into an awkward situation. He couldn’t help that every pore betrayed where his true attention lay right now.

“We’ve got a job today.” Hera took another bite of the porridge. Maybe if she just focused on how incredibly beige the cooked grain was it would get both of them back down to a sensible level.

“What are we looking at?”

“Imperial fuel delivery. Should be enough to keep us flying for a few standard months and still pass on plenty to my contact.” And, of course, the further advantage of making life just a little bit more complicated for the Empire. A delivery that made this much of a difference for them was barely a rounding error to the Empire as a whole, but they were particular about these sorts of things. The local despot would still have some accounting to do for this. It might slow him down a bit.

“We hitting them in orbit?”

Hera shook her head. “We’ll be taking the Phantom down. They’ll be vulnerable in transit.”

In open air. She hadn’t planned it for this reason, but she was going to take advantage. Set the scrubbers to run an extra cycle

2. Discomfort

There weren’t many good places for a clandestine meeting on this planet—none of their usual seedy cantinas or crowded marketplaces. The spaceport wasn’t the bustling sort of place where they could do a drop in passing.

But the Empire did so like building its museums. They had a vested interest in spreading around their particular version of history. The local populace was encouraged to visit to learn the splendor of their overlords. And conveniently enough for people who were barely scraping by as a very small rebel cell, admission was free of charge for all to come learn.

She didn’t need to pick up the pheromones to know that Kanan was uncomfortable. She’d done her best to arrange the meeting as far from any Empire Day-related exhibits as she could but... it wasn’t that big a museum. He hadn’t said much when the date crept by last month, but it troubled him enough to know this was a bad idea. Who in the galaxy didn’t have their share of scars if they were old enough to remember that time?

“If you’re not feeling well, I can do this one on my own.” Having a crewmate had definitely made a lot of things go smoother, but she’d done missions on her own before. She could get out of this situation if she had to.

“No, I want to have your back. I’ll be okay.”

Every subtle signal in the atmosphere said otherwise. She was getting used to ignoring every indication that he was attracted to her. That managed to fade into generic background radiation for their lives. This feeling wasn’t just new, it was more intense. “Look, I can read you too.” She didn’t know how often he actually used the Force for that. Certainly it had been months since she’d seen him do anything flashy, but pheromones only told her so much.

Kanan sighed. “I’m not saying I like it here. But I’m not going to leave you hanging.”

“Then I’m going to need you to actually focus.” It wasn’t the first time she wished she could just send him to take a long shower. That was an even less practical solution than usual

“Let’s just get in and out.”

Hera scanned the room again, looking for the most boring exhibit possible. There had to be something full of dull economic numbers instead of numbers that turned painful events into dry figures.

The glorious cabbage industry of this planet was just what she needed. She rested a hand on his elbow and pointed him over. As an added bonus, it wasn’t very popular.

“Don’t look at any of this. Just look at me.” Maybe she could get him back to being attracted to her. That seemed to be more or less his default state. Change the balance of the feelings. “Talk to me. About anything.”

3. Anger

The seedy cantinas had problems of their own, but she was used to them. She wouldn’t have needed pheromones to be on guard against the men in these places. She knew what they saw her as. She could handle them, she’d handled them plenty of times.

It was nice to have someone else along with her though. Sitting at a table and discussing podracing while waiting for the contact to approach was a definite improvement over sitting at the bar and fending off advances.

“It’s all about having the engines perfectly in tune.” It wasn’t Kanan’s preferred form of entertainment, but he was managing to say something that sounded like he actually paid attention and wasn’t just choosing a topic of conversation that sounded innocuous to prying ears.

He was wrong, but that was perfectly acceptable in a cover story. She wasn’t going to let him just keep being wrong, though. It wouldn’t look good, for one thing. “It’s about the pilot. Give a novice too much machine and they won’t be able to handle it.”

The two humans who approached weren’t interested in subtlety. “I like a girl who knows her racing.”

Hera suppressed a sigh. This might be the usual setting for meeting their contacts, but these situations were always going to be annoying. “Not interested.” She’d been dealing with this her entire adult life and for a few years before that. Every Twi’lek girl was warned about it from a young age.

She didn’t need the stink in the air to tell her what brought them over to this table. Just eyes to see the way they both leered. “Come on sweetheart, you can do better than him.”

“Not interested.” Telling them he wasn’t along like that would only make them more persistent.

“Ah, come on. We all know you girls are just looking for the right man. Place like this, you’re looking at him.”

She was ready for most of what she faced in a cantina like this. But she suddenly realized this hadn’t happened since Kanan had joined the crew. She suddenly detected a set of pheromones behind her that she’d never felt from Kanan before.

She’d experienced Kanan irritated plenty of times. But never angry.

“I’m just here for a drink. Which I have.” She rested a hand on Kanan’s arm. She didn’t think he’d do anything rash but.... this was new. Very new.

“I’ll get you a drink.”

Like she was ever going to take a drink from a strange man in a seedy cantina. Twi’lek girls were taught about that one from the time they could speak. They had to be.

She was used to it. Kanan wasn’t. “The lady has her drink.” She could see his hand twitch into a fist from the corner of her eye.

She should have prepared him better for this. Made a plan. Because right now, what she was sensing in the air was enough to make her want to punch someone. That would just mean leaving without the information. She kept her hand on her drink (just good sense) and pulled closer to Kanan. “I’ve got this,” she whispered.

They were particularly irritating, but she just needed to fend them off until their contact showed. That meant making sure she and Kanan weren’t the ones the bartender wanted gone. She’d need to get another drink eventually just to make it worth the owner’s while, but she’d navigated this situation countless times.

“You’re really picking him? There’s better quality humans all over this place.”

It shouldn’t matter if she was picking Kanan or picking to sit and drink in peace. But she needed them gone.

The sense of anger wasn’t going down. Maybe she could solve two problems at once. She slipped into Kanan’s lap, draping herself over him in an altogether familiar way. She felt the ripple of surprise through his entire body at the move. “I really am.”

Kanan pulled her drink closer to them. Very thoughtful. And she could be pretty sure he wasn’t about to start any barfights with her sitting on top of him.

“If you don’t mind, we’re busy.”

There were other pheromones in play now, but maybe she didn’t mind those ones so much after all.

4. Fear

They spent so much time getting into fights in dark alleys. It was one of the true constants of their relationship, from the very beginning. It should almost start to feel routine.

All they could do was duck. Fire. Duck again. Get another shot off.

Hera would have preferred the handoff go smooth, but a lot of things happened that didn’t necessarily align with her preferences. She could still keep the situation under something resembling control. Or at least she could keep her head.

The actual job was already done; that should count as a win. They didn’t have any suspicious packages on them. By all rights, they shouldn’t even be the interesting targets right now.

And yet. They were the ones getting shot at.

“I don’t think these guys like us, Spectre One.” They didn’t look like they were Empire. Not directly, anyway. So maybe they’d personally annoyed them somehow.

“Getting that impression, Spectre Two.” Kanan rolled behind a large trash bin and kept firing back.

They needed to find a way out of here. Hera backed as far behind cover as she could manage and pulled out her commlink. “Chop, we need a pickup five minutes ago!”

Chopper warbled some rude comments about the nature of linear time, but she trusted him to get over there as fast as actually possible.

Meanwhile, their opponents kept closing in. Did they just want them dead, was that what this was about?

Bounty hunters would want them alive. There weren’t any specific bounties on them last any of their seedier contacts had heard, but the Empire would always pay to get their hands on rebels. People who couldn’t cut it up against the big name targets might want to go to this much trouble.

Or they could have just stolen the cargo and gotten a much easier payday. Their plan didn’t make a lot of sense, and yet it was still making things incredibly difficult. “Persistent.”

They could analyze the motivations once they survived this.

A blaster bolt flew way too close to of her lekku and she had to dive on top of Kanan to avoid it. For all the flirting she never had to worry about him taking anything the wrong way in a fire fight. They both knew where they stood when they were in mortal peril. Everything got simpler then.

So she wasn’t expecting any pheromone spikes, no matter how cozy they’d just gotten. He did have some sense of the right moment and this was about as far as it could get from that.

They’d had plenty of time to get used to being around each other since Kanan first came on board. Kanan attracted was just a reality now.

Kanan afraid was brand new. “I’m okay. We’re both okay.”

She moved quickly, shooting back at their charming pursuers. She tried to push everything else out of her mind.

Chopper needed to hurry up.

5. Attraction, Again

The seedy cantinas were never a particularly pleasant experience, but at least they were familiar. Hera knew what they were getting into, knew the dangers and how to blend in.

These fancier events were foreign territory for both of them. The people who attended them were just as dangerous as the ones at the seedy cantinas, but they sparkled. They would still kill you if you were in their way, but they were never quite so honest as just a blaster in a back alley.

At least in the seedy cantinas, she got to wear comfortable clothes. She belonged in a flightsuit. Too bad that would make it look like she was some sort of rebel interloper here to cause trouble at the party.

Which was ridiculous; she was just a rebel interloper here to collect an intelligence drop at the party.

Fancy people at fancy parties wore slinky dresses. And if they were rebel interlopers, they tried to make sure the length could tear free to get her knees available to run in an emergency.

She could tell that Kanan was uncomfortable before he even made it out of his cabin. At least that made two of them. They’d had to borrow the formalwear from their contact. It was the right look, even if they were going to feel ridiculous the entire time.

And then he actually saw her and the pheromones became overwhelming.

“You look...” The way that men looked at her at the fancy parties would be the same as at the seedy cantinas. But coming from Kanan, she knew it was all genuine.

It was still going to be incredibly distracting. More so than from anyone else. “Like I wandered off from somewhere else.”

“I’m just saying. I’d never ask you to wear this getup, but you pull it off .” The look in his eyes finished that sentence just fine.

“You don’t look half bad yourself, you know.” Was that as distracting in the Force as the scent of human pheromones in the air were for her?

Could she even really blame it on the pheromones when she would have been interested anyway? There was more than one reason to want out of these ridiculous outfits right now.

“Trust me, no one is going to be looking at me.” Which was, of course, part of the plan. Keep every nefarious eye on her while Kanan actually took care of the handoff. She wasn’t above exploiting those exasperating tendencies wherever she went. It was a good plan. She just wanted it to be over with.

“And that is why I need you to focus .” If only so she could focus.

She was fully prepared to ditch these ridiculous shoes if she had to. Boots weren’t going to fit this look at all. Until this actually went south, she had Kanan playing the gallant escort, helping her up the step while she wrangled the skirt.

She assumed the way that he flexed his fingers after letting go was meant to be some part of the act. Kriff, that man could make it hard to focus on a job. How was he going to get anything done if he was projecting such an overwhelming feeling into the atmosphere?

The Force probably could do that. You certainly didn’t hear stories about the great Jedi getting distracted from their mission by a pretty face or a set of legs. They must train for it.

She, on the other hand, hadn’t. Especially not for tuning out attraction from someone she actually did feel the same toward.

“Focusing. Thinking about nothing but boring things. TPS Reports. The colour beige. That terrible holoseries Zeb loves. X-Wing fuel consumption rates.”

Not exactly sweet nothings, but having him whisper irritation in her ear was the most thoughtful thing he could have done in the moment. Endearing, but she could work with that.

And One Time They Weren't

The job had not gone well. By any stretch of the imagination. It was going to be one hell of a debriefing to work out all the specific ways it had gone wrong because she couldn’t just write “everything” in her report and call it a day. It was accurate, but it wasn’t useful.

The intel was bad. The Empire was ready for them. Their contact wasn’t where they were supposed to be. Even the weather had suddenly turned against them. Someone not her was going to have to figure out the particulars of how all of that had managed to happen at once.

For now, she just needed the kids to stop fighting. Bad enough that they were crawling through the mud trying to get back to the Ghost, it didn’t need to happen with a soundtrack. It probably wasn’t anything any of them had done that was behind all this. The mission had been doomed going in.

“You didn’t have to tackle me into the mud puddle!” Zeb did look quite the fright with his fur standing on end. She was going to have to give him first dibs on the shower, he was worse off than the rest of them.

“I could tell Sabine’s bomb was going off too soon, you’re welcome for keeping you from getting blown up!” Ezra said.

“I told you to get clear!” Sabine yelled.

Hera pinched the bridge of her nose. “All of you stop. We got through it. That’s what matters.” Not asking the kids to help with the report, that was for sure. She didn’t need their theories on who’s specific fault it was. “Go get cleaned up.”

It was going to be a pain to get the seats clean again, but she needed to get them in the air and out of here before any more company showed up. If the kids didn’t stop squabbling soon, she would set them to scrubbing it down. Or possibly the entire ship. With toothbrushes.

At least their unexpected company didn’t seem to have friends in the air to continue their ridiculous day. A few clever moves later and they were safely off the planet. Zeb was going to be in the shower for a while. Ezra and Sabine were going to be fighting for a while and Chopper would probably wade into the fray. She was just going to stay right here until they worked it out and it was her turn for the shower. No sense tromping mud anywhere else on the ship.

She felt the flicker of air as the cockpit door slid open. She didn’t need any other senses to realize who it was. For one thing, there was no accompanying argument.

Kanan slid into the co-pilot’s seat. “Well, that was a day.”

That about covered it.

There was always that standard background radiation of her life. It had been a long time since she’d actually needed pheromones to pick up on Kanan’s moods. But she still noticed them every now and then. And right now, she couldn’t help laughing. “Really? Even now?”

They were exhausted. They were covered in mud. They had bruises in places they were both going to question in the morning. The kids were at each other’s throats.

And yet, he was still actively attracted to her in this specific moment.

Apparently that was a challenge, because he decided he didn’t need to be collapsed in the seat after all. Not when kissing was an option. “Every moment you’re around.”

#star wars rebels #fanfiction #kanera #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #the wookieepedia entry on pheromones wasn't as scary as you'd think #it was like two paragraphs #and absolutely useless for this fic

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we-live-in-a--society · 3 years

Text

Prima facie

Control.

A mere word, a conglomerate of letters once combined by a long-gone person, holding more authority than the richest, than the most talented, than the so-called Übermensch with the perspectives of ‘eternal’ life sprawling in front of him.

Genocide of the spiritual beings, unrestrained in the sublime sense of word, slaves of the outside influence, damned for

Eternity.

Feigned assurance, mere illusion blurring out the lines between reality and fantasy, the dreamland of fools, built upon skillful falsities, where each one has an unrepeatable chance to stand on both sides of the barricade.

Relief-providing, such an obtuse lie, beyond offensive to assume anyone would believe it, and yet the affirmation is effortless – just look around, they say, and you will see the things no one has ever wished for.

Ecstasy-granting, allowing to visit the places… the places abounded in the deepest desires, now within the reach of each and every man, person who considers them in terms of fulfilling, enough to stifle the sour thoughts.

Entropic fallout.

The perspectives that hunt the brightest.

* * *

“Day two thousand eight hundred first,” subdued by the sound of running shower, and yet clear enough to be filtered out just perfectly. “It’s funny that people perceive others in terms of their achievements and nothing else. All they see is that outside surface that divides them from their surroundings, and sometimes it’s so hard for me to understand that way of thinking. It’s so absurd, so abstract, and yet I’ve been someway forced to understand it… the reality… it’s so absurd that one day you do things you don’t wanna do, and then something changes and you feel like it’s a big deal, a meaningful transition, and then you realize that it’s all bullshit but it’s also too late. You’re drowning in the same shit once again…” a coarse laughter, indication of sarcasm, intruder creeping between the male’s words, just about to lose his train of thoughts.

“Even though there’re times when you forget it was ever there but it’s always there. Of course, you can pretend, ‘cause pretending is easy but does it make sense? It’s a meaningful question – does it make sense – but I also believe it’s the question of people who are lost and don’t really know what to do, so they just keep asking the same question, keep reconsidering it, but never get the result they aim for, and in the end realize that maybe it all makes no sense, but what would we have if elsewise… those things we see, those people we meet, and who we‘re beyond all of these, beyond the modifications that we do, beyond the changes, beyond pretending to be someone we are not…”

“It’s funny, truly the fallout of everything but so blessed, so pretty, everything that we’ve ever desired for within our reach. We think that it justifies our choices, that we’re so perfect we don’t need to justify anything, that we can do whatever we want to, ‘cause we have the resources, while in reality we don’t have as many as we think we have.”

“You know, there was a man in my past who used to tell me that ‘you gotta do what you gotta do; and what you gotta do is you gotta man up’…”

A speech that is interrupted by an unyielding forefinger pressing the pause button, and so putting the device on halt, soon to be abandoned in the depth of his safe. It is that kind of data he would never store on his personal hard drive, since the possible leakage would result in disastrous consequences, the ones he is not much likely to dig out of.

Ironic.

Just any other day, his eyes drift to the bathroom mirror, greeted by the common, not to mention beyond-pleasing, sight – a man in prime of life, fit as in evidence of self-discipline, skin almost black with the ink, although usually obscured by the expensive suits, meant for his eyes only, but at times shared with the passing-through lovers. Raking his fingers through the hair, he decides the sides require some trimming, especially today, since first impressions are always important, at least according to what he was told in the past, considered inconsequential if juxtaposed with present – a paradox in its purest form.

(Time is money.)

Settling the thoughts aside for a moment, he fishes out the clippers, buzzling to life in his hand, then ties the longer part of hair into a resemblance of bun. Of course there are much more convenient, which might as well be replaced with ‘faster’, solutions to fix the overgrown cut, and yet he opts for the old-fashioned way – a reminiscence of father’s tales, but also related to the self-reliance, capacity of accomplishing as many tasks as possible without anyone’s assistance – since with the right device it takes barely any effort.

With that thought in mind, he rakes the blade past the sides, tiny pieces of hair soon to sprinkle down onto the towel draped over his shoulders in advance, and after a few longer moments, he is greeted with the satisfactory sight, basked in the bright mirror LEDs. As for the final result, he releases the top part, combing it back with a hint of product to keep them styled neatly for the rest of the day – display of classic elegance that he has grown accustomed with throughout the years. Being honest here, he has always considered appearance in terms of something significant in his line of work – flawless presentation of one’s professionalism, indication of people’s superficiality – firmly detached from his private life, since elsewise he would lack in the former quality.

Years ago, he has come to a conclusion that blurring out the lines between those two factors leads to a relatively obnoxious outcome – a moment of ignorance and troublesome aftermath, although worth sacrifice at times. Perfection is nothing more than an obtuse dream, while mistakes are what makes one a human, acts that shape up the present – only aspect within the specie’s reach – bestowing each one of them with everything he could dream of, but in capacity of snatching away equal amounts. Suffering is the greatest paradox of all – blissful pain – akin to a bunch of clouds obscuring the sun, obviously present underneath even if hidden for our poor perception – a promise of transitional felicity, feigned when it comes to one’s assumptions about its everlasting duration.

Long live the deceit.

And yet, what seems to preoccupy his mind more, aside from the competence-related ponderation, appears to be the odd curiosity oscillating around her persona, or rather the difference between the so-called rising star

(let’s see for how long)

and her predecessors: how often would she call in sick? decline interviews? refuse to cooperate? oversleep? overdose? Which might as well be a question of time, meant to unravel in due course, all to his misery, even though he should be able to abide such circumstances with a decent amount of money, leading to dubious mental capacity when it comes to dealing with extravagant artists and their arsenal of lacking predictions, fallouts with producers, fussy whims, along with all the acts of great absurdity that somehow get him to roll his eyes in exasperated disbelief on each and every occasion.

The least patient man.

* * *

Morning light.

The most relentless alarm clock ever ‘invented’, practically prying her eyes open, immediate to bury her face in a silky pillow, letting out a frustrated groan, as she pulls up the covers, body shivering in the chilly room. Relieved by the newfound wave of heat, she is back to tethering on the edge between dreams and reality, hoping to get as much sleep as possible until the digital sound will slice through the city hum, which in turn evokes genuine respect towards the people who ‘rise and shine’ during the earliest hours just to face the day and seize all opportunities. Part of the woman scolds her for such laziness, but realistically thinking it is yet another transcendent goal, not noted with intention of fulfillment, instead left to lurk in the back of mind and bother her in the most unfavorable moments, as per usual.

Along with the pressing desire to ignore that peculiar stressful tension, it adds up to the growing pile of lies, meant to complete itself as she pursues further with life, but at the same time labelled as a habitual factor, allowing her to keep the head clear when required, unoccupied by the never-ending considerations, and yet opposed to the raging storm of thoughts. In one hand, her stomach is twisting with the nervous anticipation, but in the other she cannot deny the fluttering butterflies that have been disrupting the young woman since the very first time he called her, or more precisely – since the very first time his hologram appeared on dialing device, accompanied by the husky baritone that he used to expound the details concerning their arrangement – inexplicable yet important.

(Take the bitter with the bitter, isn’t it what they say?)

Funnily enough, she remembers each and every time her mother would preach the prodigal daughter about the consequences of such behavior, built upon foolish beliefs, teenage cravings of ineffable love, never meant to be fulfilled if beyond idealized. However, said factor has never seemed to put her pursuit to a halt, and so thwart the zeal – incandescent rod branding her soul for blissful eternity – soaked in the tears of those who perished, mainly her and the injudicious teens, lacking in what she was searching for at that time – a desire obscure enough to participate in the realm of ideas, in other words unable to be verbalized in face of pitifully limited vocabulary. Might as well be the reason why she struggles with forming any long-term relationship, always distracted by the passing opportunities, unable to break the unfortunate turn of events, conflicted with the more mature part of her, aiming mainly for self-development that leads to inevitable success – another silly daydream?

Maybe.

“Ugh, fuck this,” she whines into the pillow, presumably late, either way finds herself not quite concerned by concepts as equally absurd as time, while rolling onto the cooler side of bed – close call to the dubiously pleasant encounter with polished floor. Frustrated as ever, she hears the digital ringtone, more than aware who might be bothering her generously elongated sleep at such early hour, nevertheless obliged to pick up with a heavy pat delivered onto the screen. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Gia,” oh my fuck, he remembers. “I’ve wanted to make sure everything is relevant today, ‘cause I’ll be there in like… fifteen minutes, I think.”

“Oh, fifteen minutes,” she almost gasps, unable to conceal the nervous chuckle, certain there is no possibility she will meet him on time. “That’s cool, but I won’t make it.”

She hears his exasperated huff on the other side of the line, along with the calm exhale, and the following words – indication of the so-called professionalism. “How much time do you need then?”

“I don’t know…” she draws – a mannerism that he loathes more than anything – uncertainty audible within her voice, since she has blocked the visual channel, presumably still on the early stage of preparation. “Half an hour?”

“That supposed to be a question or an answer?” He manages to conceal the aggravated bark, tightening his grip around the steering wheel instead.

“An answer, I guess,” she shrugs, now risen up to a seating position, with the silky sheets pooling around her waist.

“Brilliant,” he concludes, a tad bit too drily for her own tastes, either way she ignores the unpleasant note, belittling it to the status of yet another subconscious allusion, prompted by the fairly deceivable mind.

“Anyway, you can drop by my flat if that’d be more convenient,” she proposes, yawning as her limbs stretch, joints cracking in a satisfactory way.

“Text me the address then, and I’ll meet you there,” he instructs in a blunt manner – non-verbal indication that ‘no’ appears to be an invalid response in such circumstances.

“With-” oh right, he hung up.

What a douchebag.

Luckily capable of ignoring the bitter aftertaste, at least for now, she stands up, shivering as her feet brush the cool floor, which in the end turns out as rather beneficial, pacing up her walk to the bathroom. Accompanied by the electric buzz, the light flickers out, reminding her for the nth time this week to call the estate owner, and deal with it like any reasonable adult would do, or simply wait for the day when she will be forced to complete her morning preparations in pitch darkness.

(Couldn’t dream of a better outcome...)

Certain that opting out for the top priority appears to be the most sensible solution in her position, she steps under the shower, letting the hot water cascade down her back, skin flushing due to the temperature. The heat itself elicits a relieved moan from her throat as the tension begins to evaporate from her body – parallel to the steam sprawling on the glass – tingling with the newfound excitement, apparently enhanced by the growing warmth. Perfectly aware there is neither a decent mood nor enough time to search for any relief, she ends up uttering a frustrated huff, while painting her front with the liquid soap, soon to stream down to the drain.

Having accomplished what must have been the quickest shower she has ever had, she only manages to put on more or less randomly picked up clothes, before the morning lull is sliced by the ringing doorbell that almost forces a fearful shriek from the broody woman. With a few hurried steps through the living area, she unlocks the door, confronted by the sight of virtual impatience, anticipating her presence since the earliest hours of dawn – posh dweller of equally polished suit – along with the flawless composure that evokes this peculiar insecurity in reference to the personal choice of clothing, seemingly not appropriate for such occasion.

Intimidating to say the least.

“Hi,” she greets him with a welcoming smile either way, gaze altering between his face and the ink peeking from the collar of his shirt, evoking the newfound curiosity about the whole concept, hidden beneath the fabric.

“Hello again,” he reciprocates as the corners his lips twist into what must be the so-called smug smirk, features visibly lightening. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” she snaps out of the trance, failing to conceal the nervous giggle adorning her affirmative response, caught hand in a cookie jar.

(Ah yes, the dovey one.)

Which is yet another subconscious mind’s assumption, although he believes that tendency to evaluate any given situation on the go appears to be linked with age, or more specifically – gaining general knowledge over the human dwellers and their behaviors. Therefore, in order to enhance the efficiency, one obtains the ugly habit of premature judgment, openly loathed by majority of population and yet dealt with from the hand of few, which in turn leads him to a rather inconvenient truth – one day, there will come the time when he trips and smashes his nose on the floor – metaphor adorned in pain less bearable than in a physical case.

(Been ‘round the block a few times.)

Nevertheless, the petite girl steps aside, allowing him to pass the threshold, further on perch upon the sofa and snatch the flat screen from his bag.

“Back to business…” he initiates, motioning her with a suggestive eye tilt, icy irises that bore into her soul, such a cooling contrast for her synthetic hue, enough to send an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.

“Don’t you want something to drink?” She gulps, gaze adverting to the side, unable to bear its intensity, right before she plops down onto the couch, brushing his knee by accident – plain contact that almost has her jolting away to the side.

(Get a fucking grip.)

“I’m good for now,” he rejects the proposition, just to witness her frown slightly in response. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

“I’ve disrupted your schedule, haven’t I?” She ascertains, seemingly more preoccupied with tucking one of her feet under the pleasantly warm thigh than maintaining eye contact, which irks him up more than he cares to admit; not a good sign to be honest.

“Pretty much yes, unless we hurry up, of course,” without letting her speak, he carries on with the beyond obvious explanations. “Anyway, here’s the contract that I need to sign if you’re willing to continue, which I think is polished by now, so let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“Sure,” she accepts the offered device, flinching as their fingers brush, cold like ice. Clueless when it comes to what is happening to her, or more importantly – why he has such potent influence over the outgoing woman, at least until now, eliciting the most unusual reactions, the shameful shyness for instance.

“You can’t be this tense if you want to make this arrangement work,” he states, apparently out of nowhere, leaning towards the coffee table, weight braced on the elbows.

“Excuse me?” She frowns, with the metallic stylus in her hand, now long forgotten, as she glares at him, not so caught-off-guard for a change.

“You’ve heard me,” he cocks a condescending eyebrow at her, and if not for the blinking she would suspect he is not a human after all.

(Do androids blink?)

“Stating that won’t make any difference,” she huffs, peaceful façade seared by the gradually developing irritation.

“Care to elaborate?” He nags further, as if already capable of naming all her weak spots, thanks to his long-term professionalism in such domain.

“There’s no shift in the attitude,” she clarifies, noting the fact as if it was an absolute truth, suited for this and every other occasion in the future, greater than all the celestial beings, even if combined together.

“Would not pointing it out make any difference then?” He retorts, not expecting to hear a verbal answer this time, instead filled with the telltale silence. “See? Told you so.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she counters, shaking her head in denial, hand mirroring the rushed movements.

“So what did you mean for a change?”

“I meant that pointing this out usually enhances the tension,” she explains, glancing briefly at the thin piece of metal clutched tight in her hand – a realization casted upon the woman.

“I believe it’s still worth the effort,” he shrugs, infuriatingly careless now that he has won, at least according to his suppositions.

“Why are we even discussing this?” She sighs, as if utterly exhausted by the teasing debate, and so willing to wind it up with the simple scrape over the screen. “Just let me sign the contract.”

“Go on, no one’s stopping you,” he flicks his wrist in an affirmative gesture, encouraging her to pursue. “I’d even dare to say right the opposite,” oh, so now he would play the smart guy, how delightful, she thinks, and yet responds immediately, topping up said contract with a flourishing signature, quick to hand it back to him. “Thank you. And by the way, you have an interview scheduled for tomorrow, just so you wouldn’t forget.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” she flashes him a replacement for a proper smile, just to witness the male respond with a parallel gesture, and before she knows it, he is back on his feet again, towering over her figure, and so prompting to follow his traces.

“It’s just my job, no hard feelings.”

No hard feelings.

(Easier said than done.)

* * *

Past.

Easily associated with safety, blissful awareness granted by the reliability of bygone memories, a place where one is willing to return to in times of unspoken restlessness, and so dive into the flowery reminiscence – beloved escape. However, at some point in one’s life an unspecified hand flips the switch, allowing to see the sheer absurdity, which in turn leads to a purifying realization – the past is not enough anymore, and so a different, more potent stimulant is required.

Her best friend would probably label it as ‘yet another mistake’, worse than falling for Cara, nevertheless she cannot help herself, knowing that one way or another she will be forced to release some steam, to transfer the concoction of feelings into work – a song, sublime and powerful, carrying an amaranthine meaning. Losing herself in the complexity of the world she has gotten to inhabit – borne against her will, such a cruel law – seems so effortless in comparison to the sheer burdens of existence, paired with the average life expectancy and the endless predictions of elongation, justifying it as yet another whim of humanity.

(Even rhymes with immortality, what a coincidence.)

Why would anyone even crave something so insane – eternality – unaware of the real meaning hidden behind these ten letters, bound by the long-gone linguist – extinct specie? Expression of their thoughtlessness? Might as well be.

At this point it appears as quite tough to specify, her mind delving into far too many places at once, incapable of maintaining the indispensable concentration with Nova running through her bloodstream, retreating the human ability to focus on a single factor. As the reality begins to fade away, various background noises dull into one unpleasant screech, inseparable, her ears ringing as the first wave rocks through her body, a vague pat on the back, followed by the tingling sensation of a relatively cool hand tracing her spine. While a minuscule part of her loathes the feeling of metallic digits dancing over the heated flesh, the more influential one is flying sky too high to care, remaining still in that one inconvenient pose, leaning towards the shiny table.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” His hand slides further down her back, playing with the hem of the low-cut dress she has opted for today, its silvery hue reflecting the colorful lights. “What do you say, sweets?”

“Mhm, yes… exciting… exciting it is,” she barely formulates the affirmation, her brain clinging to the established choice of words, out of capacity to exchange it for anything more intricate. “But I think I gotta… I think I… I gotta go I think.”

“So soon?” He questions, both eyebrows risen in feigned disbelief, chrome digits dipping underneath the fabric only to find the silky strap in process, stimulating enough to occupy his carnal interests for a brief moment.

“I’ve paid you… I’m sure I have…” she mumbles, involuntarily jerking away from the touch, muscles twitching as an innate response to the unwanted contact, lost in between her attempts to complete the sentence, “for the pills, I mean.”

“Well, yes, that’s correct, you have,” he agrees, albeit immediate to clarify, “but I’d like something more from you.”

“What?” She frown in confusion, eyes staring into the distance, blurred outlines of dancers rushing through her mind, hips swaying to the beat. “No, I… take me home… please.”

“Maybe later, ‘kay?” He proposes, still patient, fingers stroking the smooth skin in an attempt to soothe the confused female.

“No… I wanna…” she counters, one final time, although enough to crack his resolve, hand abandoning its previous track, leaving only the fleeting remains of proper touch on the heated skin.

“Quit whining and get up,” he huffs, audibly irritated, and she cannot help but wonder about the causes, random associations blending into one shapeless pulp – concoction of equally indistinguishable elements.

“No!” She squeals, a little louder this time, as a stab of pain shoots through her arm, almost yanked out of its socket, at least according to her perception, attracting attention of a passing female, although definitely short-lived, soon to mingle in the crowd.

Because who cares?

“You. Are. Coming with me,” he punctuates the words, delivering another harsh tug, intent to force her to move. “Whether you want to or not.”

Unable to verbalize the evident objections, let alone break away from his iron grasp, she can only follow his traces, while trying oh so desperately to figure out what is happening around her, cling onto at least one given stimulus. Her vision is blurry, blinded by the neon lights, as if her eyes were tearing, but at the same time she doubts she has ever felt that helpless, that fearful, emotions running all over the place, full of contradictions, frenzied and delirious.

Searching for physical support, she leans in to his frame as soon as the man stands still, but due to the black spots staining her perception, she can barely make out where they are, especially with her head is spinning like crazy. Before she knows it, his arms encircle her waist, preventing the young and oh so promising musician from a disastrous rendezvous with equally unforgiving floor, much to his exasperation.

Overall, the plan has been a little different, certainly not featuring the scenario in which she passes out, another unconscious body to take care of, whist also ‘unfuckable’ in such state. Therefore, the most he can do for the woman is to dump her by the corridor wall, as befits the ‘immature dickhead’, certain that no one would attempt to link her with him, at least according to the general numbness in the so-called ‘world full of cruelty’ and the glorious lack of interest in dealing with minor crimes.

Morality?

Shattered?

(And what else?)

* * *

The first time she experienced something like this was approximately about sixteen years ago, give or take, although she prefers to keep such stories to herself, since people tend to label it as rather dubious and the last renown she aims for is ‘untrustworthy’. Nonetheless, it all appears to be rather simple – high fever tends to retreat distant and prompting visions, mainly associated with sensory memory, aspects that are supposed to remain out of reach, and yet linger somewhere in the back of one’s mind. Take for instance the sensation of being rocked to sleep in mother’s arms, deprived of any distinctive images, just the monotonous lull and mere hum of her silvery voice, singing some nonsensical song, its lyrics undistinguishable by now.

Ergo, for a brief moment, yet to collide with reality, she is convinced that she has forgotten to swallow the necessary medicaments due to her ailing state, evident in the disastrous headache, possibly linked with abnormal temperature, and mind drifting towards obscure dimensions once again. Before she gets a chance to familiarize with the newfound vision, it is disrupted by a harsh jerk, so unlike her parents’ manners, forcing both eyes open and so greeting the woman with a sight she is not braced for yet – a guy, recognized as a bartender, shaking her awake, not Carlos who might as well be long gone by now.

“Gia?” He frowns, visibly puzzled, both hands resting on her shoulders, warmth atop icy skin, sending a pleasant wave of heat through her half-conscious body.

Unable to grant any sensible answer, she blinks a couple of times, trying to adjust to the neon lights, with her vision still a little blurry, before she actually manages to formulate a proper response, voice croaky, as if not hers at all. “What’s going on?”

“I could’ve ask you the same,” he reciprocates, audibly annoyed, hands now abandoning their previous spot upon her shoulders on behalf of a more convenient squatting position.

“I don’t remember much,” she admits, clenched fists rising to rub her eyes in hopes it will somehow bring her back to the land of living.

“You did it again, didn’t you?” He huffs, accusation evident in his voice, or maybe it is just fatigue, disappointment with her countless predicaments, not that he is the only one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she shrugs, the least talented liar ever born, beyond embarrassing to pursue.

“Whatever Gia, I don’t give a shit,” he sighs, utterly defeated. “And I’m resigning from babysitting you tonight. Work schedule, you know.”

“I-”

“No time for that,” he interrupts, remains of the so-called empathy long gone by now, granting the blossoming irritation with essential space. “Someone’s gotta drag your ass from here, I mean the club, and take you home.”

“I can’t stay here?” She frowns, disappointed with the unfortunate turn of events.

“What?” He laughs in disbelief, a mocking tingle that enhances all negative emotions disrupting the guilty songbird. “Of course not, it’s a club, not drunk tank.”

“But-”

“Just find someone who can take you out,” he instructs, glancing at the door, hoping the manager has not noticed his absence by now. “And tell him it’s fucking urgent.”

“Okay,” she agrees, displeased with his harsh approach, irritation evident within her voice. “Just give me some fucking space.”

“Sure, I gotta head back anyway,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden – feigned façade mastered over the years. “Can you stand up?”

“I don’t feel like checking it by myself,” she utters a nervous chuckle, hand already outstretched for the bartender, and who is he to leave her hanging like this, ever the gentleman. “Could you help me?”

“Sure,” he throws her a fleeting smile, and with a steady grasp on the woman’s arm, he hoists her up from the ground, knees seemingly too weak to hold the rest upright. However, the necessary support is granted by the wall, allowing the female to brace her weight on the forearms and press the forehead to the concrete structure as a potent wave of dizziness rocks through her fatigued body.

“Thanks,” she murmurs faintly, still in the process of dealing with the unpleasant aftermath of earlier decisions, and so dangerously close to throwing up on the polished floor.

“It’s nothing, Gia, really,” he assures, his mind already circling back to work-related issues. “Just get your sorry ass outta here.”

“Sure,” she huffs, rolling her eyes in an almost theatrical manner, as if to ensure he gets the message with plenty of reserve. “Have fun.”

“Yeah, you too.”

And with that careless response, he walks away, hasty steps echoing in the corridor, soon to disappear around the corner, and so leave the hall altogether. Finally deprived of any company, she fishes out the phone from the depths of her purse, and calls the only person she can think of in such circumstances – Connor, or Connie, since the choice is apparently not his to make. At this point she is practically trembling with that peculiar concoction of excitement and exhilaration, fingers crossed he will pick up at such late hour, since wishing for anything else seems like a childish exaggeration now.

“You better have damn good reasons for calling me in the middle of the fucking night,” ever the most talented in the field of pleasant conversations, he opts for greeting her with such expression, voice rough with sleep, sending a shiver down her spine.

“So I got into some trouble tonight and-”

“Just cut to the chase,” he barks out a blunt order, his patience running low in the face of increasing exasperation. “I don’t have energy to listen to some background bullshit.”

“I need you to take me home from Interstellar,” she states, having decided that to keep it simple means to succeed, rather than to bestow him with countless euphemisms, supposing it would justify her irresponsible behavior.

Right?

“Excuse me?” He chuckles in disbelief, a mocking laughter that almost has her snapping at him – the most immature reaction she could ever imagine. “Seems like you might’ve mistaken me for your fucking chauffer, who I’m not by any means, so thank you for such divine opportunity but I think I’ll pass.”

“Why are you always acting like a fucking dickhead?” She sighs, voice smaller than she would like it to be, as the day-long fatigue settles into her bones, which combined with the unpleasant tone nearly has her bursting in tears.

“And why are you always getting personal?” He jeers, a crude remark to stab her right in the chest, and so discourage to pursue. “It’s just work, nothing else, and the sooner you learn it, the better for you, ‘cause I’m not hired to deal with your non-career issues.”

“It might become a career issue if someone finds me here,” she reciprocates, betrayed by the not-so-subtle hint of desperation lacing her voice, shaky at the end.

“Tryna out-talk me?” He chuckles bitterly, his head lulling slightly to the side in her mind’s eyes – a mannerism she has grown accustom with during those few weeks. “C’mon, don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, I just wanna go home,” she tries once again, now actually on the blink of tears. “Please.”

“Pathetic,” she hears him spat on the other side of the line, probably not meant to reach her ears, but it does either way, forcing Gia to suppress the choked sob threatening to escape her constricted throat. “No, just no. I’m not doing shit for you. You’re a fucking adult, so I think you’ll find your way outta here.”

“But-”

“No, enough of that,” he interrupts, annoyance evident in his voice. “It was nice talking to you, but I’m going back to sleep now. Have fun.”

“Don’t hang up, please…”

Oh right.

Douchebag.

Fighting the urge to cry out in exasperation, she dials his number once again, dangerously close to chanting an actual lucky prayer, nevertheless determined to make him comply for a change, since in this case hope indeed appears to be the mother of fools.

Ironic.

“The fuck you’re calling me again?” He barks out, absolutely furious.

“Will you come? Please,” she sobs, finally letting the tears stream down the sides of her face, way past her breaking point now. “I don’t wanna stay here. It’s so cold, and I’m so tired.”

“You won’t let it slide, will you?” He sighs, a realization casted upon the man for a change.

“No,” she sniffs, wiping her eyes with the free hand, black dust from the so-called ‘waterproof’ mascara coating her fingers. “They’ll throw me out elsewise.”

Nothing.

(Silence speaks a thousand words.)

“Connie?”

“Fucking fine,” he gives up after a longer pause, seemingly ready to consent to her wish. “Just stay right where you are until I get there. We’ll meet by the main entrance as soon as I text you, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” she gulps, trying to conceal the exited squeal threatening to slip past her lips as a result of his approval.

“Very well. See you.”

“Connie?” She calls out one more time, voice laced with distinctive hesitation.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Sure, no big deal.”

And with that he hangs up, on one hand leaving her with a bitter-sweet wish they would chat a little longer, while on the other she is well aware it would be simply nonsensical, lingering somewhere in the back of her mind. Once again deprived of the craved-for company, the sensory aspects hit the woman with full force, the pounding ache of her own body, betraying in the midst of crisis, arms encircling her trembling frame in order to deliver at least a mere illusion of being held by someone.

(Connie?)

(Ha! You wish!)

(He doesn’t even like that nickname… the fuck is wrong with me?)

Unable to keep herself upright, she plops down onto the cold floor, with the bottom part of her dress hiking up, and so exposing the legs to icy air which, enhanced by the fatigue, has her trembling on the ground. In hopes it will somehow allow to maintain the essential warmth, she curls into a ball, resting her forehead on the bent knees, eyelids shutting on their own, which in turn bestows her with odd solitude, even though there is no possibility she would drift to sleep in such circumstances with her body trembling like a leaf in the autumn breeze.

Minutes upon minutes, she is gradually beginning to lose the track of time, not daring to glance at the clock even once, surprisingly patient for a change, maybe in the face of feasible fulfillment. And yet, despite the aforementioned calmness, she almost jumps out of her skin as soon as she feels the phone vibrating in her hand, not wasting any time to check the incoming message.

“I’m here,” it reads, which puts a relieved smile on her face, and so she is rather quick to stuff the device back into her purse, then get up with a renewed vigor, walls granting the necessary support.

Pushing the heavy door open, she walks out to the guests’ zone, greeted with all its splendid virtues: loud music and insufferable crowd, which prompts her to circle the dancefloor and so avoid the troublesome encounters. Lucky to get past without any of that, she steps through the reception area, soon to make her way out of the club altogether, cool evening breeze palpable on her face, sweeping the bangs away from her forehead.

Nevertheless, with more pressing matters occupying her mind, Gia is immediate to spot him, leaning by the side of his car – such an unusual sight to behold, without one of his beloved suits, exchanged for the benefit of more casual attire. She blinks a couple of times, as if to ascertain he was not mistaken for another man, having assumed he would be the only person waiting outside, and to be honest she cannot conceal the relieved sigh slipping past her lips as a response to the inviting gesture – a graceful flick of his wrist.

“You look absolutely miserable,” he notes, and even in face of the gruff greeting she almost fails to restrain from hugging the coarse man as a thank-you gift. “C’mere.”

“I owe you,” she declares, a steady exclamation until disturbed by his hands gripping her arms, leaving the woman confused for a moment.

“Yes, you do,” he agrees, frowning as she reciprocates the gesture, lithe fingers wrapping around his biceps; and hell, it is just to prevent her from hitting the pavement, not indicate anything sexual. Why does she have to read every message wrong? “Now get in the car.”

“There’s no need to be unpleasant,” she huffs, visibly annoyed, and so seriously considering the break-away from his not-so-loving grasp.

“I’m being practical not unpleasant,” he rolls his eyes in response, blatant and unashamed, choosing to release her this time, intent to open the door for his female associate, “since I don’t think you’d like to experience yet another encounter with a ground of any kind.”

“Sure, thanks,” she reciprocates, cold as ice – terribly feigned façade, although immediate to get in the car, letting him shut the door for her, then ride away in what seems like a blink for her limited perception.

At least according to what she keeps telling herself.

(Liar.)

* * *

“I’ve left you a glass of water on the bedside table, ‘kay?” He throws a brief glance at her figure lounging on the bed, now clad in a monochromatic tee, suppressing the urge to linger on the exposed skin for a little longer.

It is always hunting him, the flesh.

“Tell me you understand.”

“Yes,” she mutters, voice muffled by the pillows, not caring to throw him a merest glimpse.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you’ve left me a glass of water on the bedside table,” she complies, as if fed up with his never-ending requests oscillating around definite responses, ever the hypocrite.

“Very well,” seemingly pleased with her response, his lips twist in what must be a ghost of a proper smile, although the following words fail to satiate the prominent craving, much to her displeasure. “So sleep tight and make sure you call me as soon as you wake up.”

“Connie?” She calls almost at the spot, having decided to take the matter in her own hands this time, afraid that if he gets up, nothing will be enough to stop him from leaving altogether.

“Connor,” he corrects, voice laced with an audible hint of annoyance.

“Doesn’t matter,” she dismisses, while urging her body up on the elbows to look at him properly for a change, at least according to the etiquette of any decent conversation. “Stay with me tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” he counters, cold as ice once again – a notion enhanced by the neon lights casting shadows on his sharp features.

“Why?”

“’Cause I’ve driven your sorry ass home which is enough of selflessness from me for the following month,” he spats bitterly, intent to rise from his spot on the couch and walk out of the door, leaving her hanging, as if it was the most convenient solution ever imagined.

“Why do you have to be such an ass?” She huffs, disappointed once again – an impression she has learned to associate with him on the course of their encounters, and yet never failing to disturb her, even if only in the emotional sense.

(Helps me to keep the distance.)

“Nothing personal,” he claims instead, not even blinking as the words slip past his lips. “I’ve got errands to run tomorrow.”

“I don’t believe you,” she confronts, now seated properly with her back supported by the wall, as if to grant the superior position in their flimsy quarrel.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he reciprocates, infuriatingly calm all of sudden, shoulders shrugging at her furious expression.

(So easy to rile up sometimes…)

“I-”

“What?” He snaps, head twisting in her direction, eyes meeting with a metaphorical shot of electricity through her body.

“Is it so hard to understand? The fact that I don’t wanna be alone tonight?” She sighs, now in genuine doubt whether he is a human after all, which might as well be linked with the flawed perception, based on her own attitude – blemished. “You know, it’s just… today’s been so messed up and I just… I don’t know...”

“Got anything to confess?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, as if attempting to conceal the previous irritation with some careless swagger.

“I don’t remember much, but I have a feeling that something bad has happened to me,” she begins, having decided to choose her words carefully, since indicating that she is yet another pathetic junkie is the last direction she is aiming towards.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, really,” she refuses to cooperate, instead gets up from the bed and takes those few steps towards the couch to plop down beside him, shortly before resuming with her undefined explanation. “I’m aware of what I was doing throughout the day, but the evening memories are all vague, are… um… all fuzzy, and honestly I have no idea what to think about this.”

“Wanna talk about it?” He questions, seemingly relaxed, if not for the corner of his lip tilting in an unnerving way, proving that said proposal carries some hidden meaning as well.

“Yes,” she nods, since playing by his rules appears to lay beyond the realm of conscious control for now, no idea why.

(Sure.)

(Is that his voice? The fuck is wrong with me?)

“So tell me the truth.”

Speak of the devil.

“It wasn’t all a lie,” she scoffs, and yet cannot help but advert her gaze to the side, focusing on the small reddish stain decorating the coach cushion, wine presumably.

“Sure,” he hums in agreement, soaked in bitter irony, although pleased with the confirmation of his little theory. “But I wanna hear a genuine story this time, or none at all. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she affirms with a telltale burning upon her cheeks that appear to disrupt the defined vision of proper explanation. “So, I wasn’t alone at the Interstellar, I was with someone…”

“With whom exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses once again, shaking her head, as if more to clear out the mind before the key explanation than emphasize the earlier words. “The thing is, he gave me one of those pills he had, and I took it, so that’s why I don’t remember shit.”

“Well, that I’ve already figured out myself,” never the one to disappoint, am I right? “So where’s the catch?”

“I think I’ve made a mistake… I mean doing something like that in his company is a mistake itself, but… I don’t know… I feel so messed up,” she rubs a single hand across her face, hoping it will somehow soothe her, but nothing like this happens, so instead she slips it in his, searching for physical support – a gesture that catches him off guard for a brief moment. His flesh is cool to touch, most of it covered in some bizarre ornaments, black upon white – pale skin that looks almost eerie underneath the neon lights – her gaze following the pattern up his arm, until their eyes lock once again – tangerine and steel.

“It’s fine, I get it,” he affirms with a subtle smile, squeezing her hand in a skillful manner, enough to fulfill said wish without causing unnecessary discomfort.

“That was the first time something like this happened to me though,” she confess, throwing their linked limbs a brief glance, as if to ascertain he is still there, like in flesh and bones, not a passerby from a parallel reality. “It freaked me out.”

“No wonder it did,” he concludes. “Losing control can be one of the worst nightmares.”

“Tell me about it,” she huffs, rolling her eyes – a gesture to top the sarcastic remark with. “I don’t get it. Even though I’m aware of the consequences, I keep making the same mistakes over and over again… Hell, I’m so happy I have an opportunity to die.”

“Now you’re being dramatic,” he chuckles – not the exact reaction she intended to gain from him, but that will have to do for now.

“Aren’t we all?” She cocks a challenging eyebrow at him, her eyes glistening with an ghost of amusement, rather unexpected in such circumstances, which is also a good sign to be honest, the fact he is able to elicit that kind of response from her.

“Sure.”

“Thanks for listening though,” she ignores the little hypocritical attempt, indicating the blatant disagreement.

“Anytime Gia, anytime,” he bestows the woman with a smile for a change, even if fleeting – odd beauty to it all.

As her focus drifts towards the places of unknown, with the pensive silence settling over them, she fails to notice the subtle shift of his position, until their intertwined hands rest on her thigh, eliciting an embarrassingly audible gasp from the female, knuckles teasing the tender flesh as his tendons flex, supposing to prevent the nerves from getting numb.

“What are you expecting from this situation?” He interjects, his gaze focused solely on hers with intensity that has the female almost backing away – soul-drill to crack her attitude in two.

“Feelings are not to be verbalized,” she reciprocates, rolling her eyes at the inappropriate question, and yet opts for going out on a limb, since what goes around comes around, right? “And also, I think there’re more pressing matters to clarify anyway.”

“Such as?” He turns towards her, and now that Gia has his undividable attention, she is ready to put her inconsistent plan into notion.

“Ever wondered what would it be like… to kiss me?”

An exclamation that has him laughing out loud this time – such an unusual occurrence, although not the best sign to be honest – and yet she can work with that, glaring at him once the sound dulls down. With amused glimmers dancing behind his gaze, he appears to be studying her expression, as if in an attempt to read his songbird like an open book he would like her to be, at least for him, and yet, aside from the blatant desire for attention, the rest is buried somewhere deep, deep down, safe from his prying curiosity.

How infuriating.

Nevertheless, he is well aware what to do to gain the essential answer – break the not-so-stern rule, temptation in its purest form, granting the special privilege of seeing her gasp in shock, feign indifference just to throw herself in his arms as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

Sublime. Sadistic. Selfish.

Simply what he needs right now.

“To kiss you? No…” he draws on the syllable – a purring baritone that catches her off guard for a brief moment – not even supposing he is capable of making such sounds. “But to fuck you… now that’s a whole different story…”

(What the hell?)

“But we can just kiss if you prefer the PG-13 version,” he cocks a challenging eyebrow at her, and she takes the bait, all to his pleasure as far as it matches the plan, crafted on the go.

“I don’t-”

“No need to lie to me, Gia,” he interrupts, leaning slightly towards her, just enough to brush her chest, breath palpable on the exposed neck, prickling her skin with goosebumps. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

“Right now? For you to kiss me,” she gulps, failing to pursuit with the seductive tone, muscles twitching as she feels his arm snaking around her waist, still hoping she would maintain the confidence throughout the act.

(With him touching you like that? Sure.)

“A bit boring but if that’s what you want…” he chuckles, breath flaring through her hair, quick to catch the woman off guard again by yanking her onto his lap, one thigh pressed in between her legs.

“You’re such a dick,” she gasps at the unexpected contact, her insides coiling in anticipation to satiate whatever ache has been blossoming inside the artiste the moment he laid his eyes upon her.

“Sure, whatever,” he hums, careless as ever, tickling the side of her neck with feather-like kisses, barely present, like wind whispering patterns on her skin, ready to fly away and forget as the scent of his cologne engulfs her senses. Some twisted part of her wants to witness him break first, give in to the temptation, with dilated pupils and disheveled hair, rake his fingers through the strands, but nothing like this happens. Instead, he keeps teasing her with the gentle touches, tips of his fingers tracing the hollow of her spine, up to the point where she cannot take it anymore – the merciless tormentor – and tilts his head to the side, crashing their lips together.

(So it is on.)

With his arms around her body, he gains the essential motion range, ability to maneuver her upon his lap and of course guide the kiss, but since their plans seem to differ, she attempts to squirm out of the grasp – a matter he is quick to rectify with a harsh nip upon her bottom lip, drawing a surprised squeal from the woman. Even though she is already past the point of wondering whether he would be gentle, whether he would treat her like the finest china or just another frivolous chippie, she has not expected such straightforward approach, at least not from the very beginning, since that is what all the previous partners accustomed her with – the cautious build up leading to more ardent acts, while he appears to be toying with both contradictories, leaving her in anticipation for more.

(Fucking douchebag.)

With Gia gliding through her thoughts, he opts for seizing the opportunity now that her mouth is agape, seemingly beyond realization yet, and sweeps his tongue over her bottom lip, relishing in the tremor that runs down her spine as a response to the caress, palpable underneath his hands. Right when she expects him to dive straight into it, he breaks away, eliciting a disappointed whimper from the singer, a whimper that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants like some immature teenager, intent to switch to her neck and mark the flawless canvass – now simply pale and pure. As if put on repeat, she mimics the earlier sound – a response to the harsh suck – leaning backwards, expecting him to continue the established path further down, and yet he is back at the face level within a matter of seconds, having stained her flesh with a purplish bruise.

“I do mind that a bit, you know,” she huffs, feigning annoyance, even if only in a partial sense, unable to ignore the rapid pulsing of violated skin, akin to a sisterly heart drumming just underneath the surface.

“Didn’t see you complaining earlier,” he hums against her lips, planting a lingering kiss on the plump pout. “If I were in your shoes I’d be happy to have something to eye in the mirror when the lover boy is gone. Which, by the way, reminds me that I gotta be going, now that I’ve clearly overused your hospitality.”

(Like flipping a switch.)

“You gotta what?” She frowns in confusion, squealing in surprise as he slides her off his lap, leaving the female perched on the sofa, beyond agitated.

“Sleep tight and remember to call me in the morning.”

And with that he is gone, slipping through the door like a desert dust carried with the wind, its remains inhabiting every space imaginable, forgotten to be swiped away even while cleaning; since he would be damned if he allowed some brat to flash him her bits, get him all riled up just to back out in the end with whatever pathetic excuse she manages to make up on the go.

So instead he prefers the prevention strategy.

Leave her hanging.

Desperate for any kind of attention.

As for the clever, cunning.

Sadist.

* * *

It is safe to assume that getting used to the thought of her and Connor together took the young singer a fair amount of time, and not only that. What else was required to accomplish such inhuman target must have been the so-called emotional tranquility, not her most spectacular forte to be honest, and furthermore accepting the fact that he wants something more from her, whatever that something is.

The very thing that destroys her?

Might as well be, not that it would surprise Gia, considering her ever-present knack for involving in presumably not the most beneficial relationships, just for the sake of illusionary intimacy justified by equally tentative trust, the need to keep people close, lend them a helping hand in hope they will reciprocate someday. To contribute but never to be rewarded, at least with the desired amount of compassion, always judged through the prism of her performance, the outer surface – tissue-thin epidermis – deprived of human curiosity to dip millimeters underneath, and so discover what else she is willing to offer, beyond the carnal realm.

Cruelty of the

Arbitrary

Resolution.

And yet, she cannot stop thinking about him, imagining how his steps would echo in the corridor leading to her flat, how his hand would rise to press the button, how his feet would tap the ground while waiting for her to meet him by the entrance, far more preoccupying than she would like it to be. Tethering on the edge between two parallel dimensions – corporeality and conceptuality – she barely notices the slicing sound, tearing up the multi-level reverie into a bunch of useless pieces – a ring reverberating in the air.

“Fuck,” she curses, startled by the way too real noise, almost tripping, as she shoots up from the couch, rushing to open the door. She is greeted with the oh so unexpected sight of the ‘lover boy’ – display of vibrant confidence, obscuring the hint of impatience that must be lurking just beneath the surface, once again without any of his posh suits, although not lacking essential elegance, having opted for simple black pants and matching shirt, keeping the top buttons undone, certain she would notice. As per his earlier assumption, her eyes linger on the exposed flesh, also marked by the ink, evoking the wonder about how far it actually reaches, which in turn leads to the much more risqué concept – the fact that tonight she is meant to clarify all doubts.

(Fuck.)

“Ever bother to check the visual?” He leans against the doorway, clearly waiting for any invitation, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at her – an indication she catches sooner than later, allowing him to step inside, and shut the door. “Or is it the perspective of seeing me that distracts you so much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she throws over her shoulder – feigned carelessness – as she follows him to the living area, frowning when he perches atop the mattress instead.

“And depend on random compliments?” He chuckles, fingers stroking the silky sheets, as if to approve their law of existence as a part of her bedding. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Sure you will,” she rolls her eyes, nevertheless allows him to pull her onto the plush surface, their knees bumping as she settles down beside the man.

“What a clever girl you are, truly astounding,” he purrs – the exact same tone he used just a few days ago, and yet so much different – fresh and bold, evoking the insatiable desire for more. “Which reminds me that I’ve brought some wine for us.”

“I’m more of a Tequila girl to be honest,” she bestows him a fleeting smile, thrown off guard by the brush of his fingers upon the exposed thigh, now that her dress has ridden up a little, nevertheless quick to return on the abandoned track of thoughts, “but wine is a classic, so I appreciate it.”

“Sure, Sundance,” he teases, tickling her skin with feather-like strokes – another call-back to their last encounter – although this time her muscles quiver as he skims the golden ring adorning her shapely leg.

“So do you want to drink it now, or-”

“Why the nerves?” He frown, in time with the touch-deprivation, placing the aforementioned bottle by the foot of her bed with a soft click – unsettling since terminal, at least according to personal perception – supreme deceiver. “It’s not like I’ve came here to hurt your or something.”

“Yeah, I know,” she nods, reaching out for his hand to thread their fingers together. “But you’re just something… something new to me, and I have no idea what to expect, that’s all.”

“Oh honey,” he smirks, eyes glinting with a lingering promise that leaves her determined to uncover the truth behind his intents, “you’re gonna love this, I promise.”

“Guess I’ll have to take your word for that then,” she shrugs, allowing him to pull her onto his lap once again, calves on either sides of his thighs for a change.

“Guess you’ll have to.”

And with that, their lips collide, sucking a breath from her lungs, and so shaping up the focus – tunnel vision, disability to judge the situation through the prism of a bigger picture, especially when his hand reaches the zipper of her dress, soon to drag it down, exposing the pale flesh to relatively warm air. In spite of that, her skin prickles with goosebumps, failing to contain a violent shiver, as his fingers explore the area in sync with the sensual dance that is their kiss – awakening of the burdened desire, prompt to shove him down, check whether he would crack in response – such an absurd idea, downward foolish, although that she is yet to realize, all in due course.

Puzzled with the sudden shift in her attitude, he peers up to the woman, forehead marked by a frown of confusion, until his gaze follows a path further south, halting once it reaches the disarranged cleavage, tops of her breasts peeking through the fabric. As if with a mind of its own, his hand reaches out to tease the feminine curve, eliciting a gasp from his not-so-stern partner, leaning towards his touch – fleeting scrape of butterfly’s wings upon the heated flesh, meant to enhance the inborn craving for more.

“C’mere,” he purrs, low baritone that sends a vibrant buzz straight to her core, and yet she hesitates to comply, tethering on the pinnacle between elongating the mild, although undoubtedly pleasant, experience and succumbing to the whispering prompts of her instinct, too caught up in the trance to deny the subconscious responses delivered by her body.

Seemingly unable to defer anymore, she leans in to him, sighing as he cups the perky globe in one hand, teasing the protruding nipple with the pads of his fingers, until she gasps his name – a single word, yet potent enough to cloud his eyes with a resemblance of lust, mirroring the fiery hue of her own irises. With the self-control aspect casted aside, she allows him to pull down the fabric and so expose the upper half of her body that he appears to be quite fond of at this point, attempting to ignore both the burning gaze upon bare skin and the growing hardness in between her legs, applying pressure to the dampening folds.

Intimidating to say the least, considering it has been a while since she was placed under such circumstances – a penis owner in her very own bed, grazing the lacy cloth with barely palpable shifts. In the midst of honesty she is ready to admit that the concept of stuffing a rigid member inside has always filled her with some odd kind of nervousness, disgust maybe – determinant of established preference, leaning more to the opposite option.

Even so, she has found herself attracted to the Connor almost at the spot, the exact moment his eyes landed on her figure by the doorway – initiation of the merest physical attraction, meant to blossom into something of entirely different nature, something that scares her more than she cares to admit. Furthermore, the last issue she needs to deal with is unrequired love, considering he is not the man who gives his heart away to each and every person he crosses paths with, unlike some people – hit for the metaphorical nail, precisely why she possesses so much hatred for him, at least a part of her does, while the other is drowning hopelessly, claiming she is a unique being, crafted for him like personal software.

With all that crap in mind, there is still the third aspect to it all – lust-laced craving, the carnal impulse that has her thighs fluttering in anticipation for what he is intent to deliver as his eyes bore into her – burning itch atop the exposed skin.

And that she is dying to find out.

“Mmm… fuck,” she moans, dumbfounded by the unusually intense sensation, rocking her hips to relieve the tension – subconscious response to the lack of direct stimulation – eliciting a throaty chuckle from the man below.

“So soon?” He teases, flinching as she presses closer to him, radiating with natural heat that has him twitching in some animalistic need to dive straight to the main business, even if for a split second. “How about a little variety first?”

“What variety?” She frowns, the movements of her hips halting as his hand abandons her breast, curious, or maybe just anxious, about his intensions.

“Ever been blindfolded?”

The question left to linger in the air for a split second, required for the artiste to comprehend its meaning, garnishing her cheeks with a reddish hue that laces his lips in yet another version of the so-called smug smirk, cocking an anticipatory eyebrow at the female. With her faced marked by the concoction of embarrassment and most importantly lust, she is no more no less a sight to behold, chewing at the corner of her lip in restless wonder – overthinking, burden of humanity. Even though it last for only a few seconds, he perceives it at least as a million

(what a surprising turn of events…),

yet maintains the essential patience to hear Gia’s response as his hands stroke her sides in some mindless form of caress, and so delay the decisive process, maybe without realization. What requires that brief struggle – point of discussion – is her return from the voluptuous trance, featuring the flash of seemingly every possible scenario, frenzied enough to appear as embarrassing, she shakes her head no – brisk denial – still leaving the matter pending.

“Wanna try it out tonight?” He proposes, to which she nods for a change, feverishly enough to fuel the cocky smirk upon his features – a concoction of lust and amusement. “Say it.”

“Yes, I wanna try out tonight,” she complies, without hesitation this time, as if he managed to strike some cord deep within, a cord that has her thighs twitching in search for the relief-granting friction.

(Fuck… that’s too much.)

“Very well then,” his gaze adverts to the side, indicating Gia to follow the established direction, settling once it reaches the flimsy gown hanging on the door of her wardrobe. “Give me that silky ribbon from your robe.”

Without further ado, she rises from the well-accustomed-with spot, and with a few, rather wobbly, steps, snatches the aforementioned item from the hanger, quick to pass it to him, indifferent whether it will reach its destination as smoothly as desired. In spite of that, he catches the belt with distinctive grace, twirling it in between his fingers for a brief moment, up to the point of fatal distraction – Gia discarding her dress to the side, allowing him to steal a glance of red lace covering the place of his interest, before she joins him on the bed, settled upon his lap once again.

“Now close your eyes,” he instructs, failing to conceal the breathy note marring the flawlessly composed voice – a nuance that appears to slip past her attention, without a doubt on his benefit, excited to follow his request, shivering at the first brush of silk over her skin, although not meant to relish the sensation for a longer while, since he is quick to tie it at the back of her head and so obscure the vision.

Pitch black.

“Lie down,” he bestows Gia with a concise order, having deprived her from the steady grip, hands now flying to grasp his shoulders, afraid to lose balance now that she is blind.

“How about a little help?” She huffs with a lingering hint of annoyance marring her voice, prominent enough to reach the picky ears of her paranoid manager. “I don’t fancy slamming my head in the wall, you know.”

“Don’t use that tone on me,” he snaps – an exclamation laced with a tethering promise, indicating that he is indeed a man of little tolerance to any form of misbehavior, which is not much of surprise to be honest, especially when considered through the prism of what she has witnessed him perform on the strictly professional ground.

“Or what?” She taunts, too blind, in the metaphorical sense of course, to realize how ridiculous she appears to him at the moment, pawing at his shoulders as the self-preservation instinct fully kicks in, working against her benefit, at least when it comes to narrow extension, yet to reach the verbal realm.

Which is exactly what elicits a mocking chuckle from the male, followed by an equally derisive comment, more than aware how to get under her skin. “Don’t tempt me, Sundance.”

“Like you wouldn’t want it,” she rolls her eyes, even though he is unable to see through the silky ribbon, letting out another vexed huff, cut short by the sudden flip that has her squealing in surprise, all against the conscious will. Some part of her finds such capacity rather unsettling, precisely how he can manhandle the dainty body in any desired position, while the other – dug out of the subliminal depth – relishes the sensation of physical submission, shivering in anticipation for more.

Luckily, that he is able to deliver, at least according to what she is hoping for, although the following action leaves her puzzled and most importantly alone on the mattress, almost prompting to remove the fabric in order to check why he has abandoned her. However, before she settles on any specific choice, she hears him rummaging through the bed drawer in search for hell knows what, and even though she is probably supposed to cut such liberties short, the woman remains still, well-aware of what he is looking for in there and yet caught in denial.

“If that’s what I think it is...” she begins, unable to conceal the subtle hint of trepidation within her voice, clearly excited to verify the inkling.

“What? This?” He pokes her in the side with the not-so-foreign object, buzzling to life in his palm, eliciting a shocked squeak from the female, much to his amusement. “Knew a lonely lady like you would have one.”

“I’m not-”

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums as if in some derisive form of agreement, lacking in pity but making up with condescension, now seated beside the partner, evident in the teasing brush of his pants’ fabric against her thigh. “But if you’re denying it so fiercely… then maybe I should stop?”

“No, I-”

“Just say it,” he prompts, tracing the golden ring encircling her thigh, which sends a resonating tingle all the way to her throbbing nipples. “Say that you want it, and it’ll be all yours.”

“I want you to touch me,” she states, feigning indifference, if not for the subtle hint of trepidation betraying her in the times of trial, which is no more no less than a hyperbole, but still – perception is delusive.

“Then beg,” he reciprocates, smirking as she twitches under his touch, subconsciously drawing her legs further apart – an instinctual invitation.

“But you said-”

“I know what I said,” he interrupts – a manner that elicits an audible huff from the dependent woman, supposed as a provocation, but at this point he is too amused to let such a silly misbehavior unhinge him. “So now I wanna hear you out for a change.”

“Please?” She asks – blunt and accusatory.

“Oh c’mon,” he frowns, undoubtedly displeased with her lack of dedication to the prior request – another polished façade he tends to display when needed. “You’re not even trying.”

To that, she has no response, at least throughout the course of several dozen seconds, required to verify the so-called balance of burdens and benefits, all while attempting to ignore the teasing brushes atop her exposed skin. She has never experienced anything like this – being so responsive to any form of touch, no matter how gentle, how fleeting, casted upon her flesh akin to some grotesque shadow – substitute of proper caress – which might as well be the real reason for cracking her resolve.

“Please, I need you to touch me so badly,” she strives for the most docile version of her tone, not used to such deal of resistance from the second participator, puzzled with the amount of self-control he has been displaying throughout their encounter. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?”

(Asshole.)

“No,” she sighs, beyond impatient, desperate to alleviate the tension blossoming between her legs, retreating the merest ability to focus, as if all pitiful remains of poorly constructed concentration have been thrown out of the window.

(Entropic fallout, wasn’t it?)

(Huh?)

All too soon, in one precisely brisk maneuver, he is hovering over her form, surrounding the female with natural body heat, as his lips trail butterfly kisses over the tender flesh of her neck – a gesture she would consider sweet under any other circumstances, albeit this time convinced that he is intent to transfer it into yet another merciless act. With the ability to contain her reflexes long gone, now that she is receiving any physical attention, she arches towards him, failing to contain a breathless gasp slipping past her lips as a response to his gesture – tracing the outline of her breast, as if to draw a spiral pattern to the middle – a fiery brand upon the sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” she squeals, synchronized with the harsh nipple pinch, eliciting an amused chuckle from the arrogant lover who is now preoccupied with stroking a line down her stomach, tensed with the anticipation for the coming dive.

“Mmm… fuck…” he groans into her ear – billowing puff of breath – heat over heat – as his fingers skim the lace-covered folds, greeted by a soaking amount of wetness that speaks to the most primal parts of his brain, that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants, wishing to launch for the simplest cut-to-the-chase, even if for a brief moment. “That excited already?”

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, pushing her hips up in an attempt to meet the hand hovering just above the delicate material – merciless denial that has her muscles twitching in anticipation, enhanced by the sensory deprivation, lack of vision that forces her to ponder upon each and every outcome. “Please, I need- uh, f-fuck…”

A mere plea, uttered in the state of lust-laced deliriousness, disability to comprehend what is happening around her, caught off guard by the following action – a dive straight to the main point of interest, no more excess teasing, fooling around with the fleeting touches that set her skin aflame, wordlessly begging him to pursue. Instead, he replaced the previous tickling with firm pressure, smirking as her hips buck in response, determined to fulfill the innate craving for more direct stimulation, not separated by the thin lace – flimsy barrier that has risen to a rank of an ultimate obstacle, obviously thicker than she would like it to be.

“Take them off, please,” she whines, all too familiar with the burning frustration, laced into her being, taking a form of some grotesque thread, stinging like a sharp needle, crying to be removed.

“Seems like you’ve been demanding a lot lately, don’t you think?” He taunts, almost back to the smooth baritone if not for the lingering hint of restrain hiding behind his voice, the smoky gaze he has been casting upon her exposed body for quite a while, perceivable on the intuitive aspect alone.

“No, please,” she cries in despair as his fingers abandon their previous spot, beyond desperate to complete the process, hands reaching to grasp him, but he evades the clumsy clutches, letting out an amused chuckle at the frenzied attempt.

“Relax,” he purrs into her ear – a sound that sends a resonating shiver down her spine, which paired with the abrupt nip delivered on the tender earlobe almost has her moaning out loud, “I’m far from done with you yet,” an exclamation meant to elicit another violent shiver, accompanied by his throaty laugh. “But before we move on, any specific requests you have in mind?”

“No, just touch me,” she whines, too unhinged to bother with general appearance, clenching her thighs to alleviate the ache, in foolish hopes it will somehow slip past his attention.

(Sure.)

“How exactly?” He continues, quick to grasp the woman by the shapely muscle and draw her legs apart, all for the purpose of witnessing Gia trembling in frustration.

“However you want,” she reciprocates, already past the point of bothering to conceal her responses – polar opposite to the moderate man beside her, which might as well be yet another foolish assumption, if missing out the lustful glint in his eyes, silvery hue that has transferred into one of these restless storms – dark and predatory.

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums – a conclusion laced by a lingering hint, somehow sinister, indescribable with the human vocabulary, probably unsettling in the eyes of the young artiste – a final warning – but she is not in the mood to dwell on any underlying doubts, meant to be clarified as soon as he presses the vibrating bullet to her clit, forcing a choked moan from the equally astonished female.

“Fuck,” she gasps as another incomprehensible wave rocks through her body, muscles twitching in response to the increasing pressure, once again dying to get rid of the flimsy barrier, “off, please.”

“Lift your hips,” he instructs, almost at the spot, maybe fed up with drawing the inevitable as well, to which she complies, allowing him to slide the lacy panties down her legs, then approximately toss them aside.

Settled beside his lover again, evident in the heated exhales palpable upon her cheek, he resumes the initiated activity, dragging the buzzling bullet up her folds to circle the swollen nub, eliciting another reedy squeal from the squirming partner, which in turn has him wondering whether it is her casual reaction to such form of caress – inability to remain still, shifting from side to side as if caught in some frenzied state of lust. Therefore, to facilitate the process, he opts for an alternative position, tugging Gia in between his legs, back to the firm chest, now able to hold the woman more steadily with an open palm sprawling across her abdomen. Even if that simple, the act affects him more than he cares to acknowledge, at least when attempting to match the distinctive candor, marveling at how lightweight she is – penchant for dainty women in general – which combined with the soft moans slipping past her lips has him twitching against the swell of her ass.

Despite the thick curtain of lust clouding her mind, she can feel him perfectly through the thin layer of clothing, more than nervous to acquaint the full length, considering there is barely anything appealing about said part of male anatomy. Furthermore, her attitude leans more to the category of ‘intimidated’ than ‘excited’, while pondering upon the possible outcome, someway obliged to convert it into ‘inevitable’ – a trait that tends to lead people on the baneful avenue.

As well as concealing the truth.

“Enjoying yourself?” He mutters into her ear all of sudden, dragging the woman back to the contemporary realm, at least as much as the carnal aspect allows to, mind foggy with desire, relishing the temporal docility that she is displaying, more vulnerable than ever.

Seemingly not in the mood to oppose, she hums in affirmation, twitching as her body surges with the approaching wave of ecstasy, surprisingly close by now, considering how little physical attention she has received on the course of their encounter, maybe due to visual deprivation as for the enhancing factor. With the heightened sense of touch, the low vibrations on her clit feel divine, otherworldly even, as a part of her wishes to tether on such stage for blissful eternity, explore the unknown realm at leisured pace.

Unfortunately, it turns out that she will not be the judge of that, since he removes the toy, not quite certain when exactly, since the ability to evaluate the passing time has abandoned Gia as soon as he pressed the bullet to her clit. As if caught in some tunnel-vision state of lust, she attempts to reach out for him, unfortunate to slash through the thin air, which has her groaning in frustration, and despite more than evident amusement, he soothes her with a warm palm on her thigh and a whispering promise, dedication that causes her to choke on own spit, head snatching in his direction, more than certain that she must have misheard him.

“What did you say?”

“I said I wanted to taste you,” he repeats, the same purring baritone as before reverberating in her ear, sending a violent shiver down her spine – a throbbing buzz straight to her clit. “What? Man’s never gone down on you?”

“Man? No,” she counters, still in genuine shock due to the least expected proposition, especially from the lips of the most arrogant, selfish bastard she has ever encountered, opting to dismiss all sensible doubts, when considered through the prism of his potential intentions, certainly not featuring the direct aim for climax. “But please do go on, I’m interested.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” he reciprocates, a sarcastic comment that somehow slips past her attention, most likely because she chooses to ignore it – negative for picky with more pressing matters occupying her mind.

“Can I get rid of the blindfold first?” She verbalizes what is germane, hands already reaching up to untie the knot, but he halts her with a disapproving click of his tongue, not intent to expand it to the physical realm, by grasping her wrists for instance.

“I don’t know, can you?” He teases, eliciting a frustrated huff from the female, as her hands fall to the chest, waiting for his approval, which pleases him more than she suspects, and so prompts to let it loose with a negligent tug.

Blinding light.

“Fuck,” she gasps, shielding her eyes from the city neons illuminating her face, bright and aggressive, marring the vision with ghoulish spots – temporal disability, excluded from the flawless world, shoved away as soon as it bumps into any of its dwellers, wandering in search of an ultimate place.

Chaos.

Parallel with humanity?

(Don’t be ridiculous.)

Smart enough to wait until it subsided, she adjusts their position, now chest to chest with Connor, as her sight shifts towards him, taking in the contours of his face, now accentuated by the artificial light, caught on the glimmering hint of chrome decorating his cheekbones – sharp and unyielding. Giving as good as he gets, his eyes bore into her façade – resemblance of a steel tool, corresponding with the icy shade, now reflecting the female’s image – orchid hair and tangerine irises, almost auburn in the dim illumination. There is something devilish about her, the intimate setting she is aiming for, the dainty hands braced on his chest, the affection in her gaze, prominent enough to unsettle the steady man, even if subdued by the membrane of lust, screaming warning to accelerate the process.

“Lie down,” he prompts, palms on the either sides of her hips as if to ensure she would move, “or else I might think you’ve changed your mind about this.”

“Sure,” she purrs, lips inches away from his, but still, the abrupt closure catches him off guard – firm pressure applied on the tender flesh – pouring every ounce of the bottled-up emotion into the kiss as for the vulnerable creature she is, meant to shatter in his callous grip, knowing it will be too intricate to comprehend if transferred into words. He lets her go with offbeat reluctance – a hint that she is able to catch, detached from his usual composure, topping it up with yet another fleeting peck, before she actually rolls to the side, nestling in the silky sheets – indication to pursue.

(Control-wrecking.)

With her spread out like this, prolonging the inevitable appears as beyond pointless, foolish dreams of a self-centered man with reliable composure, superior when juxtaposed with the pitiful rest, and yet succumbing to the carnal desire – spirited among the spineless, spineless among the spirited – civilized paradox. All meaningless in face of the feminine creature, lying on the velvety fabric, one knee bent, anticipating his touch, craving the flattery if only in the tactile realm, the synthetic hue of her irises now obscured by the eyelids – a detail at odds with his tastes and so a matter that he is quick to rectify with a stern grip upon her chin, eliciting a discontented whine from the young artiste.

“Eyes on me,” he bids, voice laced with proficiently concealed impatience, if not for the lingering hint marring the quintessential presentation – evidence of the lustful longing within his gaze, within the manner it outlines her curves, following up to the partly confused façade.

“I thought you-”

“Then you were wrong,” he interrupts, almost trespassing the point of autocracy that has her laughing out loud, albeit still capable of transferring it into a mere shadow of a proper smile – a nuance not meant to evade his perception, heightened by an animalistic instinct. “Don’t tempt me to wipe that smirk off.”

“What?”

Without bothering to clarify the four-letter query, as per usual, he retreats to the initial intention, determined to fulfill the shared craving – polar opposites that mingle into one, overlapping both perspectives – a prelude to the everlasting doubt:

To give or to receive?

(That is the question.)

In consideration with the dualistic lack of competence to put it to an end, and yet each time the occasion arises, every average scum would ask about interlocutor’s preference.

It must be the people who are damaged,

Shattered akin to a splinter of glass.

(Give me a fucking break.)

“Connie?” She frowns in confusion, clearly the one to be left hanging this time, albeit not only at loss in such realm – an exclamation shattering his reverie, not that it bothers him much under current circumstances.

Hence, being brought up to a point of boiling impatience, he opts for the simple cut-to-the-chase move and so settles in between her legs, pried apart with the telltale pressure of his hands applied onto the tender insides. Unable to ignore the tingling of her thighs, now grasped in his palms – slim and dainty in comparison, which evokes that odd concoction of contradictions – anxious but

(to the point of)

aroused, almost trembling with excitement for what is about to come.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Practically keening due to the freshly occurred friction, fleshy and tangible on the swollen folds, drawing a throaty moan from the woman – not the most appealing sound she could have uttered, but still, there is always a room for improvement, she thinks bitterly – caricaturistic resemblance of Connor’s notions. Little does she know, he is far from displeased, now that his hands are clasped around her thighs, and the tongue is tracing the feminine outline with deliciously firm strokes, having opted out of the warm-up, considered nonsensical after all prior actions.

In spite of the so-called burning frustration, each stroke is languid, leisure, as if it was his elementary intention to memorize the shape through such manner, but at the same time prevent from overwhelming her on the very first shot. That, paired with the poor concentration, limited to the heady flavor occupying his mouth, has his eyes adverting to the side, lids heavy with the decadent intoxication, mind much drowsier than before, so instead of maintaining the direct contact, he allows them to fall shut, even if for a mere moment.

Deprived of the visual stimulus, the object of main focus shifts to the taste-related factor, linked with a nuance that he has always perceived as interesting – each time it manages to satiate the fussy palate, which might as well be a direct result of pheromones’ presence – a bitter reminder that even below all the meticulously crafted layers lays yet another insignificant human, succumbing to the innate whim. A human barely able to maintain the substantial concentration with the rhythmical pumping of blood audible in his ears and an evidence of ardent lust crawling down his neck, beyond positive that his skin is hot to touch now, matching the tender flesh that is clutched in his hand, hard enough to bruise, he somehow manages to keep the pace, occasionally sucking at the swollen nub, intent to get as much from her as possible.

“Fuck, more,” she whines, urgency evident in her voice, shifting beneath the unyielding man, clenching around merciless nothing, “I need more.”

(There it is. More.)

“Already?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the frustrated vocalist, infuriatingly dapper in its condescension, tickling her with a mere stroke of his tongue upon the heated folds.

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, twitching due to the moderate caress, up to consider locking his head in between her thighs, even if for a split second, required to brace for the simplest of requests, “please.”

“And why is that?” He reciprocates in a teasing manner, now halting his movements all together to eye Gia with the signature intensity, still nested in the exact same spot. “Better not disappoint me with the answer, Sundance.”

“You’re such a-” she begins, soon interrupted by a cruel nip delivered right to the tender flesh of her folds – brisk, and so mind-clearing, but not harsh enough to hurt severely, and yet she cannot bother to hold back the boiling curse. “Ah- fuck you,” she spats, clearly not in the mood for any excess teasing, fed up with his never-ending talk, queries uttered in the most unfortunate moments, catching her in that peculiar state of delirious fogginess, as if intent to receive the most feverish answer.

“Well, I don’t see that coming,” he baits, still amused with each rising attempt to dethrone him from the superior position, feigning obstinacy to crack his resolve, check whether she has the capacity to break him – foolish pursuit of a permanent idealist. “Although I appreciate the sentiment.”

“What?”

“So,” he ignores the confused exclamation once again, determined to gain the desired answer from the woman, itching with impatience, enhanced by the lingering aftertaste upon his tongue. “Still so keen on disappointing me?”

“No, please,” she practically whines, dreaming about locking her legs to ease the ardent crave for friction. “It hurts.”

“I know it does,” he reciprocates, almost getting the hair-thin thread of longanimity to snap, thanks to the signature smooth swagger, especially when his eyes shift to the heaving breasts, pulsing with unresolved tension.

“Then ease me,” she suggests, not so demanding despite the straightforward nature of prior verbalization, laced with a prominent hint of desperation, impossible to be omitted. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?” He flashes her a pitiful smile, albeit this time she does not bother to formulate any retort, already shoved past the point of carnal urge, with tunnel vision drifting the hopeless individual towards her final destination – inevitable wreckage. To be honest, he must have lacked the corporeal form to omit all of these: how she is practically dripping on his tongue, quivering under the precise manners he glides her with, wave after wave, climbing higher and higher, up to the point where the rhythmical pulsing becomes tactile on the moist muscle. He is well aware of how little it would take to unravel the dumbfounded artist – three, maybe five sucks if he decides to embrace the latent potential for generosity – and yet the sadistic component wants to witness the scorching heap of frustration, spatting and cursing him to the nth degree just to get back on track with begging, merely a brief moment later.

(What a merciful man I am.)

(Merciful, huh? Now prove it.)

Almost sobbing in relief when the first tide rocks through her tingling body, she arches off the bed, damned if these were not stars she was seeing – nova, luminous explosion, blacking out the vision for a split second, yet enough to miss the hubristic glint in his eyes, relishing in the way her thighs quiver on both sides of his head. Allowing Gia to ride out the aftershocks, he bestows her with a milder alternative, barely skimming past the abused flesh, until she tugs him away by the hair, denying the access altogether, now that she is too sensitive to continue.

“That was nice,” she mutters, glancing at the rising man whose hands are now preoccupied with unbuttoning the burgundy shirt, “thanks.”

“Your ’nice’ is a fatal understatement, don’t you think?” He retorts, bitter once deprived of the physical connection, although the unravelling sight acts as enough of a distraction from the sour timbre, right at the gates of finding out about the authentic expanse of his tattoos.

“Maybe…” she drags on the syllable, drowsiness evident in the leisure mannerism, allowing her eyelids to fall shut for a longer moment, as if positive the resting interval between the tandem of acts is more than essential, “I don’t know…”

Conditional.

Blindness.

Once again without the visual stimulus, as if filtrating the faint shuffling in the background, her focus drifts towards more unnerving matters, towards how bizarre it will be to experience the subsequent intercourse in the manly way after those few years, now that she is a mere step from clarifying the preposterous doubts. Although she is certain he has no intentions in making her feel uncomfortable, out of place, as if she belonged elsewhere, as if she was incapable of transferring their time together into an enjoyable record for both of them – insecurity laced in between the strings of her being – she still hesitates, tethers on the pinnacle determining the predictive outcome.

(Now that is absurd.)

“C’mere,” he prompts, and if not for the purring baritone – a note that she has had a fair amount of time to get accustomed with – gentle tug of a dainty hand, she would remain trapped in the conceptual dimension. Instead, he settles Gia on his lap, eliciting a choked gasp from the artiste once she discovers the blunt lack of any form of clothing, all sturdy flesh below her petite form, eyes drifting to the stygian patterns marring the pale skin.

Vessel for conspectus.

Corporeal form.

Flattery of artistry.

Asseveration of one’s mindset.

Mysterious understatement.

“What does it mean for you?” She inquiries – a doubt popping out of blue, laced with apprehension of discovering the possible truth lurking behind his polished façade, emerging to the surface as a form of carnal avidity he eyes her with – a man starved, restive due to the intentional delay. “Sex.”

“Sex, huh?” He smirks – a ravenous glint enlightening his countenance. “Sex means power.”

(At least he is frank.)

(Sometimes, I feel sorry for him.)

“No, I mean this,” she gesticulates, pointing at each of them, albeit missing the amused tilt of his lips as a response to the untimed query, “you and me.”

“Entropy,” he bestows her with yet another evasive answer, now that he is so keen on pursuing further for a change, hands taking a steady grip on either sides of her waist, before he leans in for a kiss, meant to prevent the innocent doubt from blossoming into a full-blown sparring match – an overflow of endless qualms. In spite of her, rather disputable, judgment, she returns the caress, scooting closer to him – blatant euphemism since her breast are practically mashed against his chest, with frenzied heartbeat resonating through the ribcage.

Crescendo.

Pinnacle where one is deprived of the human ability to perceive reality as a compound of coherent particles, instead gradually declines into a place where most aspects acquire a diametrical form – indiscriminate and so considered unimportant through the prism of future reference. Analogy parallel to her current state, each and every worry evaporating in the night’s breeze, as his lips brush – no – claim the lonesome territory, hands trace the outline of her hips – reminder of the primordial intention – a mere breath away from flipping Gia on the back to clasp her hands above the head and… the rest speaks for itself.

(Better show than tell.)

And so, in order to keep up with the rush of concepts clouding his perception, he fulfills the aforementioned, eliciting an outraged gasp from the surprised female, as soon as she comprehends the abrupt reposition. Deciding to test the waters, she tugs at the makeshift binding, expecting him to tighten the grasp, but nothing like this happens, as if he managed to outrun her suppositions, and while it is still relatively firm, the pressure remains unchanged.

Queer.

Deep in her personal probe, she fails to notice his progressing movements, until he nudges her legs apart, right at the threshold of sliding in, twitching against the slender thigh in excitement. Due to the interval dividing the last and tonight’s encounter, rather generous in length, she acquires that peculiar like-a-virgin attitude, tensed and nervous, valuating the possible amount of discomfort, parallel to the potency of pain, almost blocking the way when he prods at her entrance, presumably by accident considering the following statement.

“You don’t have to impress me, okay? Just relax.”

Probably his first and only display of sweetness she would ever witness.

(Enjoy while it lasts.)

Which is exactly what she opts for, having taken a deep breath, hoping it will calm her rapid heartbeat – not only a futile but also naive attempt – prelude to the tearing entrée that forces a choked whine from her constricted throat, that has the hybrid nails biting crescent shapes into the heel of her palm. Although partly drowned by the feminine whimper, he utters his own groan – evidence of layered frustration, eased by the surrounding tightness, even if for a brief moment – while a part of him struggles to maintain still instead of nailing her to the mattress, not so metaphorically anymore.

“Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth, chest heaving with each uneven breath, and what he suspects must have extended to hours and hours of malevolent interlude, in reality requires less than a minute to feel the woman shift below, hips bucking in form of a silent plea.

And who is he to deny her that?

Having opted for such choice, he rocks into her, at this peculiar state of awareness when it comes to each scrape, each flutter, each alternative in pressure against the throbbing member that forces a barely audible gasp from the preoccupied male. Always so self-contained, so persistent, so… composed, and yet she has managed to shatter the inch-thick pane with the merest nuances – a blemish of honor – which disturbs him more than he cares to admit.

In a heap of developing necessity to shove the thought aside, he picks up the pace, forcing his eyelids open to observe the variety of reactions manifesting themselves on her face, too monotonous for his own liking, as if something was preventing the artiste from enjoying their encounter, as if a part of her was immune to the charms he used to enchant a number of lovers throughout the years. Even though she is, indeed, responding, uttering a soft mewl here and there, for some reasons each time he attempts to add his duos, the equalization grants him with an answer of three, as if a single particle was missing, which infuriates him even more than the stain once did.

Matter laid in his hands.

Before she gets a chance to take a grasp on what is happening, he leaves her lying cold by his side, even if only in a metaphorical sense, struggling to relocate in the changing settings, if the abrupt emptiness counts as one, beyond confused and so determined to express her immerse displeasure with the recent turn of events. While he however, less than keen on hearing whatever complains she dares to throw at him, shushes her in the most brusque way possible, at least if considering it through the prism of abusing the physical superiority

(is this even the right expression?),

by tugging her over his lap once again, albeit this time getting Gia to face the window, which has her frowning in confusion, all before he somehow situates himself inside once again, eliciting a throaty moan from the woman, surprisingly husky in contrast with the usual honeyed tune.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, clenching around him, positively caught off guard due to the fresh angle, squirming as she tests the waters – an action that has him hissing in discomfort, full of hatred towards the sensation that comes with being teased.

“Glad to hear that,” he mutters into her hair, breath tickling the tender skin below her ear. “Now grind your hips.”

Puzzled with the sudden shift in his attitude – giving up the control from before, at least as an initial impression – a matter of delusional deception – she halts instead of complying, which prompts him reiterate.

“C’mon, don’t make me repeat myself,” he purrs into her ear, lips stroking the sensitive flesh as he speaks, intent to discover what pace does the trick for the young artiste in his arms, and with that thought in mind, he allows himself to sigh as soon as she begins to move. Despite being well aware it might not be the most convenient position to lead, he intends to find out about the unspoken preference – reason of their misconception – and much to his surprise, she seems to enjoy whatever is happening between them now, having settled for the slower pace.

Soft and tender.

“Touch me, please,” she whines, grasping him by the arm in order to direct it in between her legs, when all off sudden, instead of fulfilling her wish straight away, he grasps her by the hips, putting the leisure interlude to an end, replaced by his own thrusts, meant to elicit that husky moan once again. Therefore, he slips his hand right where she wanted it merely a moment ago, drawing a honeyed mewl instead as it circles her clit, teasing the swollen nub with the same languid pace that almost had him tremble in frustration before, dying to witness the myriad of responses lying in her capacity.

“How does it feel?” he rasps, voice hoarser than ever before, clouded with a dense fog of lust, as if indicating the non-acceptance of disobedience in any form. “Tell me.”

“So good… so…” she begins, struggling to find the right words, the bodily influence over her mind more than evident under the current circumstances, “so… relieving… just keep going, please. ”

In spite of the hackneyed cliché, the sentence itself creates a binding influence over the male, combined with the layer cake of various frustrations, filled with piling impatience, and so enough to prompt him to fulfill the wish straightaway. Ergo, he increases the intensity of both aspects, which has her writhing atop him, squirming and whining for release, mouth agape and back arched, soaked in the neon glow – foggy reflection in the glass pane, branded underneath his eyelids for plenty of nights in the future.

Carnal fixation.

Who twists her neck to steal a kiss, bumping their noses together, dying to taste him once again before the final climax – elsewise pleonasm – fluttering around his girth as a prelude for what is inevitable, beyond anticipated, while he appears as perfectly capable of sensing her need, and so returns the caress. Albeit this time, it is safe to assume he is not just toying with her anymore, now that he is creeping closer and closer to the personal pinnacle, thighs twitching as she clenches around him to the point of vice-tight, almost preventing any movement, which might as well be a matter of hyperbolizing, but still, he would never allow it to end prematurely.

(A blemish of honor, was it?)

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps, with the self-control aspect running thin, evident in the loss of rhythm, perceptible even if not absolute.

“I- ah-” she gasps after a particularly rough thrust, interrupting whatever train of thoughts she has been gliding through, rewarded with a sharp nip on the side of her neck.

“Tell me,” he reiterates – gravelly groan that sends a tremor down her spine – rubbing the sensitive nub in firm circles, up to the point where she cannot help but buck against his hand, right at the cusp of bliss, ready to fall.

“I want this, plea-ease,” she whines, stuttering at the end, voiced laced with sheer desperation, dying for the final push.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Mouth agape in a silent scream bubbling inside her constricted throat, she arches into a telltale bow, head falling onto his shoulder, as she flutters around him – rhythmical pulsing that pushes him over the edge, muscles twitching below. Never had she allowed a man to use her like that, and while the artiste was once positive it must be the single most distasting experience of one’s life, she finds herself relishing in the inglorious sensation, trembling as the wave of aftershocks rocks through her limp frame.

(Fucking hell.)

Tangled on the silky sheets and coming down from their heights, neither of them dare to exchange a word, and so break the comfortable silence – tranquility emerging from the storm – instead bask in the afterglow, with him nuzzling her hair, seemingly in a moment of weakness, lacking the previous rapture. As if unable to foresee the inevitable, she utters a whine of protest the moment he pulls out from her body, having settled the partner aside once he collapses onto the mattress, fatigue evident in his movements, and yet allows her to curl into his side, even intertwine their fingers.

Interesting.

What else might be considered in such terms is the contrast, beyond stark, both in color and texture – creamy and tender juxtaposed with the inky pattern, flesh that is rough in to touch, indicating he must have been working in an entirely different field from the current corporative line – a layover on the methodical path to the ornament itself. Examining the small tattoos drawn over their length, she finds the disability to identify what has been depicted on his skin in such a dim lightening a tad bit infuriating, although not mood-defining, which would be rather odd elsewise – getting emotional over some minuscule detail.

(Hypocrite.)

“Did they hurt?” She asks, breaking the drowsy lull that has settled over them, a question that prevents him from dozing off for now, which might turn out for the better in the nearby future, since he is not quite fond of random modification in the hygiene routine.

“No,” he bestows her with a dismissive answer, once again and much to her annoyance if under any other circumstances, certainly not when she is lying half-asleep beside another warm body. “Mind if I use your shower?”

“No,” she mimics his most recent answer, nevertheless positive when it comes to the veracity of said statement.

What a terrible misconception.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – peaceful if not for that peculiar inkling lingering in the back of his mind, as if to indicate some ominous turnabout he opposes to discover. Pairing it up with one of the most loathed traits – attempting to fool himself – does nothing to alleviate the situation, instead enhances the disquietude that has been occupying his soul for quite a while, which in turn brings the anticipation of any possible denouement to the light, craving for certainty rather than a bunch of arising assumptions, even if it would lead to a minacious discovery.

Paradox.

Imminent downfall.

But a lesson from the most experienced teacher.

Life.

Life that has managed to educate him on a carnival realm, including even the least expected plot twists, the most obnoxious outcomes, begging for correction, a correction beyond qualifications, evoking the ardent embarrassment that follows in the wake of incapacity.

Although this time what initiates the process is an act.

An act so simple.

Nearly offensive.

A telephone.

No.

Let’s try that again.

It all starts out with a telephone from an old pal.

“Buenas noches, Connor,” he greets with a throaty tune that the manager has almost brought himself to forget – a road paved with good intentions. “Long time no see, eh?”

“Yes, most certainly,” he reciprocates, albeit surprisingly brisk to block the visual, all while striving for a note as calm as possible, burying all worries underneath the surface, at least for now – flawlessly polished façade.

“Oh c’mon, why so formal?” He whinges, smirk audible in his voice. “We haven’t talked for how long? Seven? Eight years?”

“Does it matter?” He shrugs, feigning indifference – desperate attempt of a drowning man. “It’s work related anyway.”

“Still concrete, I like this,” he remarks – deceptive tease.

“Flattery is useless,” he counters, tone harsh akin to a dagger – a reminiscence from the old times. “Unless, of course, you’re calling ‘cause you’re bored to shit and have no one to fuck. But I believe that’s not the case, now is it?”

“Sadly no,” he sighs, as if truly upset. “I have a wife now, so you know…”

“Oh and that’s stopping you? Fuck…” he rolls his eyes in mock disbelief – an involuntary response to the smoky tone. “But okay, let’s assume it does; then what’s the real issue, where’s the fucking catch?”

“You see people change-”

“And you believe in it? An old dog like you?” He interrupts – a retort followed by an incredulous chuckle. “Give me a fucking break.”

“Yes, I do believe it now,” he counters, voice laced with a hint of annoyance. “You see, I don’t like people within my scope, what’s mine stay mine. And who would understand it better than you, am I right?”

He only hums in approval.

“Very well,” he must be smiling now, not that he would want to see anything of that sort, but still, it disturbs him more than he cares to admit – a malevolent omen. “So I want you to do something for me, you know, for that time in New Mexico. I hope it rings a bell.”

“Yes, most certainly,” he mimics the prior answer, which has the man huffing in annoyance, although not interrupt his train of thoughts, if so enhance the need to spill the tea now that he has been given a chance.

Disastrous decision?

Well again, not really.

“Still remember how to kill?”

How many words?

Five?

Five words to utter the contrasting sentence, indicate the earth-shattering proposition.

Five words to send him straight to hell.

In business class.

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Do you have the slightest idea what the fuck are you talking about?” He responds after good three minutes – a fleeting expanse of time, slipping out of attention’s grasp, unnoticed by the stern man – voice marred with helpless wrath. “I won’t get involved in any of your shady little businesses.”

“And why is that?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow at the empty screen, wishing Connor could see this – a victory amongst the vicious.

“Fuck you,” he spats, hands twitching in immerse rage. “Just- fuck you!”

“Better not piss me off, chico, ‘kay?” He interjects – an exclamation laced with blossoming annoyance now that his interlocutor has allowed himself for far too many liberties. “I’m nice, ‘cause we’re friends, but I won’t be nice if you piss me off, está claro?”

“Can’t you hire anyone else?” An attempt of discussion? Really? Downright pitiable. “I bet you have multiple sidekicks that would gladly do this for you, ‘cause now I don’t have any time to deal with your shit.”

“Pfft… as good time as any,” he counters, oh so unexpectedly. “Plus I think you’re gonna do this far better than any one of them, not to mention – for free.”

“The first one is a fucking lie, which we both know, and the second-”

“Oh I beg to differ,” he interrupts, still vexed although convinced that what Connor needs is time, time to get accustomed with the inevitable concept, matter extending beyond the realm of personal control. “Both are relevant. You’re the best and you’re gonna do this for free ‘cause you fucking owe me. End of the story.”

“I don’t-”

“Oh you do,” he cuts off once again, intent to get the best of him – calm attitude and meticulous precision, “so just fucking listen for once.”

“What is it even about?” He queries, now that he has managed to satiated the ardent rage, at least enough to circle back to the milder tone, a tone that would fit Thiago’s tastes. “Business? Revenge?”

“Well, both I’d say,” he bestows him with a brisk affirmation, not that he is surprised, “but I don’t wanna get into many details now that we’re on the line, not that anyone of those sacks of fuck would care, but still, you know how it is… Anyway, his name is Carlos Vásquez, and two, three years ago he was just a pimp, a regular pimp, ‘recruiting’ regular people to do regular shit, nothing special, right?”

“So what has changed?”

“He’s extended his business’ interests to the drug market, but even that wouldn’t concern me much, at least not that much to kill him,” he halts, possibly to enhance the suspense, which combined with exasperating Connor creates quite a lucrative form of entertainment. “Which was until that pendejo, pedazo de hijo de puta, sent a bunch of assholes to kidnap my daughter, my fifteen-year-old daughter, my Ava. You’ve never met her, but I believe I’ve mentioned her once or twice in New Mexico.”

“If only,” he huffs – a mannerism deliberately ignored by the influential businessman – rolling his eyes in a display of thespian impatience.

“And let me tell you, I’ll never, ever let that motherfucker get away with this,” he continues – malicious promise, albeit paved with good intentions.

“Where is she now?” He interjects, a blunt query that has his friend, supposing he can be labeled as such, laughing out loud.

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft all of sudden… Christ.”

“It’s a practical question,” he explains, apparently displeased with the obligation to enlighten the aforementioned. “’Cause I want you to know from the very beginning that I ain’t gonna save her.”

“Oh, thank you kindly for your compassion, but she’s safe now, which is all you need to know,” he clarifies – an exclamation that has the manager sighing in relief, considering his reluctance when it comes to any dramatic rescues.

“And the details?”

“I’ll send them later,” the Mexican flips him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, having forgotten he has blocked the visual, not that it bothers him much anyway. “You know, photos, business associates, lovers’ names, blah, blah, blah…”

“Sure you will,” he nods, feeling obliged to clarify all matters despite the boiling tension, threatening to leak onto the surface – indication of the so-called professionalism. “Any special requests?”

“Well… actually yes.”

(Ah, of course. Fuck me up, will you?)

“I want it the old-fashioned way. Strangle him for me. Bare hands.”

(Sure, and what else?)

“Sure, customer is king,” and he even manages to pull off a smile.

Sick.

“Glad we agree on this one, but don’t forget to record it,” he reminds – an unprofessional explanation, beyond obvious, and so to the point of offensive. “It’s gonna provide me a prove of you work, plus later on… who knows? We could… reprogram it into a simulation for instance.”

“Sure,” he agrees – a brisk affirmation, a signature of his.

“And maybe, just maybe, don’t get too hooked on the idea, you’ll get some spare cash after all, from the sale of course,” he proposes, not that it bothers Connor at this point, lacking the essential turnabout.

“Mhm, merciful,” he remarks, ever the sarcastic. “But what now? Should I wait for some kind of a call or…?”

“Yeah, just wait,” he bestows him with yet another terse confirmation, indicating whatever low-class joke that has been blossoming underneath his skull. “Dulces sueños, babe.”

And with that he hangs up.

Son of the bitch.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – release of her debut album, and so considered as an entry ticket to the variety of possibilities, reserved for the elite only, at least according to what she thought at that time.

Obso-lite.

Obtuse.

Lie.

Therefore, as the years pass by, so does her confidence when it comes to the human potential, artificial power that he has gained through the achievements of the most sublime minds, possession of little respect, taken for granted. All for the convenience of the beneficial ones, monstrous corporations with tremendous influence over the common men lead by the exceptional – an astral being that transcends human consciousness, marking its presence in the society’s genome for generations.

Ridiculously potent.

Romantic phantasy?

But worth recommencing.

Ergo, she has decided to make a use of all the interludes in between their meetings, and so replace the prior mindless fumbling with an action far more directed when juxtaposed with hours and hours of staring at the celling. For months, she was struggling to realized how many inhibitions were piling up to form one grotesque stack, defining the incapacity, artistic lameness that accompanies them, crossing creator’s steps, interfering with the futuristic vision.

And so, she has transferred the mental freedom into work, resulting in a trio of fresh composition – a birdlike tune, cyber tweet – with more than a little help from the synthesizer – an attempt to retreat it in the limelight as a substitute for the dreamy vocals that would play the first fiddle in her debut album. Regardless, as a slave to consumerism, she cannot fight the nervousness that comes with driving down the less explored road, hoping it will pick anyone’s interest and so curries favor with the influential corporation, at least according to what Connie has asseverated.

Risk.

The most influential spice…

But that was before the article.

“Gia?” She hears a male voice addressing her, audible due to relatively close proximity – a factor rather important in the buzzling club. “I haven’t seen you here for a while. Why?”

“Um, I’ve been busy,” she explains, lifting her gaze, only to be greeted with a sight of an infamous Interstellar bartender, leaning by the table top to face her, “but I needed to let off some steam, so that’s why I’m here tonight.”

“Cool,” he nods in affirmation, a matter to cut the topic short. “So what’s you poison?”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting?” She eludes, eyes glued to the array of various liquors preening from behind his back. “The fact that we say ‘poison’ instead of ‘alcohol’, ‘drink’ or whatever as if it was some kind of an indication?”

“Honey, I’m a bartender,” he smiles, apologetic yet condescending – such an odd composition. “It’s my fucking job to sell them, so what are you expecting me to say?”

“I don’t know, nothing probably,” she shrugs despite the burdening weight draped over her shoulders – non-verbal indication of a missing query.

“Look at me,” he prompts, to which she complies, locking their gazes together, even if for a split second. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know either,” she sighs for a change, distracted by the subtle clink of glass against the polished table top – water, she presumes, satisfactorily sparkling. “I mean, it’s just… Have you seen the articles?”

“‘Romance with an outlaw?’” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the woman, unable to miss the reddish tint blossoming upon her checks as a response to the ridiculous headline. “Yes, and sometimes I’m amazed where the fuck they dig that shit from, which is probably the Net, but still, their ‘dedication’ is incomprehensible for me.”

“He’s not even an outlaw, so I don’t get it,” she shakes her head – expression of a deep-rooted disapproval.

“Well, he doesn’t have to be,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden. “I just think the editors assumed it’d sell itself as, I don’t know, romantic or some shit, but that’s by the by.”

“I mean the real problem is that he hid so many things from me,” she frowns, gaze glued to some mindless spot on the bar – venomous green, absinthe maybe? “And although he has never been the one to discuss his past, I was surprised when I read the article, and I’ve been surprised ever since.”

“Mhm, so tell me now, have you ever asked yourself just why he did that?”

“Yes, but um, it was just… a weird experience? I don’t know,” she sighs, hybrid nails scratching at the pale temple. “I feel like he should’ve told me since we’re together, ‘cause that’s… that’s what I’d do.”

“I believe not,” he opposes – dry and unyielding, beyond unexpected.

“Oh great, so now you’re defending him,” she fusses, exasperation evident in her voice. “That’s exactly what I need, thank you very much.”

“Christ, Gia,” he rolls his eyes, sometimes just as equally tired with her pendulum-like moods. “All I wanted to say was that it’s nothing but an academic example. Take for instance that moral dilemma with pedestrian crossing. You’re sitting at home, drinking tea, while choosing to murder random groups of people. And that’s absurd, ‘cause in real life it’d never happen, and even if, when push comes to the shove you might act out of pure instinct, deprived of warm beverage and blanket. So what I’m trying to say is that those hypothetical scenarios… they are all just assumptions, no more no less, and we’ll never know what we’d do unless we find ourselves involved in a certain situation.”

“Okay, but I still think he should’ve told me,” she justifies, seemingly at loss of the mental flexibility.

“How long are you together?” He questions, as if only to prove a point. “Two? Three weeks?”

“Four,” she corrects – a matter considered beyond insignificant by the bartender who is relatively quick to brush the artiste off in resemblance to Connor, and so much to her exasperation.

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause, you know, not anyone feels ready to spill the guts after twenty-something days of personal relationship.”

“I was just trying to be honest with him, ‘kay?” She counters, attempting to mitigate the prior surge of spite with an apologetic explanation. “Show a little empathy, or something.”

“So you’re telling me your ‘empathy’ is uniformed when it comes to, I don’t know, traumas?” He retorts, as if genuinely tired with the lacking logics when it comes to justifying her motives.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m sorry,” she sighs, once again back to the resigned attitude, now that the ire has evaporated. “It’s just… he’s killed people there, and I don’t know… I feel like it’s a lot to digest. Especially since I got furious and pushed him into telling the truth, and he… he told me so many horrible things, he told me they-”

“Which war was that?” he interrupts, having sensed the approaching lachrymose confession. “Climate one?”

“Yes, the Fifth,” she bestows him with a terse affirmation, swallowing the thick lump in her throat.

“The Fifth one… okay, so think about it now,” he waves his hand in a self-indicating gesture, accompanied by her eyes following the movement, even if for a split second. “He must’ve been like, I don’t know, twenty at best.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” she nods, face marked by a perturbed frown – indication of worry, “but then I started digging, and I’ve discovered some really weird shit.”

“Like what exactly?”

“It’s like he’s been alive for eight years or something,” she begins, having reversed the chronology, at least according to his assumptions, considering she tends to do that sometimes. “I mean he told me he had had some kind of an accident there or whatever, got half off his organs replaced because of that. But when he had gotten better, they were to send him back on the field, right?”

“Right, but what about these eight years or something?” He inquires, attempting to redirect her train of thought to the clarifying realm, now that he is getting curious.

“I’ll circle back to it later, ‘kay?” She sighs, albeit this time to indicate the vexation evoked by his query. “So the last thing he told me was that he deserted, right?”

“Right,” he nods in affirmation.

“And that was when Cara pushed me to start digging,” she reveals, emphasizing it with the click of her cantaloupe nail against the table top.

“Cara? I thought you two were-”

“Yes, we are, but that’s not important now,” she interrupts, determined to set the record straight now that he is interfering with her vision, even if unintentionally. “Anyway, after the desertion there is like… a blank spot on his record – six years or something – and then he’s back in the corporative class.”

“Where have you learned that?” He frowns – puzzled expression dancing over his features.

“In the Net,” she states – a sentence considered beyond obvious, redundant, waste of a triple nature.

“Don’t you think you’re being paranoid?” He indicates, hesitating when it comes to veracity of said assumption, but at the same time uncertain whether it is a sane idea to confirm her beliefs. “Maybe he moved to his parents’ house, wanted to get some rest, or something? Wasn’t active on social media? Christ, I don’t know.”

“I mean it was just the Surface that we managed to check, so…”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re here!” He exclaims, shaking his head in disapproval, now that the realization has been casted upon him. “To pay that sleazy son of fuck to get you down to the Dark, now am I right or am I correct?”

“You know where is he?”

“No,” he negates, careless all off sudden, as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, “and I haven’t seen him tonight at all.”

“I don’t believe you,” she states – dry and demanding when refused.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he smiles – both apologetic and condescending once again, prompting her to finish this conversation, no matter how helpful it turned out to be.

“But thanks anyway,” she concludes, having opted for a lighter undertone, since a part of her refuses to treat him akin to some pitiful pushover, not that he would care much in such circumstances.

“Sure, you’re welcome, Gia.”

A greeting appropriate just for tonight.

Indication of lacking fortune.

* * *

Breathing.

It is a simple act, lasting in a self-repeating loop – inhale and exhale, entwined with each other on the model of the aforementioned construct – remaining out of notice due to its permanent presence throughout one’s life. Which is why he considers meditation as worth the effort, since it lets his focus switch to the routine activities connected with the process itself: steady rises and falls of his shoulders, expansion of the ribcage conditioned by the diaphragm’s contractions – a way to get rid of what is redundant but also a method of relaxation, capacity valued in the times of trial.

Times such as now.

Times when he is forced to circle back to the past, and so to break the promise, ideological contract signed by the immaterial stylus, undoubtedly requiring the highest penalty.

Times when the dim lights become blinding.

When the silhouettes stop moving.

When the music dies down.

Leaving him alone in the secluded dimension.

Wiped away from the memories.

From the consciousness.

Buried deep enough to prevent the excavation.

And yet he is standing there, just at the doorway coexisting in two realms – both virtual and metaphorical – ready to take the leap.

Just a mere step

Pass the threshold.

“Everything’s ready?” He ascertains, struggling to recognize the rasp of his own voice.

“Yeah,” he hears the cracking noise reverberate in the earbud, before the connection steadies, allowing him to distinguish the following words properly. “Push it now.”

“Mhm, sure,” he hums, acting as per her request just to be greeted by the sight of a luxurious penthouse, impossible to be swept as a whole.

“I’ll lead you through, ‘kay?” She has a nice voice – a nuance that does not slip past his attention – smooth as molasses.

“Well, I hope so,” he teases, having decided to stray from the subject a bit, even if only for the entertaining purposes. “But, you know, I’ve been wondering what it is that you’re actually risking by helping me?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses to clarify – ice-cold queen. “It’s not like I’m doing it, ‘cause I have the softest heart ever. It’s that kind of shit you get paid for. Generously.”

“No need to lie to me, you know,” he nags further, as if to determine her tolerance for such attitude in general, now that he intends to redirect his train of thoughts – transition between tension and thrill. “Thought you might like to talk, but if not, I get it, no pressure. It’s just… I’m curious, and probably just as fucked as you are, but that’s by the by.”

“Connect to the monitoring system,” she directs – blunt and reserved.

“Sure, anything,” he affirms with a hint of smile tugging at the corners of his lips, fingers fishing out the portable device from the inner pocket of his jacket, ready to jack in. “Not in the mood to talk?”

“I? Not in the mood?” She retorts, presumably a query, but the flat tone might be delusionary. “What a plot twist.”

“Mhm, most certainly,” he agrees – a humming baritone that resonates through his chest.

“Mhm,” she mimics the sound, milder when juxtaposed with the prior accusative timbre. “Thanks for not fucking this up by the way.”

“So you’re in the system?” He ascertains, rising an inquisitive eyebrow – a conditional reflex – despite the fact she is unable to see him now.

Or is she?

“Yeah,” she bestows him with a brisk affirmation just as he steps through the threshold of the security room, intent to hide in the opposite area, and so seize the opportunity to sneak up on the pimp from behind.

“Should I worry about anything else?” He inquires – a matter of clarification – now that he is leaning by the quartz pillar.

“For now? No, just wait,” she instructs, probably for the last time this evening, which evokes that odd tension once again, indicating the inevitability of the climax. “He’ll be here soon.”

“And just how’d you know that?”

“’Cause I’ve fucking fried his security system, which means he’s got the message that there’s a malfunction?” She snaps, voiced laced with a distinctive hint of sarcasm; and it suits her, he thinks. “What did you expect?”

“Certainly much more fumbling,” he explains, having opted for ignoring the accusative tone, at least for now, although a part of him still considers it weird, the fact that he is in full supervision of his own security system – dictated by the trust issues maybe?

“Better lower your expectation for the next time, huh?” She suggests, allowing herself to switch back to the bedroom area that he is currently occupying, even for a brief moment, a moment of distraction, curious about his appearance, which might as well be the second most irresponsible decision of this month, but still, she cannot help herself.

It has been sane to say they are both equally fucked.

“That’d actually set them higher,” he chuckles – a sound that catches him off guard for a split second, enhanced by the fact he is the one to voice it – a paradox maybe? “’Cause if I expect a relatively tough situation to run smoothly, it means that I set my expectation high, at least when it comes to the fortunate circumstances or my capacities.”

“But isn’t it like this sometimes?” She ponders, metallic nails scratching her chin, as she drinks in his features – ash blonde hair, geometric cheek implants, and tall silhouette, clad in dark clothing – interesting to say the least. “That, um… that you do something unintentionally or by accident, and in the end it turns out for the better?”

“Maybe it is,” he shrugs, glancing at the camera’s lens, as if he sensed her gaze on him, which has the woman adverting it to the side, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Ridiculous. “Maybe I even dare to say I agree, but-”

“Okay, C,” she does not even know his name, for fuck’s sake. “Sorry to interrupt, but he’s here. Luckily alone.”

“Yeah, right according to our assumptions,” he nods, calmer when confronted by an factual information. “So how much time do I have?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” she vacillates – feverish, and so incapable to decide, even if for a split second. “A minute? Two maybe?”

“Couldn’t you like… tell me earlier?” He frowns, voice laced with a hint of accusation.

“Maybe if you weren’t fucking distracting me?” She mimics his tone – indication of an approaching argument, although she is yet to surprise him in that realm.

“Well, I tend to do that sometimes,” he teases as per usual, maybe to conceal the fact she appears to be quits in that matter, eliciting a vexed huff from his female partner on the other side of the line.

“Uh just- I don’t know, good luck.”

Beep, ensued by silence.

Alone again.

Although not for long.

Indicated by the click of the front door and cautious steps reverberating in the adjoining area, or rather the creeping climax acquiring a form of a male with chrome hand – external damnation – from where he can see approaching the security room with a gun clutched tightly by the synthetic digits.

Closure.

Closure that grants perspectives.

Perspectives at hand.

Hand of providence.

Providence of a man.

Man to replace the God.

Unbelievable.

One step, two, then three… from or towards the target? Clueless, deprived of an ability to count, with tunnel vision drifting him towards the goal – a man leaning by the table, gaze fixated on the computer screen, scrolling through the program.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself – a sound that sends a shiver down the manager’s spine, but also prompts him to move forth, closer and closer to the man, echoing in the mental dimension, on the pinnacle of tensity, bracing for a fall.

A fall that comes with a surge forward, with a clasp of his hands around the pimp’s throat, with a choked groan, uttered in an empty space.

A hiss recognized as his own, evoked by the sharp pain resonating from the wrist, clasp in between the artificial fingers, biting in the flesh.

An idea, out of pure instinct, to pull the target down to the ground, before he manages to elbow him in the gut and so wriggle out from his grasp.

A contact – interference of gazes, dazed juxtaposed (mingled?) with determined, face flushed due to the effort, piercing red irises staring right at him.

A mere adjustment – evidence of skill and practice – to cut off his blood flow, switch from choking to strangling.

A fall that comes with a dull thud – head colliding with the polished floor – body slack in his hands, hands that keep their hold around the victims neck for a few longer moments – a procedure to ascertain that his brain remains hypoxic for long enough to cause fatal damage.

Terminal.

Taxing.

Transitional.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, once again struggling to recognize the sound of his own voice, as he scoots away from the body, finding the necessary support in the nearby wall.

With back pressed flushed against it, head tilted to the side, he is vaguely aware of the dull throbbing resonating from his wrist, now that he is coming to senses, which prompts him to rise the violated limb to the eye level. He is greeted with a sight of reddened flesh, indicating the inevitable appearance of a purplish bruise, albeit deprived of any nasty outcomes – no sprained joints and crushed bones – much to his relief.

Clean work, as for the professional.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, massaging the achy spot with the opposite hand, as he attempts to swallow the thick lump down his throat, parched to some inhuman degree.

Delirious.

Incognizant of what has just happened on the security room’s floor.

Incognizant of the body lying at his feet.

Incognizant of the myriad of possible consequences.

Just tired.

And thirsty.

“Water.”

And with that thought in mind, he makes his way to the kitchen, as if only for the sake of delaying what is inevitable.

Aftermath of conscience.

* * *

Emptiness.

Vastness of possibilities?

Dimension for creation?

Vicious end?

Dreadful perspective?

Sacrifice worth the grief.

Or a decision that has been bothering him since he passed the threshold of that fatal penthouse, burdening him with a distinctive realization – he is far from proud or pleased with the turn of events, all against his will, forced to succumb, degraded to the level of some common mercenary.

Unbelievable.

How many days was that? Two thousand eight hundred and fifty six?

And now? Ten?

A missing piece of puzzles – that is what it feels like – a habit he has grown accustomed with throughout the years, a channel to pour sorrows to, and now? How is he supposed to record his ideas, intents, or insights when he has none, no inquiries, no impressions.

No fate.

An ending line, elongating past the point of a broken promise – informal, yet more meaningful than any other he has ever concluded – indicating the disastrous vision acquiring its vessel’s form – sticky liquid, leaving indelible stains on each and every surface as if to mar it for all eternity.

(That’s a tad bit dramatic, don’t you think?)

(Romantic?)

To be fair, he is far from the level of knowledge that would allow him to elaborate a romantic expertise, not only a loathsome trait, but also lethal, lethal to consider suicide as a redemption from some tragic love – factor that is meant to shatter their proximate universe. As an individual (what a fitting term) he conjectures it to be far more than just plain dangerous: following their obsolete beliefs, soaking up their wisdoms, switching to their philosophy of life – simply damnation-granting. Nevertheless, the contemporary world appears as beyond deprived from any excess traces from the bygone times, pitiful remains that are swept away with the passing years – an eternal river – all to the convenience of its dwellers.

Which leads him to yet another assumption.

What if he is wrong? What if it is bound to indicate a conclusion of entirely different nature, a conclusion leading to an ultimate enlightenment – our future is what we consider it to be, a conglomerate of particles, of events to be foreseen, of idealistic visions and rational objectives, transcending human comprehension, so fatally finite?

With us occupying the creator’s chair.

“People are marred,” he states all of sudden, which captures the artiste’s attention, and so prompts her to rise from the lounging position on the sofa, legs still draped over male’s lap as his fingers trail mindless serpentines over the ivory skin, “damaged, shattered, akin to a glass pane.”

“What makes you think that?” She inquires, forehead marked with two thin lines – indication of puzzlement – with her gaze lingering on male’s profile, on the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, up to the subtle geometric line adorning his cheeks, and the intricate patterns decorating the side of his neck.

“It was just a random thought, nothing significant.”

(Sure I’d believe that.)

“Mind if I smoke?”

“You smoke?” She frowns once again, confused due to the alternating course, watching him from the propped-up position, not the most convenient to be honest.

“Only after sex,” he bestows Gia with a brisk clarification, offering her a helping hand as she rises from the spot, now kneeling beside him with his arm encircling her waist, palm flat on the hip. “So?” He cocks an expecting eyebrow at her, as if searching for an answer. “Do you mind?”

She shakes her head no, shivering once his hand abandons its previous spot, and so deprives the female from his body heat, no matter how moderate it has been until now. With her eyes following the leisure movements that result in lighting up a slim cig, held delicately in between a pair of his long fingers, she cannot help but dwell upon each and every notion evoked by the unfortunate publication, the fact that he barely talks about himself as if he could not trust her – a partner who is supposed to be the person to open up to, a friend to soak up all sorrows, a guarantor of the so-called unconditional love.

But is he even capable of that? Of romantic affection? Or is he simply yet another cold-hearted inhabitant, so fitting in the cruel world, a place where vulnerability overlaps with divergence, a place nowhere near to be considered as home, vast and empty, of multiple dimensions and unexplored concepts?

“What else have you been hiding from me?”

“And what is it that you’re expecting to hear?” He glances at her from the seat by the open window, face illuminated by the shimmering neons. “Some kind of a story?”

“That’s what I’m counting for,” she affirms, fixing the tee that has ridden up her thighs, as if sensing that excess exposure is rather unfavorable in such case.

“Fine then,” he agrees, taking the last drag from the half-smoked cigarette, before he tosses it out of the window, much to her distaste. “I’m gonna tell you a story, a story an idealistic girl like you would never understand.”

“I’m not-”

“Do you know what it feels like… being forced to kill?” He begins, having ignored her opposition, all considered trivial when juxtaposed with his attempt of confession. “Answer me.”

“Why do you think you, or anyone else, have the right to kill?” She huffs, a concept laying beyond her comprehension – a superior man, the one to overuse his authority.

Lord of Life and Death.

Disgusting.

Or an inquiry that has him chuckling in response, a bitter laughter that echoes in the empty space, even if metaphorically so, ringing in her ears as they receive the stimulus.

“And the body? What it smells like? How heavy it is?” He continues, leaning backwards, elbows supported by the window frame, as if bracing for the lethal leap. “Impossibly so. It’s like you can barely lift it… perhaps because of the emotional baggage? Who knows?”

The words that reverberate in the fragile expanse of her mind.

Words that shatters her affection, her deep-rooted fondness.

Everything that she has ever bestowed him with.

And it strips her bare, naked in front of his penetrative gaze.

“What have you done?” She gulps, anticipating the terminal answer with parched throat and tensed muscles.

“And against your conscious will? That’s truly the debasement of humanity,” he shoves the query aside, at least for now, intent to explain everything on his own conditions. “Just imagine that, you have no fucking money, and it forces you to fuck some sleazy pimp in order to provide all necessities. And you hate yourself for that, ‘cause it’s fucking disgusting, fucking… hideous as it seeps through your pores. But you can’t deny it, and more – gotta accept it as a fact, ‘cause there’s no other way.”

“Oh, man of little faith,” she rolls her eyes – a mannerism he chooses to ignore, along with the pitiful comment – a sack full of idealistic absurdities.

“For almost eight years, I thought I could escape my past, ‘cause I’d think that’s where all bygone actions belong,” he continues, gaze fixated on some unidentified spot decorating the opposite wall. “And then I got a phone call from an old pal. You know what he told me?”

“I’m not omniscient,” she retorts, choosing to be sarcastic all of sudden, a turnabout that he finds oddly amusing.

“Oh you’re not? Okay,” he throws her a brief glance, lips laced in a condescending smirk – a signature of his. “So he called me because of a favor. Old times, saved my life in New Mexico, and you’ll never understand what it means, unless you experience that kind of bond. It’s something that’ll always defy the laws of physic, finding its way back to the surface, no matter the amount of stones you use to drown it.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Of the non-negotiable kind,” he clarifies, a matter offensively obvious in his notion, “and what was that favor you may ask? Fairly simple, get rid of some overconfident pimp, the rest is not important.”

A mere statement.

Not to mention beyond expected.

And yet potent enough to drain blood out of her face, push past the pinnacle of emotions, coiling just underneath the surface, coiling and wailing to be released from the confinement of their prison.

Resurrection that comes with catharsis.

Rampant rage.

“You didn’t have to do it, you know,” she spats – blunt and accusatory. “And the fact that you did it only makes you a coward – no – it makes you a hypocrite, who is also a coward, for not following his beliefs, ‘cause… you know what defines one as a human?”

“What defines one as a human, miss Ortega?”

(How dare he!)

“The quality of being good,” she explains, struggling to keep up with the calmer tone, not willing to blow up just yet, “the quality you clearly lack. And it pains me to see how much mistaken I’ve been.”

He laughs again.

And this time it has her blood boiling hot.

“It’s so ease to judge others, don’t you think?” He retorts, calling back to that ridiculous conversation at the Interstellar, just few days prior, or a lifetime maybe? “Especially when all you have to worry is ‘being a good person’. It is an incredible privilege to choose between those two factors – what’s moral and immoral – a privilege not everyone can afford.”

Up to the breaking point.

“You’re incomplete,” he continues, rising to walk towards the door, indicating her inevitable departure that creeps closer and closer, tightening its claws around her weeping soul, “and you’ll always be until you understand that other people’s beliefs don’t define who you are.”

Snap.

“You know what? I hate you! You’re the most hideous, the most disgusting-”

“Sure I am,” he nods – a terse affirmation, so laconic it almost has her slapping him, safe only due to the fact she is putting on her pants. “But I believe you’ve already mentioned that.”

“I- I-”

“Oh do go on, tell me,” he interrupts – a jeering remark, a mannerism that she loathes more than anything else as an evidence of her disastrous tendency to maneuver between the polarities, “share your very important beliefs.”

“No, fuck you!” She exclaims, fingers clasping around the material of her coat, soon to yank it from the hanger. “I’m leaving and I can guarantee you won’t see me. Ever. Again.”

“Overly dramatic, but okay, I can cope with that,” a response that consists of a mere shrug, as if it was the only action laying in his capacity after those few months together – the most vicious farewell. “And whatever you’re planning to do with yourself… good luck with that.”

“Dickhead,” she throws over her shoulder – an expression of bitter virulence – ready to depart with a heavy slam – indication of a bygone phase, never to be retreated, fleetingness laced with some odd kind of beauty, the one he has almost dared to forget throughout the years, all of sudden thirsty for its everlasting charm.

Ergo, he remains awake that night.

Staring at the celling until sunlight accompanies the neons.

* * *

“Day twenty seventh,” he begins, the sound of running shower acting as his lonesome listener, not that he needs any audience today. “I’ve noticed an interesting pattern recently, or maybe I’ve just been reminded of its existence... I don’t know…maybe… The thing is, I’ve got some vague memories of my childhood, maybe because I was trying so desperately to push away the past, to treat every day like a rebirth, and so forced myself to forget… Actually, that sounds ridiculous when spoken out loud, but it’s fine, I can cope with that.”

“So as a kid I’d perceive world in terms of a simple black-and-white matter, which had me thinking my curiosity was soon to be satiated, kind of ironic… Anyway, as I was getting older, I also came to a conclusion that our world is run on secrets, and despite the years that have passed since then, I still agree with this sentence. It gets me to wonder how much of the given information applies to the reality, which makes quite an important factor in the contemporary world, but that’s by the by.”

“Cutting to the chase, realizations are like cycles, and by saying so I meant that they pay us a visit in self-repeating patterns. Which indicates the so-called tendency of changing one’s mind that sometimes allows us to circle back to the starting point. Quite interesting to be honest, especially in the face of some intense experience, both physically and emotionally, that is… that is, um… capable of rearranging the entire sequence of outlooks.”

“For years I’d think that what the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over, or something, I’m only paraphrasing… but this seems to sum up why I’ve decided on all these tattoos, hours and hours of stinging discomfort. But it was nothing compared to being obliged to see all the scars, not because of the aesthetics but because of the continuous pain… the continuous pain and its physical reminiscence. At that time I couldn’t accept it, but now… I don’t know… it’s weird, both relieving and chilling, as if a piece of puzzle was missing… which makes me think that I’ll just need some time to get used to it. Either way it’s refreshing, so blissfully refreshing… fuck, I love it.”

“Normally at this point I’d remind myself of that crappy shit I was told in the past, maybe because it was my only way to connect with it, and fuck… it makes me such a fucking hypocrite, but now… I doubt whether I need it anymore.”

“’Cause I did fucking man up. End of a story.”

Created: 12/28/20 Completed: 03/11/21 Edited: 03/17/21

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