#no idea how i caught the lower half of my body without busting a knee
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made the mistake of wearing wedge heels this morning and twisted my ankle in the parking lot like you would not believe. the moment of injury happened so fast i still don’t know what went wrong but the momentum threw me forward in such a way that i had to jog a few steps before i could finally actually fall over, yet somehow i managed to avoid getting a single scrape
#did scratch up my key fob since i was holding it but didn’t even tear my skirt#no idea how i caught the lower half of my body without busting a knee#it was genuinely cartoonish. i had long enough to think ‘uh oh this is gonna suck’ before gravity finally took over#rltirl
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See you looking right here, don’t hesitate.
make a wish series.
A series (for each member of the unit) about their lines in make a wish (english version).
pairing | taeyong x fem!reader
genre | smut, fluff (ig)
words | 3.8k
warning | knife play, degradation, one time sex, dom!taeyong, mature content, oral (m receiving).
author’s note | my native language isn’t english, so if there’s something wrong with anything i wrote tell me and i’ll edit it...
You know that one wish? That one u'd die to fulfill? Everyone have plenty of them, but you had the chance to make one of them come true and was still difficult to believe that this invitation came to you.
You were invited to one of the most famous ball around Korea, that's something to celebrate. 'Why?' well, that's actually a simple question for you to answer. Being a photographer had its privileges. They asked you to photograph a ball with the richest people all around Asia. It was a dream to attend to that kind of event, but only selected people could go, by "Selected." means rich. Yeah, those ones that brags about themselves whenever they can and humiliate the others for not being one of them. You really hated rich people with all of your heart, but you couldn't miss the chance to go somewhere like that.
Already inside of the taxi heading to the Lee's house, where the ball would occur. You could say you were nervous, but you didn't had time for that. When you work with rich people like these ones, the secret is to be ready for whatever may come. And of course that phrase they always says "Know your place." You'll be there to work, so you have to know the place you belong and thank god is not where they are.
🌟
The house is stunning. That kind of ones that you just see in magazines and everyone wishes to live, the perfect one.
After getting your equipment ready you started taking photos of the rich fucks. It was a work that you loved doing, besides you had the chance to photograph the insides of the house. The little plants next to giants panting, details in the ceiling and that incredible chandelier in the middle of the room.
You'v decided to sit a little bit, cause your legs hurt for walking with big heels. Your attention was focused to the people dancing at the center of the room, all of them elegantly swinging to one side then another. It was something nice to see.
But then your eyes spotted a incredible good looking guy sat on the other side of the room. He had pretty big eyes and a chin that would cut your thumb if you touched. His body proportions were amazing, he was tall and thin. But you caught your eyes looking at his pretty hands, he wore many rings in those long fingers, that made it sexier than already was.
Your stare got back to his face, he was the prettiest "hottest." man that you'v ever saw, and you wouldn't forget his face for a long time. You stood there for minutes fascinated by his little details that you didn't even saw his piercing gaze running through your body.
When you realized that his eyes were reading all of yours moves while smirking, your brain stopped functioning for a second, was it just you or it got really hot? You washed your thoughts away and repeated to yourself 'You're here to work.', with that in mind you stood up and got back to photographing the rest of the ball.
🌟
After finishing your job and keeping the camera on a safe place, you started walking through the big room.
Actually there weren't much time left to enjoy the ball, since all the people were already leaving, but it was still a fun event. Besides now you had a new guy to stalk and dream of one day kissing him. After the good looking guy came to your mind, you searched for him all over the place, but he wasn't anywhere near. Unfortunately. The only thing left was to enjoy the last minutes in heaven. Walking through an hallway that got your attention as you passed by. Pretty decorations all over the way.
"You shouldn't be here."
A hoarse voice reached your ears making you freeze as you felt the impact of it. After realizing where the voice came you turned to where the incredible good looking guy was. ‘He's even more pretty up close.'
"Oh, sorry."
You told him and smiled at the tall guy, making your way to leave and go back to where the ball was occurring, but his giants hands held your wrist making you turn to face him again.
"I saw you looking at me."
He said getting closer to you with that smirk of earlier. His piercing gaze right into your eyes and sometimes slipping to your lips. You didn't even notice how close he was, until he let out a deep breath against your supple skin. His lips were millimeters away from yours, while his hands tightened around your wrist to the point that you could feel a slight of pain. Which made you feel a low groan leaving your mouth. He let loose of your wrist and stepped back. You let out a "Fuck." in protests. At this point you might be wet and he barely touched you.
"What? You wanted more? Oh... what a nasty girl."
His husky voice echoed in the hallway, all of your thoughts were vanished away and just the hoarse voice remanded.
"What? Hesitating on answering me, i see. When your eyes were glued on me you didn't hesitated on looking all over my body, why being shy now?"
You felt the heat on your cheeks. You didn't know what to say, nor do, he left you speechless. Step by step he got closer to you again, his body lead yours to the closest wall, pinning you there. His cold breath leaning against your soft skin while looking into into your eyes. His mouth half opened ready to say something but he didn't had time to do such a thing. You quickly got his lips together with yours, closing your eyes while feeling his busted lips. He was still surprised by the sudden action, but didn't hesitated on kissing you back, now leading the kiss. His tongue was hungry, he wanted more than you were giving him. His hands got to your waist, pulling you even closer to him. You let out a tiny gasp when his thumbs met the only part of your back that the dress didn't covered. His long cold fingers resting there, making your whole body shivers. You traveled your hands to his neck, moving your attention to his soft hair that covered his scruff, caressing it with your fingers while pulling his head even more closer.
His body was so close that you could felt his boner on your thigh, moving one of your knees to reach his length. Rubbing a little bit through the fabric of his pants. The boy seems to like it since he let out a groan and intensified the warm and sloppy kiss. But it didn't last long. He slowly got away and took a step back clearing his throat.
"I don't think it's a good idea to continue these kinds of things here, but if you have time we can go to my room. By the way, my name is Taeyong."
Oh, the son of the richest man in Korea. 'Not knowing the son of the man that everyone talks about, i'm indeed not that clever at all.' you thought while you raised your eyebrow at him, thinking about his suggestion and 'Why not?' popped on your mind.
"Sure. My name is y/n."
He smiled at you and started walking. Not minding if you were following him or not, but you obviously were.
The rest of the house was absolutely perfect, you didn't have any words to say how pretty it was. Literally the ones you just see in movies. You were somehow envious. You climbed the stunning stairs, with lots of tiny details that got all of your attention, stopping in the middle of the way just to stare the little panting on the handrail. You spotted Taeyong entering in one of the various doors that the second floor had, following him and getting inside of the room. Closing the door behind as soon as you got in. His bedroom was something else, it was bigger than your whole apartment. Decorations in blue, grey and black. You left Your shoes next to the entrance and started walking in the tiny corridor that the room has. When you finally reached to the actual bedroom you sighed in relief, that was a long ass ride.
Taeyong was sitting on his bed looking at the giant window that occupied almost the whole wall. When he realized that you were already there he patted the sheets signaling for you to sit on the spot next to him. You did as he told and sat right by his side.
"Can i talk with you? About... something."
He sighed moving his head to face you. His intense gaze made your legs tremble. 'He's ethereal.'
"Of course. What's up?"
"Well. I'm hundred percent sure we're going to have sex if i'm wrong please correct me."
He slipped his gaze to your lips. You bited the lower one thinking of an proper response to give him or even say that he was wrong. But you couldn't, you wanted it as bad as he.
"I'll get this lip biting as a 'Yes'."
He got his attention back to the window, and you did it too. 'Nice view.' you thought.
"I have a kink."
"I think we'all."
He sighed in response and closed his eyes. You could swear he was the most hot person that ever existed. His jawline only lighted by the moonlight, made you wanna attack him just like that. Without a warning.
"I mean, before testing my 'Kink' with you i have to ask if you're ok with it. I suppose you already heard about knife play, right?"
Your heart skipped a bit hearing his hoarse voice saying it while his gaze pierced through your soul. At the same time that it haunted you thinking of knifes cutting your skin, it aroused you too. You couldn't tell properly what you were feeling, it was a mix of adrenaline and fear. It made you even more horny seeing that he had sparkles in his eyes talking about his 'fetish'.
"I'm in."
"So easy. You're a fucking nasty bitch."
He practically jumped on you. Kissing your lips even more hungrier than on the hallway, tracing his fingers all over your face, caressing it with his thumbs. His body was on top of you with his legs in the middle of yours, his knee was so close to the place you needed him the most. You were probably soaking wet by this time, searching for something to just touch you there.
Taeyong broke the kiss leaving one last peck to your lips. He left you there in the need for him to just fuck you until you cry.
He entered in some kind of room still on his bedroom.
He didn't made you wait much, coming back just minutes after with a medium knife on his hands. The object fitted in his hands perfectly, like he knew just what he was doing. He knelt on the end of the bed and took his suit off, throwing it somewhere on the floor. You were so right about him being the hottest person, cause his abs were no joke. You wanted to lick all of his body so much.
"Can i perhaps give you a head? Before you know, doing what you wanna do."
"Yeah, c'mere slut."
He stood up again, now stripping his pants off. The only thing left was his underwear. You couldn't tell if he was shy or wanted you to take it off, the second one aroused you the most. You got up from the bed and knelt in front of him, his eyes widened as your hand moved to touch his body. Passing your fingers all over his abs until it reached the hemline of his boxer, pulling it down. Revealing his medium sized dick with a pretty pink tip. You couldn't hold yourself back anymore and wrapped your hand around his dick, stroking it from the basis to the top, moving your thumbs on the tip of it. He tilted his head back and let out a few groans. 'So he likes on the tip.' you thought. Quickly got your lips closer to it and kitty licked the tip, moving your tongue on his dick hole. As you did it he couldn't contain his low moans, letting plenty of them escape his mouth.
His hands moved to your hair, pulling almost all of the strands into a ponytail.
"Suck it, stupid hoe. Gag on my fucking cock."
His hand pushed your head to finally put his penis inside of your mouth, letting you feel all of his length inside of it while you tried to lick his tip on the times he wasn't moving. He didn't had mercy at all. Putting all of his effort on making you gag, his dick reaching your throat while you were drooling, your saliva dripping over his balls. He suddenly stopped moving and got his hand out of your hair.
"I wanna last more, get up."
In the moment when you propped up he pushed you, making your body fall on the soft bed.
He got on the middle of your legs again while studying you, his eyes went black looking at your body through the tight dress. The hand holding the knife got closer to your arm, pressing the point of the blade and moving just a little bit. The cold knife superficially cutting your skin made your body shivers.
"You like this don't you? Needy whore."
You couldn't even think of a proper answer to give him, the fear was taking control of you. His knife got closer to the bottom of your dress, moving it until it reached the top.
"Did you cut my dress?"
"Answer me when i ask you something, slut."
He opened the parts that he cut, ripping the rest that got in his way, making you mumble something similar to 'You'll have to buy me a new one.' as he just nodded and smiled for 2 seconds. Finally something that made you comfortable with the whole situation, his bright smile. Back again with the knife close to you, he now was focusing on your thighs.
"I'm gonna do it for real now. If you are uncomfortable or is hurting more than you can handle, say 'Kitten.'"
You nodded and tried your best to relax your body, you didn't wanted to be nervous cause it would make you paranoid about what he was doing. You closed your eyes as you felt the knife drawing circles with the steel on your thighs, you had goosebumps all over your body from the coldness of the knife. You felt a severe pain on your skin as he moved the blade in horizontal lines, making you wonder if he was gently cutting or scratching you. Letting out a low moan while you tried calling his name, you didn't even know if he heard his name being called or not.
He let the tip of the sharp knife rest on your skin. Without a proper warning he slightly dragged it across your derm. Now on the vertical, making you flinch while a moan escape through your lips again.
"Don't fucking flinch, bitch."
"Fuck me, please."
You murmured while opening your eyes to look at him, he was on his knees on the middle of your two legs with the knife on the same position as before on his hand. You thanked god that there weren’t any bleed, cause that made you trust him even more. He stood up the moment that he spotted your panties, entering the same room of earlier and getting back faster than that one time before. But now he had a condom on his fingers instead of the knife. You thought he was finally gonna give you what you were wishing for all night. His dick inside of you.
"Can i make a wish now?"
"Sure."
"I want you fucking me with no mercy."
"You're such a whore."
He slowly got on the bed making his way to the top of you. But now he was fully above you with his arms on each sides of your body, making him carry his weight through them. He wasn't a soft dom, that was for sure. So you weren't expecting him to kiss you that much, and he didn't. But you missed a little kiss here and there, that teased you even more. Maybe the two of you were just too different from each other. Your body was half naked already, you weren't wearing a bra that night so it was easier for him. And he didn't loose time at all, so slowly he got closer to your chest. Diving on your right breast with his mouth. His tongue played with your nipple, sometimes kitty licking it or nibbling with his teeth. You weren't holding your moan back, sometimes whispering his name as you let some of them out. Of course you were enjoying it, his tongue was literally heaven, but you couldn't take it anymore. you were so wet that your panties glued on your pussy, making it uncomfortable to wear.
"Please, just fuck me."
He stopped playing with your nipples just to look at You. The smirk appeared on his lips as soon as he saw your desperate gaze, hoping that he would finally fuck you.
"So needy, bitch."
He left the top of you and rolled to the side, laying his body on the bed and resting his head against the pillows. He got the condom out of the plastic and placed on the top of his dick, pulling it through his length until it reached the basis. After finishing it he sat on the bed and patted on his lap for you to top him.
When you realized that in this position he wouldn't take the soul out of your body, cause you would be making all of the work, you moved your head to the sides telling him a 'No'.
"If you don't mind i prefer this way. Please."
You looked at him with puppy eyes, making him sigh and roll his eyes. He got up from the spot that he was sitting and came to where you were.
"No mercy, huh? Slut."
He spread your legs a little and knelt between them. After finding an comfortable position for him he raised one of your legs and rested it on one side of his shoulder, doing the same with the another one on the other side. His hands moved down, making its way to your clothed clit, he palmed it. He stimulated you doing lazy circles with his middle finger through the fabric of your lingerie. You let out a loud moan to the final sensation of something touching you there. He stopped his motions a little seconds after starting it, grabbing the fabric of your panties and putting to the side. He stood there for a little bit, looking at your bare pussy facing him.
"You're so nasty. All that wet just for me?"
You nodded in response and he smirked moving his hip for the tip of his cock tease your entrance, leaving you wanting more from the contact.
"Fuck, Taeyong. I need you inside me."
That's all he needed to listen. He grabbed the basis of his penis and shoved it into your pussy without a warning, making you tilt your head back into the pillows and groan his name from the sudden move.
He wasn't kind, every time he moved his hips you could feel his cock hitting your g-spot, making many loud moans come out of your mouth. Besides being a little uncomfortable, cause you weren't too flexible, the position was amazing. And when he deep thrust you could see stars.
"You like that way, right? So fucking tight, whore."
He kept his moves deep and fast, making you a vocal mess. He wasn't much of a vocal as you were, cause you only heard low moans coming out of his mouth, but it was still hot. His hands traveled from your leg on his shoulders till it reached your thighs, you wasn't paying much attention to that, until he passed his thumbs through the scratches he made. You flinched as you felt a slight of pain, it made you moan even more than you already were, he didn't hesitated on touching it again just to see the discomfort on your face. It hurts more than you've imagined it would, but at the same time it was so good. The pain mixed with his dick hitting your spot, made you experience something u'v never felt. His fingers moved to touch you down there again, moving his index and middle finger in fast circles through your sensitive clit. You felt a knot being made on your stomach and you tried to hold it, succeeding on your task.
"Taeyong, can i cum?"
You asked while moaning from all the pleasure he was giving you, it was so hard to hold your orgasm back while he stimulated you.
"Yes. Cum for me, my slut."
He didn't needed to tell you twice, you saw stars as you relaxed your body and finally let your orgasm out. You were a totally vocal mess, your walls clenched on his dick, making him let out a loud moan at your sudden tightness. He stopped moving his fingers on your clit, afraid of the overstimulation. But still didn't stopped his fast motions, making you still moan for him.
"Beg for my cum, whore."
"Please Taeyong, cum on my pussy, fill your slut with your load."
As soon as you finished your sentence he finally let out the moans he was holding all night, it was music to your ears seeing that he finally reached his orgasm.
The two of you stayed in the same position for a couple of minutes until he recompose himself. Making you form a groan in your throat when he took his dick out of your pussy. You saw him taking the condom off and making a knot at the end of it, seconds later throwing it on the garbage can next to the other side of the bed.
He rolled to the spot next to you and held your arm, pulling you in a lovely hug.
"Can we stay like this for a little bit?"
You nodded and smiled in response. Moving your hand to reach his hair, caressing his strands while watching him with his eyes closed.
“You’re ethereal.”
He giggled at you and held you tightly. You Kissed his forehead and closed your eyes as well, sleeping with him just like this.
#that was hard omg#nct smut#nct series#taeyong smut#taeyong x reader#hope u like it <3#neosmutcollective
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Repaid
Day 3 and its time for some spaghetti western shenanigans.
Listen... I don’t like Westerns but I did have way too much fun writing this so do with it what you may.
Reader stays gender neutral in this house, no real warnings save for some guns and violence. Enjoy.
The dull ache in your right eye socket is really starting to get you. You’d figured you could sleep it off if not for the scratchy material of the tavern sheets under your skin.
Wait.
How did you get to the tavern again? Last time you checked Miles was a few days behind you and he had the money. The plan was to camp.
Camp... camp... oh right camp! You sat up to look for anyone else awake- someone should be on watch but there’s no dying campfire beside you. There was nothing beside you, not even a horse to say you’d been left behind. All that stretched around you was an infinite amount of desert sand painted pale blue by the full moon above you.
“Shit.” You hiss out between your teeth as you push yourself up on your feet. Not even so much as a sleeping mat was underneath you and god this stupid eye of yours was foggy. Must be some sand caught in your eye- wouldn’t it scratch though?
You didn’t have much time to consider pondering as a shadow- that’s the best you could describe it- pushed its shoulder through you and continued a sluggish walk ahead of you to fuck knows where.
“Where are you going?” You found yourself asking with a voice much too hoarse to be your own. Not only was it hoarse but it brought awareness to just how dry and cracked your mouth and throat were. If you’d been out here since sundown or ever before that your throat was probably bleeding. Might explain the taste.
Without feeling like you had much choice you started walking after the shadow. The longer you walked the worse every annoying itch turned into an ache- the scratchiness in your throat only seemed to get worse the more you huffed a breath to continue walking. If you were following death, honestly you’d just laugh.
After what felt like hours you were no longer alone- a few other figures much like the one you were following seemed to join you in blindly walking after the leader. You couldn’t see much of them either, not that they were close enough to look at anyway. The town’s dull yellow lights seemed to brighten every step you took but it wasn’t enough to convince your body to cooperate. The closer you got, the heavier your limbs, the harder the steps until your knees gave out under you and your face acquainted itself with the dirt.
All you could remember after that was the feeling of hands clasping themselves under your arms and your feet dragging behind you.
“That’s the only memory I have of that night. I had no idea I even spoke to you.” You admitted to the man whose saddle you were slung over. “So unless you plan on selling yourselves out for a little bounty money I don’t see why this is fucking necessary.”
When you’d woken up from that night you found yourself more coddled than you’d ever been in your life- swaddled in soft sheets and even softer pajamas, wrapped up in bandages like you were a porcelain doll.
Didn’t last long and now you owed this gang money for your stay and a doctors visit. You promised you’d pay them back but you didn’t have a fucking penny on you. Their solution? Tying your hands in front of you and slinging you over the saddle of the one with the weird eyes.
“You admitted to being from the McRoys gang- that’s loyalty bonded by blood.” The gruff voice above you commented, not doing anything to qualm the painful pounding your stomach was getting from the horse’s steps.
“My sister married a McRoy for fuck’s sake, those fucks don’t mean shit to me!”
“Swear that on ya daddy’s grave?” Came the question after some audible hooves clambering to get closer to your head.
“I’ll do ya one better- I’ll put ‘em in his grave and THEN swear they ain’t mean shit to me.”
Their boss slowed down to a stop and you’ve never wanted to slide headfirst into the sand more than you did in that moment. “This the place?”
You were hauled off of the horse and onto shakey legs. True as hell you stood at the sign for the McRoy ranch and to even a bigger surprise your goddamn horse stood at the troth drinking water with your saddle on and all.
“Why you fucking- untie me right now.” You held your bound wrists at the giant man that had lifted you off.
He only gave an amused huff of air from his nose as he cut you free so you could stomp through the hot sand on bare feet.
“And you leave me? After hauling you out of your fucking mother all those years ago, I topple off you once and you fucking high-tail it?” You angrily grab the knapsack from its back to rummage through for some clothes- wasting no time to slip over your head and over your ass to replace the pajamas.
“Are you sure you were riding alone?” The brunette with the ponytails asked.
“Yeah. I don’t even remember why I toppled, let alone where or how..” You peered at the team once more. “My boots?”
They all seemed to share a laugh as the blonde coughed it up and you humiliatingly stepped straight in them.
“Right. So now that we’re all on equal footing... what do you really want from me?”
Being an outcast in any group was difficult, LaSquadra was no different. You’d have to risk your skin more than once to finally be able to earn even a bit of trust from their boss specifically and what you’d deem your cut was quickly snatched up by Formaggio for drinks until one day Risotto handed you your cut of coin and instead of quietly handing over the money, pulled a gun at Formaggio’s head- the first right move you’d pulled in weeks.
You’d soon learn each of them held a bounty over their heads- deciding to stick together instead of trying to haul each other’s asses to the nearest sheriff. And with your handiwork all over the McRoy ranch heist (clean as you’d tried to keep it), you’d find yourself with a bounty almost comparable to Risotto’s.
It was only when your place among them was solidified that you found yourself suggesting more and more outlandish schemes for a bigger cash grab.
“But we gotta start thinking logically about this- if we burn down every sheriff’s office there’d be no evidence to incriminate us.” You had jabbed at Illuso as you two ducked under an overturned table. One moment you were offering a stand off in the town square, the next thing you knew the bar was being blown sky high by some awfully desperate lawmen.
Risotto’s bullwhip slid across the shattered glass from the neighboring table and that what all signal you needed. “And all of this because ONE wanted poster showed you having a mole on your upper lip.”
“Did you not see the size of that thing??”
Risotto kicked the overturned table to slide into the crowd- leaving you enough of a gap to between the bullets to crack the whip into a couple hands- those viper venom soaked bone shards woven into the end was doing enough damage to the holder’s hand to knock ‘em out of the game for the count.
You got enough of them down to give Ghiaccio the chance to fire a few shots and Melone to bust open the window where Pesci awaited with your way out.
Risotto slid in behind your table and handed the loaded pistol for your round of shots. Not that you missed half as much as the men your travelled with.
Your right eye never did stop being foggy- Melone suspected cataracts but you saw targets much too easy with your foggy eye to cover it up completely. Maybe you were taking “deadeye” too literally though.
After 5 out of 6 rounds now lodged firmly in some lawmen’s thighs you hopped out the window last and took off after the rest of your team.
“If we have to pay for one more bar’s repairs I swear to god I’ll turn myself in for a hanging.” Formaggio huffed as he dropped onto the dusty floor beside you- fingers outstretched for the bottle of moonshine you were only passing around- that shit was vile.
“They’ve been hot on our trail for a while now- you think the townspeople are sick of us?”
“Somehow I doubt they’re willing to take their chances with Ciocolatta’s cronies, must be something else.” Prosciutto lowered himself to your other side, offering a cigarette which you did accept. “You don’t think it’s the new governor?”
“That little blonde pipsqueak? No, there’s no way- he probably got that job from his daddy and doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, let alone getting lawmen to run us down this consistently. Illuso, you’re the one making people squeal when we stay in town, no rumors that could have sparked this?”
“Carne’s allegedly dead but he’s not big enough for the people to let their guards down now.”
“Well we might be finding out soon.” All your heads spun to Risotto as he walked back into camp from the first watch. “There’s someone coming this way.”
“I’m guessing you think we can take them?”
“Sick of running. Anyone who’d come this far after us at least deserves an audience.”
You’d packed everything up except the fire in the camp- if it was going to be a shootout, at least you’d be ready to leave. You were about to mount your horse when Risotto stopped you. “I’m gonna let you stand up front-“ he handed you his bullwhip and two more casings of ammo. “If anything goes south, you’re our best shot.”
So you nodded and led your horse to the front, the others waiting behind you as the group- matching your own in numbers- came to a stop.
“You calling the shots?” The one with long white hair cascading under the brim of his hat asked.
“Nah- just the front line. What you come out all this way for? The moonshine’s shit unfortunately.”
“Precaution. We’re not here for any arrests, though.” Mr Black Bob came to his partner’s defense- the rest only seemed to wait.
“No arrests? You say that with a lawman right next to you?” You gave a nod to Mr Moonhair.
The click of a pistol had the hairs on the back of your head stand up. You didn’t know from which side it came from but it was like a cascade of 13 other pistols pulling back their hammers.
“Perhaps we should talk before we jump to conclusions. Name’s Bucciarati.”
“Well Bucciarati it sounded like that pistol cock came from your side first. I don’t know if I can trust a bunch of snakes that lie to my face.”
It was surprisingly not Mr Moonhair that removed his revolver from its holster. It was the one with the bandana over his head.
Another cascade of metal slipping from leather as they all pointed at one another, save for you and Bucciarati. “Got some trigger-happy subordinates there, Bucci. Who do you work for?”
“The governor.” All charm had left his voice and now you were left to the stiff formalities of a man serving.
“Ah. So you ARE lawmen.”
“We have no idea what sinister grip you have over the townspeople but it will not continue like this. We’re here for an ultimatum. Disappear from your business and all bounties will drop- no lawman will arrest you and the warrant for your hangings will be dropped.”
“Mhm and if we’re caught doing our usual business?”
“Then all charges are doubled.”
You couldn’t help but give an earnest laugh as you broke the stare off between you and Bucciarati. You leisurely turned around and mounted your horse. Risotto gave you a knowing look as you did, stealing yourself to look into Bucciarati’s ocean blue eyes.
“Do yourselves a favor- go visit Reaverbrooke. Ask some questions... shit if anyone is still there... and get a feel for the service we provide. Make sure you report all of that to the little blonde boy’s boot you’re lickin’ and maybe then we can talk on ultimatums.”
The barrels lowered as you spoke, watching Bucciarati keep up his attempt at a death stare.
“But since you’re lucky, you’re dealing with the bleeding heart of this gang- we’ll lay low until you come back to us. Same time next week?”
Bucciarati wasn’t given much time to answer as you led your squad out of the camp. Once enough distance was put between you, Risotto came up beside you.
“You’re leading us to their base? What are you mad?”
“Someone’s gotta put that pipsqueak back into his place. Who better than us?”
#jojo's bizarre adventure#jojo no kimyou na bouken#la squadra#jojo part 5#risotto nero#formaggio#prosciutto#illuso#Ghiaccio#pesci#lasquadraweek2021
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Connie Maheswaran sighed...She knew this was a bad idea, but no one else was around, and the best friend/ bane of her existence/ big crush/ betrothed had an eye for these things, so his expertise was appreciated.
"So." Steven Universe, gem hybrid, alien prince, sweetheart, and hero to many, started with a grin. Placing his hand on the curve of her back." How skimpy of a bikini are we getting, huh?
She growled dangerously as she felt his hand crept lower." Stop it, you pervert."
Steven just smirked as he lifted his hand back up. That lecherous fox smirk that he only showed her.
"I promise that my intentions are as 'pure' as the lily-white of your clothes."
Connie arched an eyebrow looking at her yellow polo, black denim shorts, and orange kicks. "What white are you talking about?" She implored.
The alien royalty squeezed the college sophomore bottom. "The thin warm cloth underneath." He whispered into her ear, making her fume with annoyance, bashfulness, and made just a wee bit of an exciting impression… Despite her pouting with puffed blush crossed cheeks and steady brows.
"How the hell do you know?" She questioned, grabbing his wrist and clenched tightly, making the 'big gem on campus' fall to his knees in slight pain.
"Ow, ow, ow! I promise I didn't peek at you while you were getting dressed today."
"But you did peek at me." She arched an eyebrow.
"On accident." He pleaded, " We both know I would never peep on you."
"Now, Steven..."
"Not without an escape route."
Connie took a moment to consider it, but in the end, she decided he was right.
Steven always had a damn way to run away. Not like when they were teens, and she would easily catch and punish him for his transgressions against all womankind. However, they were more innocent, like giving her (not-so unwanted) pecks on her cheek or complimenting her physical growth.
It was the reason her betrothed became her bane before becoming her friend and crush.
Though his actions couldn't be helped, it was ingrained in him. The gem race was very liberated when it came to physical appeal, appreciation, and affection and saw all forms as beautiful. From the first (of what would become semi-normal) time she visited his home planet, it quickly became apparent to her that kissing, touching, and 'raunchy' commentary was commonplace among Homeworld. A lot of sensual and carnal PDA was everyday stuff for gem kind.
All except fornication in all its forms.
That was considered divine as gem fusion but way less lax—the ultimate show of reverence for one's unique being. Even stories of one’s actual sexploits were to be kept between partners, no matter how many there were; neither monogamy nor polygamy took precedence on Homeworld.
She let his wrist go with an unamused hum, opting to hold his hand to keep it from wandering.
”Let’s go, my perv.” Connie sighed as she led him further into the store, towards the dressing rooms. She was nearly closing the door behind her as she entered, turning and facing him, hiding with the plywood entrance. "So, against my better judgment, I'm gonna go into the dressing room and wait for you to bring me back some swimwear," Connie informed, blushing. "I need you to take this seriously, ok? No games at all." She muttered.
Steven gasped, placing three fingers on his chest as if he was an offended southern Bellé. "Why madam, I do declare that I will be at my most critical. After all…" He caressed her cheek with a smirk on his face, "the chance to decorate you in my taste doesn't come along often." He grinned as he interlaced his fingers together. "I can see you now in...Hehehe! Oh yes..."
Looking at his bottom lip gnawing, nearly crossed eye blushing expression of perverse elation, Connie almost regrets asking for his advice and help but, there is a reason for that. "Can you not imagine whatever you are imagining and help me?"
He looked up at her pouting profile and smirked lovingly before kissing her forehead. "You're more tempting than anything I can imagine."
She took a deep breath, rubbing the back of her left calf with her right foot, and idiosyncratic behavior towards surprising affection and praise.
"⁵Just...Stay away from the skimpy swimsuit from earlier." She warned, burned cheeked as she closed the door behind her, "Himbo hubby." rubbing her forehead, where the warm sensation of his lips lingered, she grinned. The feeling of pride In her chest.
"Ok... Let's get to business."
Three minutes later, Connie was stripped of her clothing and her pride as she looked at her reflection. Bare to her body and her insecurities. She didn't feel Charming? Girlish? Soft? Cute?
She was never called cute or adorable. No... Words that described her was strong, tall, mature, robust, and built, which was right.
She was six ft by the time she was 16 (she's 6'6 now), always been athletic; being an army brat on an army base until she was 12, strenuous exercise was more than just a habit; it was a lifestyle. Combined with tennis and martial arts, it was easy to understand why her body was built and cut as it was. She had 'mercenaries muscles.' A body made for battle, yet she was 'blessed' with the curvy hips and noticeable bust of her mother's bloodline.
The thing is, she didn't hate her body. She just wasn't privy to the attention she got from it. Most guys were intimidated.
Most girls…' intrigued' to say the least, and then there were some who 'swore' she was 'transitional.' People she affectionately referred to as transphobic bastards.
One cause she was born, lives and will die biologically and mentally as a woman, no matter how 'masculine' she supposedly acts; and more importantly, being trans isn't wrong.
"The scars don't really help either." She mused as she scanned her nude form little scars from her active lifestyle on her stomach.
"I think they give you character, Berry." Steven voiced from behind the door, surprising her enough for her to jump.
"The hell?! How did you get done so fast?!" She nearly shrieked as she turned to the door...Which now had a few swimsuits hang on the knob, " Steven...Did you peek at me?"
She was greeted by silence.
"Accidentally,"
She gave a slightly exaggerated sigh at his guilty tone to hide the smile on her face. "Really? You don't wanna see me in the buff?"
She could already see the thousand-watt smile on his face.
"Wait, are you saying I can?"
She had to bite her tongue from laughing at his eagerness, "No, sit and wait." She scoffed out a chuckle when she heard him moan, downtrodden. Taking a look at the group of bathing suits in the knob, she went to see which one she definitely will not wear.
----------------
Steven sat in the pink chair in front of the dressing rooms, legs and arms crossed as he waited for his beauty of a betrothed model for him. He knew she wasn't crazy about her appearance, but he couldn't get enough of it.
The fact Connie tower's him by a whole nine inches. Her 'jacked,' pear-shaped body with its hypnotic curves, especially around her bust, hips, thighs, and butt. Blazing deep-set onyx eyes with thick brows, thin cupid bow lips, her slightly narrowed and flat nose, and loose raven hair in a half-braided ponytail that reached her broad shoulders. An amazing amazon made real.
Of course, her physique was only part of why he was smitten to what humans would call near 'perverse' moments, strange since earthling takes sex for granted, to the point of making multiple websites about it for profit.
Planetary cultural differences aside, Connie's physicality was just a complementary mirror to her character. Strong, bold, unique, and mesmerizing. No wonder why Connie steals every room she walks in when she wants to or not. He couldn't help but snicker tenderly at the thought of her before tenderness gave a slight way to hunger at the thought of her in a swimsuit.
"Steven...Can you come here?"
The hybrid looked with a bit of concern and curiosity at the brown hand waving and shy voice coming from the dressing room.
"Hmm?" He stood and walked to took the gold sprayed knob of the plywood in his hand.
"With your eyes close!"
That made his eyes widen, but he followed her request, closing his pink eyes before entering and closing the door behind him. "You ok, Ni'?"
"I...I need you to promise to be honest with me."
"What are you talking about?"
"Just promise. ok?"
"Hmm...I'm opening my eyes."
"Wait. I'm not.."
"...HMM..."
Connie looked towards him in shy withdrawal, holding her left arm, and biting her lip adorned in a blue bikini. The top looked like a cage neck crop top that clipped in the back, and the bottoms were high-waisted with an extra band that crossed around her navel. It was sexy, to say the least, accentuating off all her curves and prominent muscle, flattering her breast, thighs, hips, and butt, without showing too much; it was made for her.
"Well?" She asked, looking at his stare but getting no answer, feeling her cheeks heat in marooned embarrassment. "Is it that bad?"
"Adorable."
Connie's eyes widened, "A-Adorable?" She pursued her lips, looking down at herself. She wasn't used to being called that.
"Yeah... I mean, yeah, it looks sexy..but it really brings out your softer, sensual charms."
"I...I.." her nose flared as she fought the bubbling feeling in her chest. " You're... You’re not just saying that, right?" She rubbed her left calf with her right ankle.
"I wouldn't lie about this." Steven raised his right hand in a promise.
She crossed her arms, her mouth in a side pout," So...I'm cute in this, then?"
"Are you fishing for compliments?" Steven teased, getting a raised brow look of astonishment from his betrothed
" I..No!" She crossed her arms below her chest, looking away, pouting with puffed blush crossed cheeks and steady brows.
Before turning towards the hybrid, just as she was about to attempt to make her point, she was caught off guard by his hand gently but securely grabbing her chin and leading her to move her face up close to his, their nose tips gingerly touching.
It wasn't the first time he did this, and it always made her feel a bit meek. Never unpleasantly, though.
"You're always cute."
The feel of his warm lips sandwiching her top lip with popping clips was new.
New but welcomed.
#facememe#steven universe#connie maheswaran#connverse#steven universe fanfiction#steven and connie#older steven#older connie#connverse fanfic#steven universeau#clothes shopping
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The Naked Bum, Ch. 2 (M)
Pairing: Jaebum x Jackson
Genre: Smut
Warning: Exhibitionism, nudism
Word count: 2130
BREAKING IN AND ENTRY
Breaking into one's neighboring house is illegal at first, but to Jaebum, he wanted to meet this new hot guy. There were rumors that he likes to hang with the ladies, and is amazing at fencing, too. Other than the fact he was from China and grew up in the city after the age of four, his smooth talking is a killer feature about this neighbor. Jaebum is more than intrigued to find out about him, as he had finished fucking one of his encounters at the store; which he brought home for "lunch". After he left, Jaebum on his bed, getting up and walking over towards the window. It was halfway opened from the right side, but enough for the gentle breeze to seep through. Placing his arm overhead, he looks through the glass, watching his neighbor bringing home a girl he may have picked up from some bar or possibly from the same store he just came back from.
The nude man didn't want to make himself known to his neighbor, not just yet. He wanted to give him and his company a bit of a show. There was no stopping Jaebum as soon as he starts to run his palm over his enormous erection, leaking out the clear precum through the slit. Small moans were heard from the man's mouth, slowly pumping his big shaft, watching the two just casually talking. The neighbor was stripping off his shirt, possibly trying to seduce her. He was showing some athletic muscle, some bicep and abs, with a light sheen of tone over that magnificent body. That turned on Jaebum, seeing how he will ravish that body all over, licking and sucking those plump nipples with his teeth. "Shit..." he muttered at the thought of it, taking a half step faster on his strokes.
They don't seem to notice Jaebum's actions, as they are willing to stay within their conversation. The girl was clasping her hands together, trying to be polite. His neighbor was grabbing another shirt, unfolding and showing the print to her. She was laughing, but the sound was muted due to their window being closed.
"Bet your girl will like to see you getting pounded by me..." the horny man whispered under his breath. A picture formed in his head with more fantasies, where she will be turned on by his neighbor moaning and panting as Jaebum fucked him raw, pulling his hair. Then they would switch positions and his neighbor will be riding him the next. The sound of his ass being smacked, watching his own large cock thrusting into his tight channel--
His neighbor tossed the shirt to the side, before pointing over to the window. Maybe the room was hot? Just as his neighbor turned, Jaebum initially hide away, only slightly except for his hand rubbing his huge shaft. Then there were some added conversation as Jaebum listened with slightly louder moans.
"... Yeah, I knew it was too hot in here. Feel better?" That was probably his neighbor. He was looking out to Jaebum's window, but he was too far to actually see the image of his dick, so he turned his head.
"Ungh...!" the horny man groaned out, but his neighbor still didn't hear it.
"Yes, thank you. Oh, I'm gonna get some water. Mind showing me to your kitchen?" asked the girl, before his neighbor nodded and shows her out of his room, going downstairs shirtless with her.
Jaebum faintly heard the door closed in the distance. He leaned forward to see them gone. His strokes halted, merely holding the big dick by the base. "What the...? Where did they go?" he questioned in frustration. He wanted to get caught, but that wasn't happening.
The man looked around, releasing the grip on his cock for a moment saw that his neighbor's room is empty. After another minute, an idea crossed his mind. Being horny all the time, Jaebum is always in the need in fulfilling fantasies. One such is actually getting caught while masturbating by someone he knows, or a stranger. The thought of them coming in right when the nudist is about to cum and shoot his big load for the sight to see. It made his throbbing erection twitched at the vision. He wasted no time and heads downstairs and into the backyard. The wooden fence was a little broken due to the bad storm a couple weeks back, so it was easier for Jaebum to fit through. He got into his neighbor's backyard, which his back door was opened. He could hear his neighbor and his guest in the living room.
This was his chance to get in without getting caught while heading upstairs and into his neighbor's bedroom. It was spacious, only having a bed, some clothes in the closet, and many boxes stacked on the corner. On the side of the bed, there was a small box that is half-closed, in which Jaebum opened it and was surprised. There was a bunch of sex toys. Was his neighbor kinky? On top was a fleshlight, a popular item that resembles a rubberized clit with an insertion for any dick to penetrate through. On the other end is a black plastic that houses the semen for when they ejaculate. Shaking it slightly, it was empty.
Jaebum was leaking, and he needed to cum so badly. He remembered what he was here to do: get caught by his neighbor, by his guest, or maybe both. He sat on the edge of the bed and held the fleshlight by one hand and pushes his rock hard dick into the toy and merely starts stroking it, hearing the pleasant sounds of the lube that is already filled on one end of the toy.
Meanwhile, his neighbor walked his guest out because she had something to do later in the evening. He waved before closing the door, cursing himself at the bad timing.
Then there was loud grunts coming from upstairs. His neighbor raised a brow and glanced up to where his room is. He didn't remember inviting anyone else in. With each cautious step, the man walked towards the stairs.
The nudist started to stroke faster with each pump of the fleshlight, watching how his big cock actually fits the toy before tilting his head back in pleasure. He moaned loudly, hearing someone already coming up the stairs. He didn't stop himself from fucking the sex toy.
His neighbor wondered if someone has broken into his house. Trying to follow the sound, it was getting louder and louder, coming from his room. "Who's there?" he called out.
Jaebum didn't respond, feeling himself about to explode by the time his neighbor will come in. He growled in lust, spreading his legs a bit wider before moving the toy in and out faster. "Oh fuck!!" he was about to cum. The man opened his bedroom door, and saw Jaebum in all of his bare body glory. The naked man was furiously fucking the toy, his pelvis thrusts upwards. His dark hair was a mess, looking like he just woke up or probably someone has pulled his hair while pounding their ass. But his body was entirely well built and muscled, while his biceps bulge at every movement.
"Right on time..." the naked man said, looking up to his neighbor up close, seeing how handsome he looks. "I'm gonna cum!!! Ahhhh here it comes...!" he shouted in orgasm before pulling the toy away and used his free hand to pump once to erupt the first stream of cum into the air, some have shot into the ceiling. His neighbor was already in the bedroom, but only inches after entering through the door. The next four shots were towards his neighbor's shirtless body. It was quite the distance, and the amount was so thick and plenty, it was like a big splash of white liquid splattered all over him.
The nudist smirked and shot one last load, thrusting his hips up against his hand as it trickled down to the floor. He was roaring out in pleasure while he orgasmed and finally felt his lust subsiding for a split second. His neighbor was at awe from the hottest sight he has seen. He stood there for a moment longer, only eyeing at Jaebum before moving towards his thick erection. He thought Jaebum was going soft after all that cum, but it was still hard. And the naked man started to stroke again. He made that wild smirk at his neighbor.
"You like that, neighbor?" he asked the other man, licking his lips.
His neighbor was at a lost of words. He does, but then he wasn't sure how to say it together. Using both fingers, he took the nude man's cum from his shirtless body and tastes it for himself.
It was the best taste ever. Somewhat salty, but still so thick and hot. He walked closer, as Jaebum bit his lower lip. From the distance his big cock was just already at the impossible like size, but up close, it was even more huge.
"Why don't you come and give it a lick?"
The other man was mesmorized at the size, and went down on one knee before Jaebum, reaching for his huge cock and took the length to his mouth. It was too big, even for his mouth to fit. He looked up, seeing the naked man's eyes, which are full of lust. This was too hot of a scene to have a nude intruder entering his home. But he didn't care at this point. He wants to please Jaebum more than anything. His wet caverns were covering the entire length. How can anyone be this big and hard? "Bet you can't do this with other guys, hm? Are they as big as me?" Jaebum asked, coursing his fingers over his neighbor's hair. The other man could only shake his head, before pulling himself out. "You're the biggest... Never seen a cock like this..." he whispered, sliding his tongue on the side of the fat erection. Then he lowered himself forward. That made Jaebum smirk even more devishly. "Fuck, man... I'm bust... You want my load in your whore mouth...?" he asked, merely taking both hands over the side of his neighbor's head and pushes his thick shaft deeper, hitting the back of his throat with a loud groan. His neighbor could barely hold back his tears, closing his eyes to focus better. It was so good, having his mouth stuffed like that. Jaebum is a sex god for sure. "Ahhhhhh.... Yeah, I'm gonna cum!!!" Jaebum shouted in pleasure, finally unloading the first three streams of cum into the man's throat. The streams were too hot, and too much to intake in one go. "Ohhhh yeahhhh!!!..." he pulls his big cock out, and strokes it more, unleashing another five more cum shots onto his neighbor's face and lips. The other man was sweating, trying to pant and opened his slightly swollen jaw, trying to catch the next heavy loads. The rest were landing over his forehead, dripping down towards the already soaked floor. Jaebum's chest heaved in orgasm, tilting his head back as the shots were short and trickled. He nudged his big dick, before holding the base of it. By the time he opened his eyes, he sees Jaebum still jerking his hard, throbbing dick. How much stamina does this guy have?! The naked man bit his lower lip, giving his large cock a couple more jerks, languidly slow and sensual. "That was good, baby... Now I want you to ride me... Take those pants off and ride this big cock..." They fucked again. And again on the wall. And once more next to the window. Once the neighbor was exhausted, he was on the bed, his ass and legs moist with sweat and heavy amounts of semen, his ass was red and pink. He was panting heavily, trying to gather strength. But before he could speak a word, he used his head to glance over to where Jaebum was. There he was, standing next to the window. His back, muscular and coursed with defined shoulders, was shown. By the time he turned his body around... He was still jerking his erection, with that same lust over his face and eyes. "You think I'm done?" he said, his huge erection throbbed and shot another stream of cum towards his neighbor's direction. "Oh no, baby... We're just getting started."
#kpop smut#got7#got7 smut#jaebum smut#jb imagines#jaebum imagines#jb smut#got7 jb#got7 jaebum#got7 jb smut
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sorry for anyone who doesn’t love parksborn but not really because i love parksborn and decided to write them a little thing
—
harry always says his full name.
eight years old, on the playground of a public school in queens because emily osborn wanted her son to have as normal of an upbringing as possible despite their wealth, holding hands under the slide so that no one can see and whispering, like it’s a secret, “you’re my best friend, peter parker.”
ten years old and blinking back tears in an airport because emily is no longer in the picture and norman osborn was never equipped to be a father, hugging each other and gasping for air when it feels like their chests are caving in on weakened lungs and crumbling rib cages and repeating a mantra of, “i’ll never forget you, peter parker,” and “i’ll always come back.”
eighteen years old and wearing a pair of sunglasses to hide the way his eyes are shining with so much emotion that he feels like he’s choking, forcing a cool tone after the shaky question of when did you get back? and responding with, “yesterday,” before putting on a believable grin and adding, “been a while, peter parker. you got taller.” and rejoicing in the sound of peter’s spluttered sort of laugh.
nineteen years old, norman is gone, and spider-man is a thorn in his side but under the mask—
“peter parker,” harry breathes, horrified, even as he pressed peter against the concrete and stares down at those tear filled eyes that are pleading with him, blood trickling from a broken nose, black eye already forming. “you...?”
and peter tries to shake his head but his entire body seems to be trembling with some sort of heavy, suffocating kind of dread. “harry—you don’t—you don’t understand, okay? i—!”
harry presses peter down harder, sucks in a rush of oxygen that burns his lungs, then flees, ignoring the desperate call of his name.
twenty years old and drunk off his ass and trying to run a company and pretend he’s managing it well when he isn’t because there are so many things—so many things, all the time, never a moment of rest—and, in a drunken moment of despair, throwing pebbles at a second story window until a random elderly man opens it and yells at harry to leave and he does, stumbles down the street and around the corner and pulls out his phone and dials that number that he’s sure will never answer his call but he should never assume because—
it rings—rings, and—
“harry?”
and it’s that voice that he hasn’t heard in so long because he’s avoided it ever since finding out who spider-man is and just that one word, his own name, spoken in a quiet question of disbelief and hope and—
god, harry just—he just—
“someone else is in your house,” is what he slurs out. it’s easier than the truth, anyway.
a short pause, a lapse of silence that stretches on just long enough to make harry fear that peter hung up entirely, until there’s a puff of air that’s almost a laugh and peter is telling him, “yeah, well, we moved. a while ago.”
harry sits on the curb, legs extended in front of his and shoulds slouched. “but—that’s your house. that’s always been your house.”
“harry, may and i moved when we were fourteen.”
another lapse of silence, this time heavier on harry’s part, before— “no, i—i would have known that. why wouldn’t i—how do i not know that? i would—peter, i would know that.”
the sad smile is almost audible in peter’s voice when he says, “it was after we stopped sending letters, and when you got back to new york, you were so caught up in everything else that you just didn’t—didn’t realize, i guess.”
“but i—i always realize stuff when it comes to you. i always—i always—always—”
“it’s flattering that you think that,” peter says.
harry doesn’t know what to say to that, so he simply leans back until his upper half is on the sidewalks, legs stretched into the street, staring up at the clouds. “why?”
there’s shuffling on the other end of the line, a distant voice and a muffled reply before footsteps and a shutting door. “why what?”
“why did you move?”
it’s not what harry really wants to ask, but it’s close enough, he supposes. “couldn’t afford the house anymore,” peter replies. “after ben...”
harry wets his lower lip and says, “oh.”
“yeah.” peter clears his throat. “why are you—i mean... you’ve been ignoring my existence for over a year, harry. why are you...?”
peter asks the questions he means to ask. harry blinks away tears while staring at the sky in a random street in queens because he didn’t know life long best friend moved six years ago. something about that makes the honesty bubble out of harry’s chest in the form of a very quiet, very broken, “i miss you, peter parker.”
this third silence is filled with something indescribable that feels almost electric even through the phone, tingling the palm of harry’s hand. then, softly, like he’s almost afriad to admit it— “yeah. yeah, i—i miss you, too.”
twenty two and in their shared apartment that’s halfway between oscorp and stark industries because they both decided they don’t want to live where they work and despite having other friends in the city, there’s just no one else they can imagine rooming with. harry is on the sofa and watching a random movie on netflix with all the lights off and a bowl of popcorn in his lap, a light breeze blowing through the room, when peter suddenly tumbles in through the open window and lands on the floor with a thud.
“oh, shit—!” and harry is on his feet, bowl of popcorn a last thought as he shoves it onto the coffee table and leaps over the back of the sofa to skid on his knees by peter’s heaving form.
“hey—ow—” peter tugs off his mask with a visible wince and offers harry a sheepish kind of grin that’s somehow still endearing with the blood on his teeth and the several rips and tears in his suit. “it’s not—not as bad as it looks.”
harry glares at him, reaching over to grasp him by his upper arms and helping him to his feet. “bathroom,” he says, tone clipped and to the point, leaving no room for argument.
peter shakes his head. “no, i’m—”
“if you try to tell me that you’re fine when i can literally see you bleeding all over our expensive carpet then i will personally kill you with my bare hands. and i know your weak spots.”
“that’s—” peter stops, brows raised high. “okay, that’s kinda—kinda terrifying, actually.”
harry grins, even as he leads a staggering peter down the hall. “good, it’s a threat.”
“you’re not supposed to threaten me,” peter pouts. “you’re my—my, um—my harry—”
a laugh pushes out from the center of harry’s chest, loud and unabashed, though peter looks flushed and embarrassed when harry lowers him to sit on the closer toilet lid. “your harry?” he repeats, incredulously. “that’s what this is?”
“no, i—i mean—”
“you’re an idiot, peter parker,” harry tells him fondly, trails gentle fingertips down the side of his face while peter stares up at him with sparkling eyes. he taps his thumb against peter’s chin and matter of factly says, “but i’m not kissing you until your busted lip is healed.”
twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven—the years kind of blur together when you don’t really bother to keep track of time. their apartment is now a penthouse because peter has a high enough position at stark industries (“that i earned,” peter says, defiant and defensive even though harry has always known that peter always earns what he has. “mr. stark didn’t just give it to me. i started at the bottom and i worked my way up without his help.”) and can afford half of the rent without relying at all on harry’s endless fortune. oscorp is finally partnering with stark industries because of a late movie night somehow turning into an idea dump and then becoming an all nighter of blueprints and planning and creating theories. it’s slow dancing in the kitchen and proofing each other’s work and kissing on the balcony when they decide to watch the sunset.
twenty eight and morgan stark is only a year and a half old and when tony and pepper decide to go on vacation, they trust peter and harry to watch her, and she—she is delicate, precious and fragile and beautiful and breakable and peter is terrified of doing something wrong. he’s held her before, played with her and knows her and grins when she recognizes his face, but he has never taken care of her like this.
“you won’t hurt her,” harry assures him, lightly bouncing morgan on his hip with a kind of natural ease that is almost scary. morgan giggles and grabs harry’s ear to yank on it before reaching her other hand out towards peter, who hovers a few feet away, his heart thudding heavily in hard to explain fear. harry smiles softly. “see? she even wants you.”
peter swallows roughly and takes a shuffled step forward before taking two large steps back. “i can’t,” he murmurs. “i just—i can’t.”
there’s years upon years of trauma packed beneath those words and harry knows it, but he doesn’t point it out, just makes his way forward and watches as morgan happily grabs at peter’s shirt as soon as he’s within her reach, eyes warm and fond and soft. “you’re amazing with her. she loves you, okay. you gotta know that.”
“but i could—accidents happen, and i’m not—”
morgan gurgles and lurches forward in harry’s arms, clearly too impatient to sit there while the adults talk. peter reaches forward just in time to catch her, his eyes reflecting how terrified he is as he swoops her in his arms and hugs her to his chest, curls around her protectively. harry’s heart is beating far too fast from the fear of morgan getting hurt, but he reaches forward and settles his hand on peter’s shoulder and shakes him, just a bit. “you see that?”
peter is breathing heavily against the top of morgan’s head. “oh my god,” he rasps. “mo, you can’t just—oh my god—”
“she’s fine,” harry reassures him, moving closer until they’re a little bit of a huddle, morgan curled up comfily between them. “that’s you, okay? she’s fine because you caught her. even when accidents happen, you’ll keep her safe.”
“but—”
harry tucks a stray curl behind peter’s ear and tells him, “you’re so good, peter parker. when are you gonna catch up with the rest of us and figure that one out?”
peter rests his forehead against harry’s shoulder and lets out a shaky breath, but he doesn’t respond.
(at the end of the night, morgan is snoring on peter’s chest while the heffalump movie plays on the tv. harry is curled into his side and watching the movie and idly comments, “you know, we’d be pretty good at this whole thing.”
peter looks at harry. “what whole thing?”
“the—y’know, kids. having them. taking care of them.”
peter blinks at him, seemingly speechless, at least for just a moment, before he lets out a little laugh. “did you just casually put becoming parents on the table? we’re not even married.”
“yet,” harry says with a shrug. “pretty sure it’s obvious that it’s gonna happen, though.”
“still,” peter says, “that’s a big step. are you—i mean, are you sure? kids? with me?”
harry lifts his head and presses a kiss to peter’s lips and lingers there, lets them both enjoy it for a moment before pulling back with a smile and bumping their noses together. “it’s you,” he murmurs. “why wouldn’t i be sure about you?”)
#my writing#peter parker#harry osborn#peter parker x harry osborn#harry osborn x peter parker#parksborn
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Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 212 prt 1
212
Matt and Rieva returned in the morning. Seeing Lance hadn’t come down with a fever, or bled during the night, Keith let his fiancé sleep. The vampire had been up a couple of times in the morning to use the bathroom, collapsing back into bed as if he’d been sleep walking each time. Rieva was of the opinion Lance should rest, Matt backing up with his fiancé said, both of them leaving within the hour of arriving back home to go to work.
Flicking the TV on for company, Keith woke Lance up with the noise. Shuffling into the room, his fiancé climbed onto the sofa next to him, an arm snaking around Keith’s waist for comfort. He got a very sleepy “I love you”, before Lance fell back to sleep again him. His scent was still off. It was still off and it still filled Keith with nervous energy. Managing half an hour sleep, Lance woke up, mumbling about needing the bathroom. His lover barely gone a few moments before he was back, gripping the doorframe with one hand, and his stomach with the other
“K-Keith... I think there’s something wrong with me”
Jumping over the side of the sofa, Keith caught Lance as his knees gave out. The crotch of Lance’s underwear wet and bloodied. Fuck. Fuck... no. This couldn’t be happening, fluid spilling down the inside of Lance’s shaking legs
“Lance!”
“Nnngh... I dun feel good... I think the twins are coming”
Lifting Lance off his feet, Keith carried his fiancé over to the sofa. Squatting down between Lance’s knees, Keith was far far into panic mode
“Are you sure?”
“Mhmm... it... hurts...”
“Okay. Okay, let me get the keys and we’ll head to Platt. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, baby. Just hang on for me”
Grabbing his phone up, Keith called Coran, yelling at him to be prepared because Lance was in labour. Finding Lance’s car keys up, he rushed out to the bronco, climbing in before realising he’d left Lance sitting in the living room. He didn’t know what the plan was. Why didn’t they have a birth plan?! Rieva said they needed a birth plan. So why hadn’t they made a birth plan!? Looking to assure Lance it would be okay, that was when he realised he’d forgotten the main component of this nonexistent plan.
Running back into the house, Lance was now sobbing on the sofa, both hands on his stomach, clearly in pain. False contractions had been bad enough, Keith sympathised over the amount of pain Lance must be in. Placing his hand on his mate’s arm, Lance was freezing, that couldn’t be a good sign. He was wearing a hoodie. Why was he wearing a hoodie? Lance should be wearing the hoodie...
“You’re going to be okay, babe. You’re going to be okay. We’ll get to you Platt”
Lance shook his head, crying harder as he did
“I don’t want to go... don’t make me go”
“Coran’s going to deliver our twins, you’ll be okay”
Snatching up the blanket Lance had come shuffling in with, Keith tried to wrap it around Lance’s shoulders, Lance slapping his hand away
“I don’t want him to take our babies away!”
His ego took that as fact, rather than fear. Anger prickling at the idea of their children being stolen away. Shit. Now was not the time. What was he forgetting?! Lance’s go bag. No. No. That was still in the back of the bronco
“That’s not going to happen”
“Please... please don’t let them take them away from me”
“They won’t. They won’t take them away. Can you stand?”
Lance whimpered at him, drawing back on the sofa. He didn’t want to leave his home. They’d come too damn far to lose the twins now.
Forcing Lance up to stand, between his legs was wet with red tinged fluid. The pain leaving Lance hunched. Lifting him off his feet, Keith rushed from the living room, fighting his own ego that screamed at him as he forced himself out the front door. Fuck. Fuck. This was not the plan. This was the plan, but Lance wasn’t okay so this wasn’t the plan. Shit. He needed to call Shiro... and Krolia... and the others... fuck... Clutching his shirt, Lance gazed up at him with glassy eyes
“I don’t want to lose the twins”
“You’re not about to. You’ll be okay, baby. You’ll be okay”
Getting Lance into the bronco, Keith skipped the seatbelt, covering Lance with the blanket before leaning over to crank the heating knob to full heat. Slamming the door closed, he rounded the bronco, climbing in beside Lance, who whined softly for him
“I’m here, baby. I’m here. It’ll be okay”
Shifting closer to him, Lance buried his face against Keith’s shoulder
“I don’t feel very good... it hurts”
“I know, sweetheart. You hold on for me...”
“I love you... I dun wanna leave you...”
“You’re not going to. You’re not going anywhere”
Kicking gravel as he pulled a U-turn in Lance’s drive, Keith’s heart wouldn’t stop hammering. Labour seemed so sudden. Lance hadn’t said anything about his water breaking. Wasn’t that a thing? In the movies it was a sudden gush... Where was the sudden gush? He might have no idea about this, but these things were supposed to happen in order! Lance was supposed to come tell him his waters had broken, then he’d soothe him, and they’d go to Platt, where Coran would be waiting happily to deliver their twins. This was not how it went!
Speeding through Garrison, Keith took a few turns wide as he tried to reach his phone to call his brother. The device sliding along the dash and deciding to stay on the opposite end. The last thing he needed was the red and blue flashing lights in the rear view mirror that were accompanied by a burst of siren just after Balmera. Shit. Lance was in labour. He was on edge. He didn’t need this shit right now. He could make a run for it... but the cops would follow... he really didn’t need a high speed chase. Fuck. Fuck... fuck. Slowing the bronco, the stop was less than gentle as he pulled onto the gravel shoulder, jolting Lance. Moaning at the sudden stop, Lance blinked at him, trying to focus
“Ke-Keith?”
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay”
Watching the officer climb out of the patrol car, Keith nearly gunned the engine. He could put a fair bit of distance between them and police if he left right now... but Lance would be mad if he did that. His lover’s hand finding his and gripping hard as let out a long groan
“You’re okay. You’re okay... fuck...”
Squeezing his hand, Keith felt something break. For being so weak, his fiancé’s strength was there when they didn’t need it. Lance had a death grip on his hand, Keith not sure it’d ever not have his impression printed on it forever.
“Sir, are you aware of how recklessly you were driving?”
Keith had rolled the window down as the officer got closer. He could do this. Nothing was wrong... just his fiancé in labour... nothing to see here
“I...”
“I trust you have some good reason for how fast you were going”
Lance let out a cry, the police officer looking alarmed
“Sir, is there something wrong with your passenger there?!”
“K-Keith...?”
The less Lance had to do with the police officer, the better
“It’s my fiancé. They’re in labour. There’s been so many complications with the pregnancy...”
“Sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car”
No. Nope. On the other side of the car, the man’s college opened the passenger side door. Keith’s heart beat so loud it was echoing in his head. Lifting the blanket, the officer drew back, talking past the pair of them
“We need an ambulance. There’s blood”
Keith snarled, sorely sorry for having dropped
“We don’t need an ambulance. You need to let me get him to his doctor!”
“Sir, if you’re going to continue to be aggressive...”
Nope. They weren’t taking him and they weren’t waiting for ambulance to come all the way from Platt when he could get Lance to VOLTRON faster and safer for everyone involved
“Oh, fuck this. I’m sorry”
Turning on the engine, the officer at his door tried to stick his arm inside to open the driver door from the inside. Keith tearing his hand off the handle and shoving him back so hard the man fell on his arse. Sticking his head out the window, Keith threw a blanket apology in the man’s direction
“I’m sorry, but you have no idea what’s happening and I like him better than I like the pair of you”
Shit. Fuck. He’d gone and done it now. He heard the police fussing as he pulled off the gravel shoulder, hopefully Coran would deal with the fall out. The Garrison police kind of too shocked to get their shit together in a hurry...
“Babe?”
“It’s okay. I didn’t hurt him...”
“You like me more than them...”
Swerving the bronco, the still open passenger door swung closed as he’d hoped it would
“I do, baby. I love you”
“I dun feel good... it hurts and I’m tired. You said your were worry”
Keith groaned at himself. He made a terrible criminal
“I know. You’ve got stay awake for me. You can do that for me”
“Wanna... push... ‘m scared”
“No! No pushing. You’re okay, it’s not that far”
“Bud my body says...”
All colour left Keith’s face. Nope. No. He didn’t know how to deliver a baby. Plus... Lance wasn’t equipped for things to be coming out of there... that’d hurt...
“You have to keep those legs of yours closed a little longer...”
“I dun know... they’re coming too soon... nigh...”
Squeezing Lance’s hand with his busted hand, there was no pushing happening in the bronco, Lance’s groan was too long not be him struggling
“Don’t you dare push!”
“I...”
“Our babies are going to be born at VOLTRON. Remember the drugs? Think of the drugs...”
Lance nodded sluggishly
“I wan’ the drugs”
“See. You can’t push without the drugs...”
Lance went silent for a long moment, Keith taking his eyes off the road to look at him. Blood trickled from Lance’s mouth
“Babe? Babe, talk to me”
Covering his mouth, Lance coughed wetly, the vampire lowering his hand to show a gloop of blood in his palm. Fucking fuck fuck
“You’re okay. We’re nearly there...”
“I... love you...”
“I love you too, baby...”
The cops caught up with them just outside Platt, Keith had given up on all road rules by then. Entirely selfish and reckless, though he had made sure not cause any accident. Parking in front of VOLTRON, the cops were maybe 10 seconds behind him. Flying out the car, he ran around the front of the bronco, throwing open the passenger door to pull Lance out. The officers had to be confused as hell as to why he’d brought Lance to a twenty-four hour bookstore. Moaning in his arms, his fiancé still felt icy to the touch, Coran opening the bookstore door for him as he carried his precious fiancé inside
“Coran, something’s wrong with him...”
Striding towards the elevator, Coran kept up with him, casting a glance at the officers that’d followed him inside. Mashing the button, the doors opened, closing behind them as the lady behind the store counter moved to talk to the police. They were her problem now
“Keith? Are they with you?”
“I kind of drove off and upset them...”
“Ah. Well... we’ll deal with that later. I’ve got a bed prepared for him...”
Lance moaned in his arms
“Wanna push...”
“I know, my boy. I know, you’re being very brave”
“Hurds”
Coran placed his hand on Lance’s forehead, Keith not stupid as he knew Coran had to be manipulating Lance’s quintessence or something
“I’m sure it does... How long has he been in labour?”
“I’m not sure... He was up and down a bit this morning and very lethargic, then he went to use the bathroom and came back saying he thought something was wrong. Something has to be wrong, he wants to push already”
“Not necessarily. His body is a tad peculiar. It maybe be a survival trait of breeder vampires. A long labour would put them in danger of capture or death... Or he’s simply interpreting the messages his brain is sending out in the wrong way”
Keith had clearly heard what Lance said and Lance clearly knew what he was feeling better than him and Coran
“No offence, Coran, but I’m second away from attacking you for being this close. I don’t want to hear “maybes””
“Right. Here we go, straight through and onto the bed if you please”
Lance clung to him as Keith laid him down on the waiting hospital gurney. Curled around his stomach, his fiancé looked so broken Keith found himself crying as kissed his forehead
“Don’t leave me”
As if he would. His ego was now going wild at the amount of people around his mate
“I’m not. I’m right here with you, baby. I’m here”
“I’m scared”
“I know... I know, but we’re going to meet our twins soon”
Looking up to Coran, Coran nodded
“Number two is absolutely right, my boy. Let’s take him straight through”
Coran was taking no chances it seemed. The amount of blood obviously overruled any standard way of going about this. Holding both of Lance’s hands, his fiancé panted through another contraction
“You’re being so brave”
“I dun like this at all”
“You won’t be giving VOLTRON a good Yelp review?”
“No offence, Coran, but id sucks”
Coran chuckled at Lance’s slurring
“I’m sure it does, my boy. I’ve got things ready, your Keith here has a lead foot”
“He apologised to the cops... and said he liked me more than them”
Keith let out a snort of laughter, taking himself by surprise with the noise. Lance grinned at him around his pain
“Yeah, yeah, I did. And I do like you more”
“I know...”
Wheeled into the room, staff were gathered waiting. Keith thought they’d be staying, but once the bed was positioned, the slowly filtered out
“For staff safety, it’ll be you and me in here, with a nurse for support”
“He’s too delirious with pain to hurt anyone”
“It’s because he’s delirious that we need to take caution. I assume you’re going to stay up that end”
Visions of finding Lance covered in blood came back to haunt him. Though Coran would be in control, he couldn’t face the blood
“I’m good”
“Excellent. Now, Lance my boy, I know it hurts. I need to clean you up and have a little look at your tummy”
“It hurds”
“I’m sure you’re if far more pain than you’re letting on. Let’s get you comfortable, then we’ll proceed. When’s the last time he had blood?”
“This early this morning...”
“Excellent. How much would say he consumed”
“Um... 10 bags”
Coran’s eyes widened, yeah. He got it. He should have called Coran instead of waiting
“That is impressive. Right, not to worry...”
“Telling me not to worry is making me worry”
“Oh, don’t worry. This isn’t the first baby I’ve delivered”
“There’s two of them in there. We’d like both of them, thanks”
Lance missed half the conversation
“Don’t let him take our babies away... I don’t want him to take them away”
“He won’t. We’re going to be the first to meet them”
Lance strained, trying to sit up
“I wanna see them”
“They have to be born first”
“Oh...”
“It’s okay...”
Keith’s job was to keep Lance’s focus on him. When Coran had gone to run an IV line, Lance had tried to escape him, snarling at the fae as he tried to cover his stomach. Sitting with his back toward Coran, the werewolf rubbed Lance’s leg, a blanket placed across to protect his fiancé’s dignity as Coran examined him. Lance not loving being touched, and Keith not loving that Coran was seeing Lance so intimately. Covering Lance’s legs back up with the blanket, Coran was the only one smiling
“Excellent. He’s already started dilating, amazingly fast really. The muscle ring is much softer more pliant than normal. His body is fascinating”
Coran did not just disrespect his mate
“He’s not an experiment. He’s in pain”
“Yes. Well, his waters have broken, perhaps with time he would have been able to deliver naturally, but the blood loss is alarming. You keep him preoccupied while I prep for surgery”
This all felt way too fucking real now that they’d come to a stop. He and Lance were going to be parents. After months and months and months of waiting. After their macaroons had turned to cupcakes, then foot and a half long subs, they’d soon be in the world as actual living people. Leaning in, Keith kissed Lance on the forehead, nuzzling the spot that was still too cold
“I love you so much. I couldn’t be prouder to be your mate”
“I love you, too... I’m sorry...”
“Shhh, there’s no need to be sorry. We’re going to be parents soon”
“You’re going to be the best dad”
“I don’t know, you’re really fucking amazing”
“I’m... it hurts...”
“I know, baby. I know. It’ll all be over soon”
“You won’t leave, will you?”
“Nope. I’m here. I’m here with you”
“Mmmm... best secret fiancé ever”
“Hey, you’re not too bad yourself”
Lance bit his lip as another contraction hit, snorting his breath out through his nose through the wave. Keith repeating himself, as he’d done over and over again in the longest half hour of his life
“You’re doing so good. So good for me...”
“It hurts... I feel gross”
“You look better than you feel””
“You’re beautiful. Our babies are going to be beautiful... Coran’s going to make the pain go away real soon, you just keep holding my hand until it does”
Setting a small curtain up to prevent Lance from seeing his stomach, Coran fetched Keith a chair as he let the drugs seep into Lance’s system. Coming back to them, the fae was far too enthused, followed by a nurse who wore a very tight polite smile. The fae had been gone long enough that Keith wondered if he’d run off to leave them alone to deliver the twins alone. Lance was still fighting the urge to push, Keith trying to remember how to coach him through breathing
“I’ve rung everyone, let them know what’s happening. They’ll be forced to wait upstairs until after the delivery, purely for safety reasons. Don’t want someone losing a limb because they can’t wait to see our babies. Now, this procedure is major surgery, don’t be alarmed if Lance passes out, he’s under quite a lot strain. Keith, did you manage to remember Lance’s bag?”
“It’s in the car”
“Excellent. Now, Lance, you may feel the need to struggle. I want you to keep your attention on Keith. I’m not going to harm you or the twins. Please try to keep that in mind”
Keith didn’t think Lance would fight Coran, not in his weakened state. The moment the vampire saw Coran holding a scalpel as he checked his instrument kit, Lance wanted out of there, promising this was a false alarm and he’d come back tomorrow if Coran took the knife away. The drugs had kicked in, Lance was high as a kite if he thought anyone in the room believed it. Keith didn’t want his scary his face to be the first thing their baby saw, but the poor werewolf’s ego was mad. They wanted to see the twins already, but they wanted to see them without Lance being hurt or cut open to deliver them. His ego was a stupid animal. Coran hadn’t even started the incision and Keith felt faint from the scent in the room.
Growling through another contraction, Keith’s hand was crushed all over again, Lance throwing his head back, sobbing out a “fuck” as the wave passed. Ooooh fuck... he’d grown used to Lance crushing his hand, but that was definitely Lance pushing. He wasn’t supposed to be pushing... Drugged up Lance probably couldn’t stop himself from how badly he wanted the twins out and the pain to be over
“Uhh, Coran... I don’t think he’s waiting for you”
Placing down the scalpel, Coran moved back to table. Lance was naked beneath the sheet, the fae letting panic was over his face before composing himself in the same moment
“He’s started crowning...”
Nope. They may not have had a birth plan, but Lance was clear about “not pooping out a baby”! Keith snapping at Coran
“He’s not supposed to be!”
Coran snapping back at him
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I don’t understand that reference
The bunker nonetheless is the most boring place on earth, until you come to terms with it.
This is a Team Free Will x reader one shot, but its heavily on Casanova .
Viewer beware you're in for a scare: with the number of nicknames, fluff, sexual themes, and language, in this one.
I love these dorks too much..slight au
"Cas, it's just a bug," you sighed, rubbing your hand on the angels back trying to calm his thunderous mind. Cas let out a whimper, his deep-sky blues glassy as he watched another hoarder's ant crawl its way into the bunker, into Dean's electric trap he rigged up from the angel leaving out food for them to eat. One particular spark sent him into a frenzy he jumped into your arms "Y/N! IT'S JUST SO INHUMANE!" he sobbed out his breath getting caught in his throat as he gasped through the lump in his throat. "I know, I know" you reassured him, threading your fingers through his darkened locks, running your fingernails across his scalp, he slumped against your shoulder. Even throughout the tears, he smiled finding joy in your actions.
It had been a few minutes, without Cas's whimpering or complaining. You had no idea how hard it was to lose your grace for the second time and especially to Lucifer, himself. Cas had lost it, to say the least, but it was ten times worse than before, and he was too dangerous to be left alone. so the boys had designated you the mom or babysitter was more an accurate title. And my God, if you didn't love him you would have left him to the ants because good lord was it a tiring title.
The boys rarely even helped you with the man child/angel, Sam, of course, trying to pitch in whenever he could but he couldn't even help the half of the damage Cas had caused when he was out hunting. Which led you here crissed cross on the couch, reading Casanova IT, his head rested on your thigh. Blue oceans staring blankly at the plain white ceiling, hands entangled with one of yours. He said the book was too scary for him so he grabbed one of your hands to reassure him of safety, which you of course thought was ridiculous, but hey at least he was quiet. Every now and then he glanced your way. He was watching your lips as they twisted and turned your eyebrows knitting as you tried your best portraying the book and dramatizing it so it would interest him in the least bit.
He gasped as he heard through his foggy brain as they mistreated Ben, he hated bullies, he hated Lucifer so much because he was such a big bully to his family. As he gathered his courage, he wanted to show you that he was devoted to protecting you from the darkness that scared him the night. He picked himself off the couch, dusting off an excellent portrayal of Kurt Cobain. On a washed-out grey-black shirt you had gifted him when he said his usual attire was and I quote "too sophisticated, not my taste." You remembering laughing at his snooty face as he declared his style of fashion.
Lifting you out of your thoughts, quite literally might I add, he tucked his arms under the ditches of your knees and around your back. His hand behind your back was heavy on your chest. You just hoped he wouldn't squeeze. But oh, of course, the bloody bastard had to squeeze. (You honestly do blame Crowley for your variety of words.) "CAS!" you squawked losing the page you were reading and dropping the 1000 paged book on the wood floor along with your dignity, to your dismay.
You lifted your face from your misfortune and glared at the creature who had been breathing on the back of our neck for the last minute or so. His breath held as he realized, if he lowered his head the smallest bit, he would touch his lips against what he thought of luxurious finger-licking good ones. It didn't take long for you to notice where his eyes were flickering to every second that had passed. He wasn't what you would call "smooth." Quite the opposite, really. "I'm your shining knight, y/n.," he spoke softly, his lips twisting into the proudest smirk you had ever seen from the man-child. You snorted a laugh, not the most attractive thing you've done but you couldn't help it, seeing only how one side of his parted lips perked up, such a lopsided grin fitted for a lopsided man. "Casanova, you are the last person I would want to be my shining knight, in your state, I mean wait till we get your grace back. Then we can talk, you know my room number." You doubted if he did remember it, hell, he couldn't even remember his name half the time.
His eyes sank in the rejection. They turned glossy and you knew the waterworks were going to come soon, although before they could you both heard the loud bearing of the bunker door opening. Telling you that both the boys were home. Alarming Cas he dropped you. Yes, I did not stutter, he dropped you. Right on your tailbone. You breathed out a stuttering gasp and groaned in pain as you reached back and felt the blossoming bruise. You looked up at the assailant, he looked like he had been shot. Eyes wide as saucers, mouth open letting flies in, his form turning stiff, and it certainly didn't help when Sam and Dean came into view, he ran. Presumably into your room to hide he no longer slept in his room demeaning it to have too many monsters in it. You couldn't help the eye roll that came after when he had told you that. Sam took one look at your current situation and sighed, saddened at the fact that. This was getting way too familiar to stumble across on you to find you like this and with and with a huff he grumbled out "I'll go and get the ice."
It had been a few hours since Casanovas incident. Dean smirking and teasing how you and Cas should be less the next time, earning him the bird with he let out a hearty laugh at. You couldn't sit straight for the most part, which you and Sam later to find out that you had broken your tailbone. Which gave Dean even more fuel for him to jab at, but saying that you were devastated to find out about the loss of being able to sit was an understatement. You going to get Cas back, twice as hard. You were thinking about taking away his favorite cereal, he would be even in worse pain then you were. And if you could you would evil laugh but all that came out were sputters, "Y/n the only way you're going to be able to walk is to pop it back into place and hope for the best.."
Sam said gently trying to not alarm you but doing the exact opposite. He was referencing to you laying flat on the wood floor face pressed against it making your cheek squished. Your eyes were wide looking like they were going to bust out of your skull, you tried to push yourself at off the cold surface but found yourself army crawling to get away from Sam's comment towards the current issue at hand. (More like at spine.) "You what?!, I swear to hell if you touch me. I will make Castiel smite you, and he thinks of me as his god, so-" your tangent was shortly interrupted by Sam's gorilla hands sandwiching your stomach and lower back right above your fun cushion. "HOLY MOTHER OF fUc-" you screeched as the sickening pop sounded from your lower half, your eyes fluttered close as your body became exasperated from the torture that it had just encountered. Sam's face had gone into a new level of bitch face as he tried to registered what your threat and what followed after it.
"Hands down Sam, I'm just gonna put it out there that I'm the mother," Dean said patting the crouched Winchester by the back with a wicked smirk, Sam's face turned into disgust swatting away what he now thought of his brother's contaminated hand. Which I mean probably was it is Dean was talking about, what'd we expect? Sam carefully wrapped you in a blanket tortilla too afraid to move you and not wanting to get the headache of hearing your lecture, he decided that this was the best approach. Afterward, Sam stalked towards the fridge, his daddy long legs (completely non-sexual, or is it?) carrying him in a few strides. He hunched down, the mini-fridge they kept in the living room was too obnoxiously small for the giant. Dean knew that but would never get a new one, just because of the hilarity of having to see his brother crouch for a beer was something else. "If you are the mother then I must be a saint."
Sam stammered out as he gulped down a drink of his beer, obtaining a now slight buzz and realizing that his hair was such a complex thing to keep out of his face. He started to swat at it as he would with a fly. Trying and failing to get it out of his face. Dean chuckled to himself and reached into his blue jean pocket and grabbed the small computer from his pocket, filming his brother that was looking like he was having a stroke.
You awoke to dark blue eyes scanning your face, and what appeared to be Casanova sitting on the backs of his thighs, and his head held tilted like a kicked puppy, yet, he slumped over a little too much and fell on his side he smiled, and groaned out a laugh. "Heay, y/Loki' he slurred out, although when your eyes began to focus you noticed a drinking game is being played behind you between the two boys, Sam was laying on the table passed out while Dean had propped his feet on the table and kicked back in the chair, unconscious as well. Great. You didn't know how they could sleep through it but your ears were bleeding from the amount of bass in the background.
You began to lift yourself up with the assistance of the couch, you grimaced your back now a dull pain, but as sharp as ever. You got about halfway but then your knees gave out and now you are face to face with the man, the myth, the legend. Casanova. He smiled a lazy one and if he wasn't drunk he sure did look high. "I blew a kite once." He said you just stared like a deer in headlights, not believing the blackmail you now have on him. His eyes grew wide and he shifted so he was lying flat on his back, he stuck his hands out and grasped something so vivid that was in his mind dragging them back and forth up and down. Then all at once, he stopped and his hands stayed in one place. You didn't dare question his intentions, having a grand time watching him mime his scenario out. He became eerily quiet for someone who was turned into a toddler for the second time in his career.
You were shifted on your side, your left arm propped your hand resting against your head to keep it from falling. He looked over and you swear you just had the most intense staring game in your entire life. Not knowing his intentions it was all a ploy, a trick to some. He jutted out his neck and bit your cheek. You squealed in shock and in somewhat surprise as to his actions. You grasped your cheek now rubbing the reddened skin, "Goddamn Castiel, what are you? a walker?" you questioned the man who was now trying to act like a turtle and hid in his shirt. He pulled his shirt over his head, his stomach coming into full view. Your mouth fell slack as you took in the pale toned flesh of the angel. Who knew the man-child was so fit? you choked back a groan when you sat yourself up fully and attempted to stand. And holy hell the gods listened to your prayers and had allowed you to stand.
You jabbed angel face in his too defined ribs with a sock clad foot, fear took over him and he started to swat everything in existence and kicked too, you would never forget about the kicking, you would never know-how, but he had managed to kick himself straight in the head. He moaned as he raised his hands to his head and clenched his fists in his/your shirt. You crouched and my god did it hurt like hell. You hesitated at first before you placed a hand on his, afraid that he would have another fit if you touched him. "Hey, buddy it's y/n," you started trying to comfort him to the point where he'd come out of his shell so you could see the damage he'd done to himself. All you got in return was a muffled "MMF." You knew by the way he snarled out that mmf that he was pissed, but quite frankly you didn't give a damn, too fed up with having to keep up his shit. "You know what casanova fuck it fine. Have it your way."
You hissed out, you grabbed well more, yanked them from his head. His no's and why's sounding like a war cry. You didn't care about that though, all you cared about was ending this shit day, putting Casanova to bed by your side, and forget about all of what has happened in the mere few hours. He growled whenever you shoved the shirt down from over his face, revealing his eyes that were the deepest shade of blue and the most striking piercing shade that you have ever seen from the years you've known him.
He querched an eyebrow when you didn't say anything but gawk at how beautiful they were. "Y/n," he let out your name in such a collected and calm tone that was such a contrast from his voice over the day, that you didn't even notice that he had spoken. Until he asked your name again with a sharp shake of your shoulders, that broke your trance from his gaze. "Wha-?" You were cut off short when his torn and broken shade of tulip lips pressed against yours in such quick haste, that it took your breath away. Or it could have been the fact that you were holding it from the sheer fact, that the casanova had just done something so intimate.
His long fingers stretched behind your ears and cupped your jaw positioning you to the correct height, your own hands shoved into the raven on hair grabbing and pulling every which way. The literal child of man was making out with you, the man that had annoyed you to the ends of the earth, the man who had taught and some days forced you to learn about his culture, the man who you would risk your life for and him the same, the man who wouldn't leave your side for months until you finally got over a minor cold. And that he was postponing the literal apocalypse. (Yeah, that happened, long story.) Yet, he would always be the man who you loved.
#dean winchester#dean winchester x reader#Sam Winchester#sam winchester x reader#Cute and hot at the same time IRTR#team free will#fluff#castiel x reader#castiel x reader fluff#castiel novak x reader#castiel novak#supernatural#SPN#fanfic#xreader#what a dork#its cute tho#so much fluff#dean being a little shit#sam being the devil in disguise#cas being a clueless baby
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Thunder Thighs Ch.2
[Chapter 1][Chapter 3]
Title: Thunder Thighs Ch.2
Rating: T
Pairing: Hux/Reader.
Chapter Summary: As the search for “Thunder Thighs” continues, you are transferred.
Word count: 1903
Warnings: Canon typical violence.
Notes: WIP. Not completed. 2nd POV. Female reader. Physical characteristics: nothing more detailed than “relatively average sized”.
[Thunder Thighs Chapter list]
[Masterlist]
-
The next morning you made sure your appearance was perfect. Your bloodied face had been cleaned up by a medical droid in the training room and the swelling was gone by the morning. You even wore a perfect layer of concealer under a perfectly matched foundation, steps you didn’t normally take. Not a strand of hair was loose and you chose to wear the uniform that consisted of a skirt instead of slacks. Again, normally you’d choose the slacks, as the required footwear was boots not heels, but if they were looking for females with good fighting abilities, they’d likely look over those who dressed more like secretaries.
You arrived at your station ten minutes early. Ten minutes was enough time to be early, but not so early that it looked suspicious. Looks like everything was-
Your lieutenant barking your name suddenly made you flinch. Oh kriff. This was it, they caught you. He glanced at you, almost dismissively, “What is your fighting experience?”
“Basic training and drills, sir. I’ve yet to see actual combat.” You felt yourself blush as you admitted the last.
He nodded and marked something down on a holopad. “Adis has been given a new assignment, you’ll be taking her place in assisting General Hux today. He has a meeting on Jandia, I’ve sent your reassignment and Hux’s schedule to your holopad. You leave in half an hour. Report to Adis, she’ll give you any additional information you may need and escort you to Hux’s office.”
“Yes sir.”
Whew.
You were quick to find Adis, really she was already waiting for you. “This will be both an easy and difficult assignment.” She greeted as she started to lead you to your new assignment. “Your first job is to take detailed notes, are you proficient in shorthand?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good. The general hardly needs to be reminded of the events of the day, but he expects a daily report regardless. Your other job is to simply do as he demands. I’ve added a few notes for you on the schedule that the lieutenant sent you. I suggest you read through that while you wait for Hux to board the shuttle. Any questions?”
You were about to shake your head but paused, “Actually, why the reassignment?”
She grinned, excited about something. “Did you hear about the illegal fighting ring that Hux and Phasma busted last night?”
Your stomach dropped despite the faux shock on your face, “No. But if they busted it, what’s the problem?”
“One of the fighters got away. A female fighter good enough to rip off the arm of an enforcer droid. I’m part of the investigation team to find her. The women in our squad were cleared first since we work with Hux on a regular basis. That’s why you’re taking my place.”
“Ooh. So when Lowsyk asked about my fighting experience? No wonder he looked like he wanted to scoff at me.”
She nodded and gave you a sympathetic half smile. “Yea, according to your file, you’re about the approximate height of the fighter, but, well no offense, you don’t exactly look like a fighter that can take out an enforcer droid.”
Oh stars! They considered you for only a second before dismissing the idea entirely! Maybe the skirt really was a good idea! “No, no offense taken. Yea, I mean, I haven’t even seen combat before.” You pouted outwardly while trying to keep your relief in check.
“Trust me, that isn’t something to be sad about. You’ll see it before the war ends.”
“Oh! Why did you say this would be a difficult assignment?”
Adis paused her steady steps and shot you a worried glance. “Whatever you do, don’t show fear or nervousness around Hux. He doesn’t like meek soldiers and his assistants are no exception.”
You nodded and gave a thumbs up and a grin, “No fear, got it.”
Thinking your grin was a little bit of sarcasm, she shook her head and paused in front of a door and silently gestured to you to be quiet before hitting the communication panel. The lock blinked green and she walked in, you a step behind her.
The two of you saluted General Hux, who was sitting behind a desk looking over a holopad. Adis then introduced you, telling him you were her replacement. He nodded, “You’re dismissed, Adis.”
Once Adis left, Hux told you to take a seat so you could go over the schedule. You were still so elated that you managed to escape being caught that as you read through Hux’s schedule and the notes that Adis left you, you couldn’t help but smile.
“Is there something in the schedule that amuses you, petty officer?”
You looked up from your holopad and blinked at Hux, “Amusing? No sir…?”
“Then what are you smiling at?”
The way he was glaring at you made your hand fly up to cover your mouth. He probably thought you were slacking off! “Nothing, sir! It’s just my face.”
“...Your face?”
You nodded and lowered your hand, “Yes, sir. The others in my division say I have “resting happy face.”
“Well drop it.”
“Yes sir.”
You purse your lips together in an attempt to keep from smiling, your brows furrowed as you concentrated on trying to keep a neutral face and your eyes were squinting as you looked back down at your holopad.
“Now you just look ridiculous.”
“Sorry, sir!” You peeped out with a frown, slightly demoralized and slightly concerned that Hux was going to replace you.
“That’s better.”
Oh great! Now to keep up an ambivalent disposition! You didn’t say anything as you went back to studying the schedule, though at one point you did catch yourself smiling again. Either Hux hadn’t noticed or he simply accepted that his new assistant just sometimes looked like a grinning fool. Hopefully you’d have it in check when you attended the meetings.
_
The trip to Jandia was about as eventful as you expected: that is, not at all. You walked a few paces behind the Stormtroopers that were guarding Hux, he had four troopers flanking him and one that followed you. Overkill if you ever saw it.
By the time the evening meal rolled around even your usually high spirits were dampened. Who knew assisting General Hux of First Order High Command, one of the most powerful men in the entire galaxy, could be so...boring? At this point you’d welcome a fight with another enforcer droid, even without a winning purse!
Hux didn’t have to tell you that you were leaving after the evening meal, perhaps the best thing about visiting a planet like this was the food, so you ate quickly and started to finish up the report you’d been writing whenever you had a free moment. When word that the shuttle was ready to take him back to the Finalizer and Hux started to leave, you quickly tucked your holopad into an inside jacket pocket and followed his escort.
Your hosts bid him a shaky farewell, to which he only nodded once. Considering how much sovereignty they were maintaining over Jandia, though technically now the planet was part of the First Order, you expected them to be a little more...relieved? No longer so jittery at least.
“How odd.” You muttered once the doors closed behind the last trooper.
“Indeed. High alert.” Hux commanded the Stormtroopers, who changed formation to allow you into the inner circle with Hux.
You frowned and opened your mouth, about to question whether the Jandians would actually betray the First Order, when specialized blaster fire shot down two Stormtroopers, the point man and the man who took up the tail. You and Hux both dropped lower, behind the remaining troopers.
‘He’s too tall.’ You thought as another round of fire shot over head, barely missing Hux. Why were the assigned troopers a good three inches shorter than him?
“Get the general to the shuttle!” The commander, the new point man, shouted to the other two as he dropped to one knee and started firing at what you hoped was the assailant.
You were quick to follow the troopers and Hux, trying to angle your body so that the troopers were shielding you too, even though you knew if it came down to it, they’d let you die in a second if it meant leaving Hux’s side. Not that you blamed them, you would too if you were a Stormtrooper.
The door to the shuttle opened and Hux ran in, the troopers behind him and you squeezing in next to them. You glanced behind you to look for the commander, but he was laying still on the ground outside. The doors closed and you turned, only to find the barrel of a blaster aimed at you.
The last two troopers were standing in front of Hux, blasters moving from target to target, but they were outgunned no matter which way they pointed. The dead troopers outside were evidence that these people had armor piercing blasters and-
“Kill them.” A laconic voice from somewhere in the shuttle said just before the troopers dropped to the floor from blaster fire.
You screamed and pressed your back against the doors, but they didn’t budge. Hux remained passive, only moving as the bodies of his would be bodyguards jostled him as they fell.
“What, nothing to say, general?” That same voice sneered as his men moved aside so he could step in front of Hux.
He was nearly as tall as Hux, you could only guess by the color of his eyebrows that his hair would have been dark if he weren’t bald, and there was a giant scar running diagonally across his face.
“You’ll pay for this.” Hux responded as he glared at the other man.
“No, I’m getting paid for this.” The man sniggered at his own joke. “Blasters and comlinks, drop ‘em.”
You considered pretending that you didn’t have one while Hux unholstered his blaster, but thought better and dropped yours too. The man then motioned Hux forward and shoved him toward the benches that lined the side of the shuttle, where Stormtroopers would normally sit.
You were quick to follow, sitting next to Hux and crossing your arms over your midsection in a subtle attempt to conceal every trace of the outline of your holopad. If you kept the holopad hidden, the Finalizer could track it and send a rescue team.
The scarred man started shouting orders and he was careful to omit names, either of his subordinates or where their destination was. Your attention was drawn from the captain as you felt Hux’s knee bump into yours and he rested his elbow uncomfortably close in front of you.
‘Geez, what a time to man spread.’ You wanted to roll your eyes, but once you followed where Hux was staring you realized what he was doing. One of the mercenaries had been staring at you, for whatever reason, and the longer you were in direct line of sight of him, the higher the chance they’d see your holopad. The way Hux was practically covering your side, there was no way to see the holopad.
Oh. Hux realized the importance of keeping your holopad hidden too. Of course he did. You glanced at him, his eyes met yours, and you don’t know why, but you felt like you’d get out of this alive.
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Carter Part 3 of 4
Summary: This is it, Carter is going to die here. His torturers are relentless and no one is coming for him. At least that is what he thinks until a mysterious stranger busts into the building searching for their sister. Carter is brought to the rebels, who surprise him, keeping him on his toes and helping him to work through a few things. This group is so happy and kind and better than he could ever dream of.
Found family, trans mc, chronic pain mc, trauma, hurt/comfort
Content warnings: opioids, concussion, torture (simple physical injury and neglect), blood, low self esteem, negative self talk, history of physical and mental abuse from family and a partner, self harm scars, panic attack, getting triggered, derealization, dissociation
5256 of 15060 words total
part 1, part 2, part 4
He wakes again with pain clawing at his back. It is a slow and rude awakening of tossing and turning and not being able to keep his legs still. At least it is light outside. He can tell by the diffuse glow coming in through the shuttered windows. He decides it is no use trying to sleep longer and rolls out of bed.
He smiles at the sleepy morning feel to it all. Light is slanting in, soft and warm down the hallway. When he rounds the corner he sees Emille sipping coffee on the couch. Their hair is pulled into a messy bun on the top of their head and they are wearing reading glasses.
When they see him their eyebrows furrow. “You alright? Thought you’d be sleeping in.”
“Yeah just… pain.” He shrugs.
They set down their coffee. “You want me to get Joao to take a look at it?”
“No. It’s not an injury.” He doesn’t elaborate and is grateful that they do not ask any further. He keeps his eyes down so he does not see the puzzled look on their face, gears tuning behind their eyes.
He goes into the kitchen and pauses, not knowing if he has free range of the space. The last thing he wants is to overstep some boundary. He glances back at Emille but they are typing a text on their phone. Hesitant every step of the way he goes to make himself tea. “Hey, is it alright if I use a peppermint tea bag.”
“Yeah totally. I doubt Naji would mind.”
That gives Carter pause. Naji was very... to the point yesterday. He is not sure if she likes or trusts him and he is afraid to do anything to jeopardize his chances. There is a considerable pile of peppermint tea bags though so he chances using one. He settles near Emille at a right angle between the couches. He pulls his knees up to his chest and bites his thumbnail as he looks around the room. There are some maps with colored push pins embedded into the wall. At least he knows he is still in the city. Those assholes knocked him out when he was kidnapped so he had no idea how far they had taken him.
Naji emerges next. She stops to stifle a yawn before rolling into the kitchen. With practiced ease she takes a travel mug out of the lower cupboard and fills it to the brim with coffee from the pot. She takes her place beside Emille’s couch, staring into the middle distance as she sips her drink and lets the caffeine diffuse into her veins.
Her newly sharpened eyes lock onto Carter. “You able to tell us now how you’re caught up in all this shit?”
“Yeah- um, I guess?”
“Great.” She leans forward, her cup cradled between her hands. “You really don’t know who it was that took you?” He shakes his head and she sighs. “But you saw the Sweitzer Vase?”
Emille stiffens. “Wait, you did?”
“Why does everyone care so fuckin’ much about some vase?”
“The coalition hired someone to steal it in Botswana.” Emille says. “They had made a deal with a billionaire that he would join them in exchange for the vase. But now it’s gone missing and everyone’s clambering for it. UPM to keep it out of the coalition’s hands.”
“What is the UPM anyway? And this coalition thing? I still don’t know what is going on.”
“Alright. I’ll try to give you the elevator pitch. UPM stands for the united protection movement. We try to give everyone a chance no matter their employment, ability, etcetera. Think mutual aid but more large scale. Basically everything the coalition is against. Shit where do I start with the coalition? They are kind of an alliance between some of the higher powers in the city. CEOs, billionaires, the police chief, you name it and they have their fingers in that pie. People who just want to compound their power and who get away with whatever they want. They have these hitmen on call to do their dirty work who hole up at that building where we first met. If anyone dares to disobey these powerful people, they sic those thugs on them. If renters dare start to rise up, if there’s another shipment in the human trafficking trade, those are their go-to guys. So yeah, the coalition is an extremely corrupt power that pulls the strings in this city, but their influence reaches far past state lines.” They conclude when they see the stunned expression on Carter’s face as he tries to let that all sink in.
“So, the Sweitzer Vase?” Naji asks, turning toward Carter with an impatient expression.
“Yeah, shit- okay. Well, my bosses were being all hush-hush about this one shipment. They get that way about higher up clients though so I didn’t think much of it. Then I saw the garish thing and thought it was an art dealer or something, you know? I packed it up and brought it to the korean district. A man met me outside the address and he fit the profile: he had this expensive vibe about him, you know? So he signed off and had a lackey pull the crate out of the van. Didn’t let me even touch it. Then two nights later some guys come into my apartment and chloroform me. And I wake up tied to a chair and they want to know the whereabouts of that stupid vase I’d basically forgotten about by then, we do so many shipments a day after all.”
“And did you tell them?”
“No, I didn’t give them shit. I don’t think I even confirmed I was the one who delivered it. They were assholes.”
Emille is grinning. “Hell yeah.” They lean over to fist bump him.
“The man, what did he look like?” Naji is rubbing her chin.
“A little shorter than me. Nice navy suit with gold filigrees. He had dark skin. Gold eyeliner. Light eyes, maybe hazel? He wore black leather gloves and had his guys show him the vase before he signed.”
“Did you catch his name? Maybe you could read his signature?” Her attitude is less accusatory than before and has changed into something more relaxed. She seems almost curious.
“No, sorry. My bosses would have the actual paper.”
“That’s alright. I’m almost certain that it was Mister Gareth Kodua.” She motions and Emille hands her one of the folders scattered on the table. “The korean district is basically coalition free. We’ve made a deal with the people there. So the address you went to is almost certainly planted by somebody else. I suspect Mister Kodua intercepted, maybe bribed your bosses. But now we know the vase wasn’t switched out somewhere along the way. Someone got to it first.” She starts reading through the file.
“There are other people who want the vase but want nothing to do with the coalition. Don’t like what they stand for.” Emille adds between typing away on their phone. The room falls back into silence, this time the kind of silence that falls during study halls, full of purpose.
Except Carter is not included in that purpose. He feels strange sitting and watching the two work. He misses having his phone if only for something to do with his hands. He gnaws at his thumbnail to stop himself from picking at the bandaids.
Joao shuffles into the common space. He runs his hand through his bedhead. “Mornin’”
“Another art dealer has the vase.” Naji says without preamble.
His eyes widen. “No shit.” He comes over and sits between Emille and Naji, leaning over her to see what she is looking at. He lets out a low whistle.
Emille looks up from their phone. “Orion has confirmation. Mister Kodua was on 3rd ave eleven days ago. Then seen bringing something up to his penthouse.”
“His security is good. I’m worried about who his buyer might be though. The coalition has too much to lose with such a major donor.”
“I’ll go make breakfast.” Joao stands. From how he casually excuses himself, Carter gets the impression that this type of high-pressure conversation is a regular occurrence here. “Any allergies?” He asks Carter, who shakes his head. Joao stretches his arms above his head, showing off how much of a bean pole he is. Carter laughs at himself for being frightened of him yesterday.
“We need to have a word with Mister Kodua. Make sure that the vase won’t be intercepted again.” Naji says half to herself and half to Emille.
They go back and forth between the two of them, Carter barely understanding half of what they are saying. They keep reaching for more papers and spreading them out between them, pointing at different points.
The sizzle of butter and smell of pancakes emanates from the stove. Carter stands and leaves without either of them noticing, the two too engrossed in their planning. Joao is humming as he ladles more batter onto the pan.
Carter refills his mug with hot water. He uses one hand to idly bob the teabag up and down. “They always like this?”
He looks over his shoulder. Emille and Naji are quibbling over some details, their voices slightly raised. “Yeah. But they get shit done. I just leave them to it.” He smiles and goes back to flip the pancake with a satisfying flick of his wrist. “How are you?”
“Good. You?”
Joao turns his gaze onto him. He puts one hand on his hip. It would look more intimidating if not for the floral apron he is wearing. “You are so not alright, are you kidding me? This isn’t some empty question. I actually want to know -- as your nurse -- what is happening in your mind and body. How’s your pain?”
“It’s okay.” He is met with a glare but there is not much heat behind it. “Yeah it hurts but it’s fine if I don’t do the wrong thing with my abs. Or move my neck wrong.”
Joao shifts the plate of pancakes towards him. “Here. The meds are better when there’s something in your stomach. You haven’t already taken one this morning have you?”
“No. I still have the extra from last night anyway.”
“Shit. And you were able to sleep through the night?”
“I’m fine, really.” He mumbles. “I don’t like how they make me feel. Do you have any celecoxib or something though? My prescription is at my apartment.”
“Sure I can get something similar. I need to give you another once-over though to make sure you don’t have too much internal bleeding.” He cocks his head. “Why were you on that?”
“Costochondritis. So the rib pain is fine. I'm used to it already.” He says with a smile. He has a dark sense of humor around all this. He has to or else he would drown in it.
Joao does not seem to find the humor though. “I’m sorry to hear that. Sounds rough.”
Carter quickly backpedals. “No it’s alright, really. I’m not complaining. Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
“Dude you’re fine. If you’re gonna stay with us I should probably get a full medical history from you anyway.” Stay with them? Carter feels his eyes grow wide. “Don’t sweat it. Really.”
Carter nods numbly. He watches another pancake get set onto the plate’s growing pile.
“Do me a favor and take another pain med with breakfast? Even if you can cope, a lot of pain can make you tense up and move abnormally and can slow down the healing process. At least take them today?” Carter stares down at his cooling tea. He has yet to drink any of it. “Okay I think that should be enough. Bring the plate out to the table?”
The dining table is low and has three chairs around it. Carter hovers awkwardly, wondering if he should step away. Emille has disappeared, presumably to get their sister. Naji rolls over to the dining table and only then does the height of the table make sense. It has been well used with various stains and coffee rings across its surface.
Joao comes over with five plates then drags over a folding chair for Carter. “Sit. And take as much as you want to eat, I can always make more.”
Carter obeys. Getting down to the seat still hurts, but he has found a way to move that does not make his vision spot with the pain of using his abs. When Naji glances at him from across the table, it no longer feels accusing and like he is unwelcome here. Her attention slips off of him and onto fixing her plate, not waiting for the others to be seated. Carter hesitantly reaches across and begins loading his own plate up as well. Tasha and Emille emerge from one of the other bedrooms, bumping into each other as they walk.
It has the informal atmosphere of a daily household, or at least what one is supposed to be like anyway, although Carter does not have the best basis for that. Emille pops into the kitchen to get themself a glass of water then plops back into their seat. They kick their legs up onto Tasha’s lap, who squawks and playfully shoves the socked feet off. Joao stifles a laugh which ends up coming out as more of a snort. These four are clearly family.
Carter cannot help but smile as he takes it all in. He eats his pancakes quietly, then slips out to grab his last pill and washes it down with the stale half-glass of water. The haze sets in unpleasantly and he has to focus to walk straight when he goes back towards the common space.
The table has been cleared and is once again covered in papers. Naji is moving things around to set up. Carter hovers at the end of the hall, wondering if he should stay out of earshot of their secret organization meeting. He has no sense of where to be or what to do in this place. No one has told him what they expect of him yet so he defaults into staying out of sight and out of mind as much as possible. Joao makes that difficult. And Emille now, apparently.
“Carter, you comin? You’re a part of this too.” Emille calls, waving him over.
He hesitates, glancing around the table. He fidgets with his shirt sleeve.
“At least for now.” They say, meaning ‘for as long as you want’ but Carter interprets it as ‘until we are done with you.’ He sits anyway.
Tasha seems mostly alright. She is a little slow when asked a question, but that is something Carter knows intimately. Between medication and pain and brain fog it can be difficult to pull thoughts out from the muck. Turns out that she does have a few broken foot bones and one of her fingers. Joao has them splinted and wants her to keep off them but she insists she is fine. Joao throws his hands up with a huff while exclaiming how “no one listens to me here so what’s the point in even keeping me around?” Tasha wraps him in a hug until he relents that he is a valuable part of the team.
Naji has Carter, Tasha, and Emille update the schematics of the coalition building. It only needs a few tweaks. Carter has to close his eyes and backtrack through those hazy walks through the building. Tasha seems similarly iffy on the details. They get it down more-or-less where they slept and were tortured. Tasha remembers a few rooms that she passed by. Carter is impressed, he barely remembers even being dragged up a half-flight of stairs. He was not expecting to get out of there so there was no reason to remember it.
Turns out they had known about that building for a while. It is the coalition headquarters. It took a year to find a flaw in their security: a shift change that left fewer guards and gave them an opening. They had gotten one of their own people in there to distract and to give Emille the passcode.
Carter feels responsible for them burning their opportunity at getting into the building. He has to remind himself that they were not there for him. Emille went there for Tasha, that is it. It is a lucky break that they broke him out at all. He would still be slowly dying of blood loss and infection if not for them.
A fiercely protective feeling surges through him. He does not want to lose these people. They do not feel the same but he will soak up every moment he can get with them before he has to go back to being all alone again.
--------------
His back is aching something awful and he cannot stop wringing his hands or bouncing his leg, both of which hurt his injured skin and muscles. Even with the tips of his fingernail-less fingers covered, every bump brings those injuries back to the forefront of his mind. He is worried he is distracting the others, jostling Emille who is sharing the couch with him. “Does anyone have a heat pack?”
“Yeah, I got you.” Tasha sets down her water glass then half-jogs down the hall. There is the sound of her splint hitting the ground every other step as she comes bounding back. She stops in front of the couch and holds the rolled up heat pad towards him.
He plugs it into the wall and settles it against his lower back. It quickly works to ease his muscle pain. Tasha plops down between him and Emille, who grumbles and bats their hand at her distractedly.
“Hey.” She says. She smiles more with her eyes than her mouth. There is blood caked along her lower lip and her cheekbone is swollen and splotched purple.
“Hey. How are you doing?”
“I’m worse for wear but Joao says I should heal nicely.”
“That’s good.” Silence falls over them. Carter does not know how to talk to Tasha. He is pretty sure this is the first time they have spoken one-on-one.
“Okay, real talk, I need to interact with someone who won’t avoid all that coalition torture shit.”
He smiles. “Yeah. I totally get that.”
“Not the best vacation I’ve ever had.”
Carter snorts. “Oh my gosh. That’s right, it was surprise time off from work for me too.”
“Guess I must be a workaholic then because I kind of missed this place.”
“How’d they nab you?”
“I was staking out the delivery address -- the actual delivery address -- and when the shipment didn’t show up they got kind of… angry.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. The person who tortured me wouldn’t stop asking me questions even though I didn’t know shit. And they wouldn’t shut up!”
“God, her monologuing was more torture than when she used her instruments.”
“I know right! My person was so annoying. Are there comment cards? We should go back just to give them constructive criticism.”
“Oh my god.” Emille says.
“Hey, we’re the traumatized ones here, we get to say what’s alright to joke about.”
As they continue talking, Carter finds he has met his match in terms of dark humor. She is able to joke with him about all the fucked up shit that happened to them. He thinks that she would react well if he ever slips and jokes about his other issues.
They keep each other company as Joao gives them each a once over. Tasha clenches her teeth as he has her move her hands and feet. She then goes on to tell embarrassing stories about the others while Joao presses against Carter’s belly and Carter fights the urge to throw up or cry out. Laughing helps to distract him. At least until he laughs so hard that he is doubled over in both delight and pain. She eases back on the humor at that point.
His chest feels lighter after that. Dinner goes by with less anxiety. The feeling that Naji hates him has since faded. As soon as he revealed his information she welcomed him into their operation without question. It helps that their enemy tortured him for a week without him breaking. Enemy of my enemy and all that.
In the middle of the night Carter wakes in pain. He gives in and takes another pain pill. It is easier to sleep after that.
He wakes slowly on the second morning. As much as he hates the feeling of being drugged, it is nice to get rest for once. It has been long before he was kidnapped since he got a full night’s sleep. He takes his time to rouse and lazily rolls out of bed.
When he looks back, his heart drops. Spots of blood have seeped into the white sheets. His face flushes with dread and fear. He forgets everything else and leaves, watching himself walk down the hall from a little behind himself and to the left.
Emille is at the sink dealing with dishes. Carter must have missed breakfast. He walks in and stops awkwardly to the side, refusing to make eye contact with them. He attempts to psych himself up and still the pounding of his heart. The faucet turns off and he can feel their eyes on him. Panic flutters in his chest and his hands are sweaty as he wrings them.
He can barely get the words out as he stares at the floor. “Sorry, I think- I got blood on your sheets.” He cringes then quickly adds on, stumbling over himself. “I can buy you replacement ones though. Shit I’m so sorry I really didn’t mean to!”
“Pfft. Apologizing for bleeding on shit? Are you kidding? You’re fine, that’s what bleach is for.” They give him an easy smile that tells him honestly that it is alright. He is relieved. “Here, help me dry.” They hand him a dish towel and a wet plate.
He takes them and tries to return the smile but it is fragile. He busies himself with drying and lets the motion soothe him. He puts the plate into the open cabinet.
They have another ready when he looks back. But instead of letting go when he takes it, they resist and it forces him to look at them. Their eyes are searching and they cock their head at him. “Who taught you that you don’t have the right to take up space?”
He laughs, delightfully surprised by the directness of the question. No one has ever given a shit about these things before. Everyone has just edged around the trauma, pretended it was not there. Emille gives him a confused smile to go along with his laughter. He is breathless when he replies. “My mom mostly. She was a real asshole.”
“Was?”
“Probably still is. I moved cities and blocked her on all social media. Cut myself off from my whole family. Guess I’m the black sheep of that family but fuck if I care because I’m not part of it anymore.”
“That sounds like a hard but really good decision. I’m proud of you.”
They say it so nonchalantly, like they have not just sucked the air out of Carter’s lungs. He gapes at them but they continue scrubbing at a dish. He does not know if they are averting their eyes purposefully but he appreciates it. “Thank you.” He says, his voice small.
Emille hands him another plate to dry. “You’re the one who did the work. Seems to me like you should be thanking yourself.”
Once they finish clearing the pile of dirty dishes from the sink, Carter rifles through the refrigerator. He finds some frozen sausage and combines it with the tupperwared scrambled eggs to make a breakfast burrito for himself. Not long after he starts in on a book he has borrowed from Tasha does Joao insist on doing another physical exam.
A whole ass exam, walking up and down the hall on his heels and tiptoes and everything.
“How am I looking, nurse Joao?” He asks as his eyes follow said man’s finger.
“No signs of a concussion anymore.” He clicks off his pen light. “Lie down so I can palpate your abdomen.”
Carter does so and tries not to flinch too hard when fingers press into his bruised ribs.
“Sorry. Just a little more.”
He tilts his head back and tries hard to focus on the ceiling. It is painted black and has metal buttresses along it. Much more pleasant to look at than that of the torture room, for several reasons.
“Okay. All done.” He pulls down his shirt and sits up. Joao is looking at a clipboard. “Have you had any surgeries?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m making a chart for you. I can’t go making medical decisions for you without all the information now can I?”
“You don’t want to deal with my complicated medical history. Believe me.” Carter gives a self-deprecating smile. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough so I’ll save you the trouble.”
“If you insist.” He says, clearly not convinced. He caps his pen and sets the papers down. “Then if I’m not going to be your nurse right now I might as well be your friend. How do you spend your time?”
“Huh?”
“I find it to be a kinder question than what you do for work, especially because so many people are unemployed or have incredible hobbies on the side.”
“Um. Not much. Work kind of takes everything I’ve got. Then I watch Netflix until I can sleep. I cook a little, I guess, does that count as a hobby?”
“Yes, definitely! Do you have long hours?”
“No, just…” How does he explain this without divulging all his health shit. Dealing with the pain and fatigue takes up so much time that he can barely keep up. He shrugs. “How do you spend your time?”
“When I’m not patching up this lot, I run errands for UPM or I offer medical services to the community. We have connections all over the city so I’ll coordinate with a couple others in UPM and we book up a weekend.”
“Wow that’s good on you. I wish I volunteered.”
“It’s not in everyone’s capacity though. And there’s no shame if you aren’t up for it. You shouldn’t give up more of yourself than you have.”
Plans start coming together. It is much more complex than Carter would have thought to organize all this. They have contacts who will help to cover their tracks: clearing video feeds and giving them loaner cars. They have to switch out Emille’s license plate which goes by with practiced ease. Then the more mundane things like shipments coming through for the cooperative. UPM deals mostly with mutual aid in the community, it seems, bail funds and food and clothing. Fighting in the small ways consistently and in the big ways whenever the opportunity reveals itself. Like intercepting a vase that could seal the fate of fascism in the area.
Carter is sorting files into alphabetical order, hoping that could help with how often someone sifts through them, frustrated that they cannot find the one they are searching for. He has taken up one of the couches to himself while the others rifle through the storage room or scribble at the dining table turned work table. Joao and Emille are out doing some errand. Carter has lost track of the plan so many times that he has given up on knowing what is going on.
Sorting the papers is kind of relaxing, and it helps to soothe the feeling of uselessness as he eats their food and uses their medical supplies without paying them back. He sighs and picks up another crinkled pile.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Naji says as she rolls into the room. She reaches into a pouch on her chair and pulls something out with a rattle. “Joao told me to give you these.” She hands him an orange pill bottle.
It is the anti-inflammatory he had requested. He gapes at the bottle. He had thought he would not get this prescription without going back to his apartment. “How do you all get your medications? With you being off the grid, it’s not like you can get a prescription without being found right? Or are you anonymous enough that it’s fine?”
“Joao has a hook up for medical supplies. There are doctors around the city that are part of the cause. It’s their contribution to UPM. Also gets me some top notch doctors for my health issues.”
Carter nods. Previously he had thought it would be impossible for him to stay here, just the stuff of daydreams, what with his appointments and medications and having to earn money to support himself. But these people seem to manage being off the grid just fine.
It takes a few hours of phone calls, but Emille says they are good to go full steam ahead with meeting Mister Gareth Kodua. They take that and run with it, making plans and coordinating while Carter feels useless on the couch. He tries to read a book but he is on his third attempt at this paragraph when Joao’s voice pulls him from his own head.
“So, what’s for dinner?”
“Huh?”
“You said you can cook. Want to show us your skills?”
“I said I cook ‘a little.’ I don’t think I’m good enough to make food for other people.”
“Can’t be worse than when Tasha set the kitchen on fire that one time.” He says, purposefully loud.
A voice comes from one of the bedrooms. “Hey! That was one time! And it was just some stray oil.”
He smirks. “So, you up to the task?”
“I’ll give it a shot.” He surveys the random ingredients in the kitchen and an hour later has some taco makings laid out.
“Sorry it’s not much.”
“Are you kidding? This is really good!” Tasha exclaims, mouth full of her third taco.
The others join in to give him praise unanimously. He is a little overwhelmed, but smiles secretly to himself, proud to have contributed to the light and happy atmosphere.
Naji puts a map down, weighted by her water glass and the napkin holder. “Here is where Mister Kodua lives. His security is tight so we will notify him of our approach and people will come down to greet us and give us access to the penthouse through the elevator.”
They start quibbling about who should go. Emille of course, since they are the one who set this all up. Without them to vouch for the group, their meeting would be on shaky foundations. Tasha wants to contribute to the conversation but everyone agrees they do not want her on the first mission since the last one went south. They each settle who is and is not going until only Carter is left. He is surprised they turn to him, or even remember he is here at all.
“I can come with.” He manages. “Just in the car, I mean. And you guys can drop me off near my apartment. I live on the west end.”
“Okay.” Emille says. Their voice sounds almost disappointed.
He must be imagining it though. There is so much he does not understand around here. Why would they want him to stay?
next chapter
#writeblr#writing#oc#original story#milo's stories#hurt/comfort#chronic pain#fibromyalgia#fibro#pain
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Starting Over Chapter 13 ~The Conditions~
Bracing her jaw with one hand, Jamie cautiously brushed his lips over hers and then slightly drew away. He'd half expected her to deck him but gazing down at her face, her eyes were half-closed, and her skin flushed. She looked so damn beautiful even with her makeup smeared and her hair wild and messy. It took every ounce of his self-control not to pull her hard against him and kiss her thoroughly, torturously taking his time to give her a chance to push him away. But when she moved closer, and he caught the tiny whimper of pleasure escaping her throat, his blood roared in his ears, the feeling of triumph that she'd be his almost bringing him to his knees. Until he felt her hands slide up from his chest to the back of his neck, pulling him in and realised he'd belong to her just as completely.
"Sweet Jesus, Sassenach, please tell me ye want this as much as I do," he whispered hoarsely, pressing their foreheads together. "I need to hear it. I must hear it."
"W-want you ...need you." Her words came out slurred as she licked her lips and swayed.
"This better not be a rebound," he growled against her mouth.
"Call it whatever you want, Jamie. Just kiss me already."
The demand in her voice made his cock swell, and his skin grew hot and tight. With a pained groan, Jamie obliged, sinking his tongue into her mouth, the taste of her turning him into a ravenous beast, making him wonder what mediocre high he'd been chasing all these years when this woman was out there. Unwittingly, the weight of the many meaningless one-night-stands bore down heavily on his shoulders, catching him off guard. They slithered in to haunt him because nothing and no one had ever felt like Claire. His soul yearned to be reborn again and purge for his past sins, purifying himself in the clean smell of her skin, the tentative strokes of her tongue and featherlike fingertips sliding up his back.
Seconds ticked while he teased her with what was to come, noting her responses to every exploration of his hands. He wanted to know her secrets, coaxing them out with his kiss, subtly pushing her to reveal herself. Her mouth moved under his, eagerly, and so perfect. He adored the little sounds vibrating up her throat, ending where their lips met, but it was too damn much as lust pumped in his veins. He needed more.
Unable to contain himself any longer, his fingers gripped her hips to lift her up. Satisfaction and relief surged through him when she wrapped her legs around his middle, her fingers tangling in his hair and holding on tight. Without releasing her mouth, Jamie walked them out of the kitchen and towards Claire's bedroom. He felt her hands grabbed at his back, frenziedly trying to yank up his shirt, her dress hiking higher above her thighs with her movements. His erection pushed painfully against his jeans. Knowing she wanted him as badly jarred his centre, and he fought for restraint as she pulled him into the current of raw emotion and need he'd never experienced before.
The next thing he knew, they were tumbling onto the bed, flattening her underneath him on the mattress. Still wedged between her thighs, he started to rock against her, her scent and the fragrance of her room surrounding him, a heady mixture of candles, wildflowers and freshly washed sheets.
"Christ," he rasped, breaking the kiss before his mouth coasted down the side of her neck for a taste. "Ye sure about this? I dinnae want ye having any regrets."
"Damn you, Fraser." She writhed beneath him, her ankles locking behind the small of his back. "You're asking me that now? What do you think?"
Bracing himself on one elbow, he gingerly unbuttoned the front of her dress with concentrated effort and a shaking hand. He was acting like a horny teenager, but it couldn't be helped when his cock was growing fuller and aching harder by the second. "I want to do this right, Sassenach. For ye. Exactly how ye wish it to be."
"You're worried about that?" she gasped. "I'm concerned about whether it's feeling this good for you too." She let out a breathless laugh as she unbuckled his belt.
This lass who'd appeared during the lowest moment in his life and yelled him back into existence had bravely poked his sore spots and offered herself as bait to help him get a job at the network. She was innately a giver in all sorts of ways, but right now, he needed to convince her to be the taker. "I've never had my heart and mind in this before, Sassenach. I'm normally a million miles away, but with ye, I'm right here. Ye hear me? Right here with ye." Heart knocking wildly against his ribs, he dragged his open lips along her jaw, still fumbling with her buttons. "Ye're anxious it doesnae feel good for me? I'm trying my hardest not to bust like an eejit."
"Really?" she breathed, boldly unzipping his jeans and sliding a hand over his erection. Her sigh washed over his chest as she squeezed him, nearly making him shoot out of bed.
Jamie groaned at her touch. "Christ, ye're killing me. I just want it to be perfect for ye." He pressed his face against the crook of her neck as he continued to grapple with the last button of her dress, this time more impatiently.
"If you must know ...in my fantasy, I'd be wearing a red baby-doll nightie and serving you a dirty martini. So let's be over with the bathwater, alright?"
Laughter rose from his chest as he rid finally of her dress, drawing it from her body and throwing it on the floor. He found it endearing how she could make him laugh when his balls were on the verge of revolt. "Is that right? I dinna ken what a baby-doll nightie is, but it sounds verra interesting. Ye'll have to show it to me another time," he murmured, his eyes hungrily skimming down the length of her body.
Unable to resist, he trailed a finger over the hollow of her stomach and around her belly button, biting his lip in satisfaction as her alabaster skin quivered under his hand. Her full breasts were restrained in cream coloured bra, and the juncture of her thighs barely covered with tiny transparent lace panties. "Gorgeous as ye are now in yer knickers, I want to see all of ye bare."
"Y-yes, Jamie."
"Yes, Jamie," he echoed, slowly sliding his hand in the inside of her thigh, making her squirm. "Why weren't you agreeable all those times I told you faking a relationship wasnae a good idea?"
"If you paid attention, you would have noticed I'm selectively agreeable."
He tamped down the urge to smile. "Smart-ass! Look where it got us. Ye had to be exactly what I need, stubbornly reminding me it was all for the show. Then driving me out of my nuts from wanting ye. Look at ye half-naked, and here I am with an ache, only ye can ease. What are we going to do about that, huh?"
"I-I don't want to fight it anymore."
"Neither do I." He kissed her hard then went back to being serious. "I tried hard to ignore it, but I can't stop myself from wanting ye." He groaned against her mouth, cupping his hand between her thighs. "I need to be inside this so fucking bad but ..."
"...you don't do relationships," she finished off for him, making him stiffen.
"Christ!" he muttered. "Ye certainly do cut to the chase, don't ye?" He ignored the odd lump in his throat and swallowed hard. Even though it pained him, he needed to tell her the truth. "It'll be more than a fling, Sassenach and even if it lasts only a few weeks or months or a year, it'll be the longest I've ever been like this with someone. I-I can't promise a happily ever after ...I don't have a family gene in me. I can't be that for ye, but I'll be damned before ye regret this."
"I understand. Our futures look different, and it could never work. I don't suppose I'll marry again so soon but if one day ..."
"... I won't stand in yer way of a chance for happiness. I will let ye go." He said the words earnestly and with conviction, but how come he didn't feel convinced he would do just that? But before any further train of thoughts could gather steam, he shut the laughing voices in his head. "Are ye in, Sassenach?" Jamie's heart rapped violently in his chest.
"Y-yes, let's do this," she whispered, her hands impatiently skating up and down his back.
Gladdened by her answer, he pulled her against him, his tongue travelling along the curve of her lower lip before diving back into her mouth. "And one more selfish demand ... while we're together, there will be no one else but us until we decide differently. That work for ye?"
"Yes ...yes, it does ..."
Before she could finish, he laid his mouth on top of hers, brushing his thumb back and forth across her sensitive spot between her thighs, making her stomach hollow and loins twist. "Christ ye're so wet for me."
"Oooh, yes ...feels so good." Her words emerged choked as her hands began to tug and dig at his shoulders. She needed him badly, and the proof was in every lick of her tongue inside his mouth, and the rushed exhale onto his skin.
Pulling away with a grunt, he sat back on his heels and hooked his fingers into the flimsy band of her lingerie, gently working it down her hips. Then he dropped the lacy scrap on the floor and stood up, divesting himself of his clothes and placing a condom on the bed. With anticipation, his eyes feasted on her exposed flesh, and it took a mammoth of self-control not to throw himself upon her and take her there and then. Pure amusement took over as Claire shut her eyes, refusing to look at him. "Sassenach, look at me."
Claire groaned as she slowly took a peek, her bright amber eyes pools of lust and doubt warring together. Her cheeks turned a deep crimson, and she swallowed audibly as she viewed his naked glory. "A word of caution," she whispered. "I'm not like the glamourous women you date or sleep with. I'm afraid I'll be a disappointment to you."
His heart twisted, shredding his voice to fragments. With Claire's insecurities and her feeling of uncertainty, he knew she needed him to be confident enough for both of them. "No, ye're not like any of the women I've been with, Sassenach," he said truthfully. "Because I've never wanted anyone this bad. I lived with the knowledge and torture during these last few weeks ...ye ... within reach, will never be mine to have. And yet here we are." He knelt between her thighs, gently spreading her legs wider. And then he took his cock in one hand and fisted it, causing her to blush even more. "Trust me when I say, I've never come close to a fraction of this kind of want. Ye can never be a disappointment."
He leaned in, watching her eyes widen even more as he took her mouth in a slow, thorough kiss, pressing his erection against her heat and expertly undoing her bra and discarding it with a quick flick of his wrist. He keened out loud as their bodies locked together, her breasts and softness pressed against him almost robbing him of his sanity. Their breaths became loud and laboured in the quiet room, along with the sounds of their bodies shifting on the soft mattress, the springs beneath them sighing with their movements.
Cupping her breast, his thumb circled her nipple until it puckered to a hard point. He felt her chest heaved for gulps of air, and her pulse beat wildly at the base of her neck as he prolonged their kiss. He relished the taste of her but never quite getting enough, wanting desperately to bury himself deep inside her. Although he was aching badly, he took his time wanting to commit every second and the feel of her to memory. When she tried to reach for his cock, he snagged her wrist. "No, Sassenach. I cannae allow it," he muttered too gruffly. "Not yet, anyway."
"P-please, now, Jamie. I'm ready." She seemed almost flustered by the lift of her hips as if she wanted to play it collected, but her body wouldn't allow it.
But Claire's sweet plea did it. Dragging his open mouth over her breast, he sucked her nipples hard, his tongue flicking restlessly, while he drove two fingers between her thighs. Claire's eyes rolled back in her head, her back arching and her legs spreading a little wider in an invitation.
Unable to hold on the sweet torture any longer, he slid down between her thighs until he was eye level with her swollen folds. He used his fingers to separate her flesh, lowering his mouth and licking her with the flat of his tongue. She twisted and moaned, her fingers gripping the sheets as he regarded her like a starved man, listening to her breathing go shallow and loving the taste and sight of her in the throes of passion.
"Oh, God, Jamie, it's too much. Please. Please," she sobbed loudly.
"So responsive, my wee sweet, Sassenach," he muttered between her thighs. "It's never too much, mo chridhe ."
Swiping her slit slow and deliberate, he tasted, nibbled and teased. He used one arm to pin her flailing body down, never hastening his pace, her cries charging the air with sexual desperation and frenzy. He inhaled her musky scent, rubbing the engorged nub, and pushing his finger in and out of her soaking channel. Her insides clamped down hard and tried to suck him deeper, but he continued to tease until she floundered and thrashed, like a senseless being on edge.
"No more," she gasped, her amber eyes wild and past sanity. "Damn you, Jamie, no more. C-can't take ..."
With a low chuckle, he took her throbbing nub between his lips and sucked hard, sensing her orgasm shimmering right there and so close. He cursed out loud, pumping two fingers this time and tucking a tongue alongside, in and out of her entrance. And then he drew back out, sliding up higher and driving in faster, her slickness making his mouth work.
And then she came, her body arching like a bow under his command. He absorbed all her sweetness in his mouth, continuing the suction motions so that she succumbed into another orgasm so beautifully, it made him wonder if he'd allow her to leave the bed ever again. She hung onto him with wild abandon and desperation he couldn't refuse. Sliding up her body, he worshipped every inch of her damp skin with kisses, pausing at her mouth to nip her lips and to cradle her face with his hand in the act of pure adoration.
Eyes unfocused, her head lolled to the side as she reached for his cock, once again, gripping it without finesse. "Want you now, inside me," she garbled.
He let out a shaky laugh. "Easy now, Sassenach, otherwise I'll burst." Shoving back the reluctance, Jamie tore his lips away from hers and reached for the condom he'd left on the bed. He quickly covered himself in stretched latex and slid up her body, muffling her requests to hurry with a hard kiss. His cock was poised at her entrance as her tongue battled his and her legs locked behind him. Unable to wait any longer, he plunged deep inside with a single thrust and all the pent up emotions she'd awakened, immersing himself in her completely.
He swallowed her cries as he stretched her with his width and length, her nails cutting through his skin, and her thighs squeezing him tight. He completely filled her, giving her no time to shore up defences and allowing no room for anything but the primitive demand to surrender. With every stroke, he claimed her while he drove inside her over and over. His hips rolling harder of their own volition with every smack of flesh and every whimper from her. And then just like that, with one perfect deep thrust, she convulsed underneath him in a climax. He listened to her moans of his name, treasuring the husky awe of them in his ears and around him.
He tried to breathe and then tried to slow down, but there were too many emotions crashing over him to know anything but the need to make his mark. He'd never wanted anyone this bad and never felt wanted this much. Increasingly, a tightening began at the back of his neck and proceeded down his spine, curling at the base. Finally, letting himself go, he yanked her legs up and fucked into the storm for everything he was worth, chanting her name in reverence.
His release was a flood that roared through him, creating a rush of white noise in his ears. His muscles tightened to the point of snapping before they unlocked. He shook violently, his lower body a battle zone of pleasure and pain and need and fulfilment. There's a harbour in the storm, though, and her body was already demanding him back, making the intense pleasure they've inflicted a beautiful thing they shared. With his insides razed and his mind blown, every cell in his body drifted toward Claire until they were wrapped together, arms and legs twined, mouths locked, their movements slowing little by little.
What just happened between them was the best everything in his life and nothing came close. Not even his glory days and triumphs in rugby.
In the past, usually, after sex came relief and it meant parting ways after the sweat had cooled. Jamie had never been anything but fine with that upshot because he barely knew the women to begin with. But now panic niggled at him, his chest throbbing painfully as his hand coasted over her body memorising her skin. If Claire asked him to leave now, he knew he wouldn't like it at all.
Then her lips glided over his cheek, and he turned into them, inhaling through a lengthy kiss. His concern eased for a little while, a smile lifting at the corners of his mouth.
And then he realised something he never thought would ever happen - he'd never be able to touch another woman again without wishing for Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. He'd just made a pact with the devil, and now, he wondered, how in the world was he ever going to let this woman go?
..........
Claire slipped into the bathroom, careful not to make any noise. Jamie had spent the night and was sound asleep in her bed. He was facedown, spreadeagled, and his taut, naked arse a sight to behold. She put his sleepover down to him having too many drinks and leaving his car at the parking lot outside the bar where they had been in last night.
A sigh escaped her mouth, but she crammed it back up. She was a big girl and wasn't about to lose sight of reality and facts. Last night was nothing more than two consenting adults engaging in a temporary sexual relationship, and she reminded herself she'd agreed to it and any sticky feelings or thoughts of white picket fences had to be banished immediately.
Grabbing her toothbrush, she started to brush her teeth vigorously. She was beginning to sense like she'd set herself up for one epic downfall. What if Jamie suddenly realised that being in a permanent relationship wasn't a bad thing and found a different woman? Where would that leave her then?
Pushing all thoughts of the impending gloom away, Claire rinsed out her mouth and plonked her toothbrush in the glass. And then she laid out a spare for Jamie hoping that wouldn't cause an alarm and think she wanted more from him. But on second thought, maybe that was an unwise move. Muddled, she sighed and decided to wing it. It was just too bad she didn't have an example to look to.
She heard a deep groan from the bedroom, accompanied by the creaking of bedsprings. And suddenly, the memories of their lovemaking surfaced, making the inside of her thighs tensed, causing a twinge of soreness and muscle ache. Looking into the mirror, she found her face bright red and her eyes glowing. She looked like an adolescent in puberty crisis. Ah, fuck . Irritated, she fanned her cheeks with her hands, reprimanding herself for being silly and acting like a teenager. So what if Jamie spent the night and he doesn't believe in happily ever after? You've always known the score! Suck it up, Beauchamp!
There was a knock on the bathroom door. "Sassenach?"
"Yeah?"
Jamie's tone dropped. "Do ye mind coming back to bed?"
Oh! She'd been worried he'd wake up panicking like a cornered male in the light of day, but as it turned out, she was so very wrong. Taking a fortifying breath, she opened the door and was greeted by a fully naked Jamie with an erect penis. "M-morning..." she croaked.
Holding her breath, she blinked twice and then gawked at the naked male marvel before her. Oh, sweet mother of God , Jamie was lean, mean, and toned. There was not an ounce of softness visible on his body, from the breadth of his shoulders, abs, powerful arms, and bulky thighs.
Oblivious to his erection jostling between them, he backed her into the bathroom, bringing her attention back to the present. "My shirt looks good on ye," he grinned, sleepily. "Why are ye up?"
As her back met the sink, she remembered the packaged toothbrush and casually pushed it into the basket. "I wasn't sure if you're an early riser or not, so I thought I'd make some preps for breakfast."
Without missing a beat, Jamie leaned past her and retrieved the toothbrush. Frowning, he popped the package open and slipped it into his hand. "It's seven in the morning, and we were up all night making love. Breakfast can wait a little longer."
"Right, yeah ...umm."
Jamie applied toothpaste to his brush and stuck it in his mouth. "Why didn't I get a good morning kiss?"
"A good morning kiss?"
"Aye," He brushed his teeth and waited for an answer.
"Ah ...well, I was going to. You were sound asleep, and you know ..."
He leaned over the sink and spat "No, I dinna ken. Are ye acting weird because I didn't leave last night as ye expected?"
"No, of course not!" Not wanting him to see the heat creeping up her face, she busied herself, looking for a towel for him to use.
He rinsed his mouth and placed his brush next to hers in the glass. "It's funny. I always thought morning afters consisted of cuddles."
"Y-yeah, it does."
He stopped and crossed his arms. "Hmmm. Why did ye chuck the toothbrush in the rubbish basket?"
Oh, fuck! She laughed hysterically. "I think the jury of the court will agree it was an unfortunate mishap."
"Sassenach, I'm beginning to get annoyed. I still havenae received my good morning kiss, and ye intentionally discarded the toothbrush."
She couldn't help the giggle escaping her lips as she eyed his morning erection. "Aroused and annoyed, that's a first."
Her words still hanging in the air, he lunged forward and placed his hands on either side of her and leaned in. "Next time, Sassenach, I want proper good morning with a cuddle from ye. I dinna ken what one looks like, but still, I'd like to have one. Just so that ye ken, I wanted ye lying there when I opened my eyes." His mouth tugged in the corner, but his eyes were dark and serious. "Preferably, I want yer hands all over me and yer lips on mine. And next time ye get out of bed without giving me both, I'm going to turn ye over my knees and backhand that wee bum of yers ye had mercilessly wiggled against me all night. Am I making myself clear?"
"Jamie!" she gasped. "That's unethical!"
Jaws clenched, his eyes dropped down to the apex of her thighs. "Trust me, Sassenach, I wasnae thinking of ethics when I was kissing ye down there last night."
She gulped, her pulse racing a million miles per hour. "Ethics ...overrated anyway," she mumbled, not making any sense with her words.
"Weel, then, I'm gonnae take a shower. Ye can join me or wait, that's entirely up to ye. Either way, I want to see ye back in bed when I'm done because I'll still be wanting my good morning cuddle. Are we clear?"
Without another word, she nodded and did as she was told. And that morning they made love twice more and didn't leave bed until after midday.
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Happy Saturday! Here, have a two-parter ~ Your DB Secret Scribe
~Blood Riptide~
(Part 1)
“Sonuvabitch! Benny’s gone way too far this time!”
Dean, his asshole neighbor, and their petty games had escalated into the realm of the extreme.
“What now?” Sam whined, rubbing his face exhaustedly while poring over study guides.
“I’ve got ‘Just Divorced’ along with 'Single and Ready to Mingle’ on Baby’s trunk in fucking house paint!”
Sam stared at him blankly. “And?”
“And he taped rainbow dick shaped balloons by the rear license plate so I wouldn’t notice when getting in.”
While laughing, Sam pointed out, “Well, you buried the wash table in his backyard with four truck beds of smoked hickory chunks last week.”
“Chips. They’re called wood chips. And it was the only way to neutralize that reeking Striped Bog Bass he dragged up from his skiff. Besides..fish go with chips anyways. Did him a favor,” he shrugged, pointedly dismissing his wrong doing.
“You don’t mess with someone’s livelihood Dean!” Sam tried explaining.
“And ya don’t mess with a man’s wheels! I told him that after he clipped your fucking Mopar abomination in the driveway almost a year ago. How many times have I said to pull farther in and not leave your ass end out, huh? Dean scolded.
"My Charger’s not an abomination! He had a legitimate excuse. Besides, he told me right away and paid for the repairs.”
“Excuse my ass. Who blames vehicular carnage on an iron deficiency?! Huh?”
“If anemia gets bad enough…”
“Don’t gimme that crap. Walgreens carries supplements. Planned on football this weekend, but now I gotta work on Baby, Hope I can fix her without removing any original coating!” Dean stomped off to the garage ready to explode.
Sam just shook his head and called Bones for a treat.
The following night Dean made another Home Depot run after spending all day on Baby. She still wasn’t finished, and damn if it didn’t boil his blood. When pulling in the driveway, a distressing scene greeted him. Sam had been on an evening run and was in tears, covered in blood, hunched over bones. Benny too, was on his knees examining the dog.
Dean pushed his infernal ire aside for his brother and Bones. “What happened? Is he okay?”
Benny continued assessing while Sam explained, “We were running in Royer Park when a gator grabbed him. I ran him back here as fast as I could but Dean, he’s not gonna make it.”
“If I could save him, but it’d mean he’d be..different, would you let me?”
“Different, how?” Sam asked in emotional anguish.
Benny appeared to dither over sharing something heavy.
“What do you mean different?”
The guy reluctantly answered. “At night he’ll be with me.”
Sam was still confused, and Dean’s anger was beginning to simmer. “Drop the cryptic bullshit and answer the damn question.”
He watched Benny sigh, but was so done with theatrics. Bones took one deep breath and then a stilted one after.
“Time’s wasting, Sam, yes or no?” Benny quickly offered, as if KNOWING the beloved mastiff was on the brink of death.
“Yes,” came Sam’s confident decision.
Dean next watched something impossible. Fangs protruded from Benny’s mouth, and he sank his teeth into the dog’s carotid artery.
“Dude, what the f-”
Dean’s words fell silent on his lips when realizing Benny’s large hand was holding him back. The guy turned to him with blood dripping from his lips. In his other hand, he held a blade and sliced his palm. Then, working with inhuman speed, he opened Bones’ chest and reached inside. Dean watched in nauseous horror as Benny squeezed his heart, mimicking a dog’s healthy sinus rhythm.
After a few minutes of stunned silence, Bones’ eyes grew wide with shock and Benny immediately pulled his hand from his chest, fisted more blood from his palm, and closed the gaping wound. He massaged the large area, and Dean saw the hole healing. Benny stood, wiping his hand on the pea coat he wore when fishing.
“He’s coming around. Tonight and tomorrow, he’ll stay with you. At sundown, he’ll spend his nights with me,” Benny placed his clean hand on Sam’s shoulder and calmly explained, “You’ll see, surely not much at all will change.”
He folded the knife back into his pocket and without another word, went back inside his house.
Bones perked his head up and stared in the direction of Benny’s house. He stood as if nothing had ever happened, and licked Sam’s hand. Neither found the words to speak on what had occurred, but after both Bones and the driveway were rinsed, they went inside and robotically prepared for bed.
The next morning Bones woke them up for breakfast as usual. Dean and Sam still couldn’t bring themselves to talk about it. They went about their day silently thankful Bones was right as rain. By sunset, Dean had almost convinced himself the whole fucked up incident had been a dream.
When the fireflies emerged for their nightly glowball dance, Bones perked up, raising from his spot on the family room floor. Dean and Sam were shootin’ the shit about the Cowboys dream duo Prescott and Elliott on the patio overlooking the canal behind their property line, when Bones eerily walked past them as if summoned by an unnatural force.
Dean noticed how fast the sun, which normally perched on the horizon like some needy, eye catching supermodel desperate for validation, yeeted outta Dodge. Padding onto the soft grass, Bones shifted in an odd manner for a dog of his breed. His movements were too swift, smooth, and straight. Facing Benny’s house, he let loose a chilling howl that if Dean had to describe, sounded more like a demonic harmonica than a canine growl.
Sam looked at Dean with terror, as if he too had been hoping the previous night’s disaster was a figment of food he’d eaten too close to bedtime. They saw Benny mosey onto his patio, patting his side for Bones to approach. When generously petting him, the moon cast its beams like a strange baptism upon the dog’s coat. Dean then saw the dog change.
His fur coat was no longer black, it wasn’t fur at all, but tendrils of fine burgundy osseous tissue. Bones heard Sam gasp, and turned to peer back at them. In his eyes were burning coals of hell fire, and the lovable head tilt he’d gifted Sam in life, rotated too far. His fangs were too long, and the width of his mandible spread in an impossibly wide grin, demonstrated in the most terrifying way that Bones had truly become a servant of darkness. And yet, he bounded back to Sam in a playfully sinister way, nuzzling against his hand.
Dean sat in silent horror as Benny went down to his boat, then headed for his garage to retrieve something of import. In a lightning fast decision, he tore down the modest hill to the twenty eight foot Lafitte skiff, with Sam whisper-shouting to get the hell back on the patio. No dice, Sammy. He simply HAD to find out what this guy was up to, but realized he had no weapon aside from a fileting knife he’d swiped from a shelf on the skiff.
Concealing himself under a tarp, he heard Benny boarding along with Bones and kept as quiet as he could, even maintaining impossible control of his respirations. Ten minutes south of Benny’s house, common sense kicked in that his rash decision was taking him out into some desolate backwoods bayou territory and if Benny or Bones felt like a human snack, they could easily feast and foist his drained carcass over the edge, never to be found.
When the skiff finally slowed, he heard the high pitched squeak of the captain’s chair rotating.
“Speak your mind, Dean.”
Busted.
Throwing off the useless tarp, Dean wobbled as he stood beside the stern’s edge, then fell back on his ass in embarrassment and stayed put.
“Fine,” he sniffed. Benny wanted a piece? He was gonna get it. But when it came to forming coherent word strings all that tumbled out was, “What the ever lovin’ fuck?”
“Are you referring to last night’s..enlightening fuck? Or all the ones going back to when I stopped talkin’ to ya?”
Dean shrugged. “Sure. Yeah…But first, I wanna know why.”
A look of surprise galloped across Benny’s face, now a more deathly pale in moonlight. “Vampire, appreciate you askin’. It’s also the reason why.”
“So this happened after you moved in next door?”
Benny looked down, with a curious look loaded with shame. “Before. You didn’t do anything wrong, Dean. Surely you wonder, but..it’s on me.”
Despite his genuinely gracious decline,
Benny seemed to have greatly appreciated Dean and Sam’s welcoming hospitality when they’d showed up on his doorstep, offering burgers and brew. He’d claimed a wide range of severe food allergies, but still broke the proverbial bread with them, sipping on some medicinal protein shake. It made perfect sense to Dean now, when looking back.
“Seemed to have a lot in common with me and Sam. The couple of times you took me fishing..I kinda thought…” he let his thoughts trail off.
“You weren’t wrong. It wasn’t y-”
“Oh here we go..wasn’t you, it was me, right?”
“Because I’m the one who messed up!”
“How? We never argued, you never said or did anything! One day, you just stopped talking to us!” Me, Benny. It hurt that you stopped talking to me. “That was an asshole move and you know it!”
The seconds ticked by. Benny’s fists were tightly balled, indicating his struggle with something. His eyes were ablaze in turmoil.
“Go fuck yourself.”
The guy had no idea how difficult it was for Dean to open up, to ask why he’d been rejected. And it made Dean So. Damn. Angry. Monster, demon, vampire, friggin’ vampirate, he no longer cared which monster he pissed off. He shoved Benny into the portside wall of his skiff.
“Fuck me yourself, you coward,” Dean growled in his face..and then kissed him, like a challenge.
He didn’t know why he did it. Well, lack of impulse control. Obviously. But when Benny, who could rip him in half faster than the Juggernaut tearing Deadpool’s upper body from his lower, kissed him back, it caught him off guard. Benny’s strong hands gripped his ass, pulling Dean flush with his solid form.
This vampire was the riptide in Dean’s otherwise normal, predictable life. The hurricane that’d taken his feelings by storm. His power was raw and all encompassing, Dean could no more tear himself from it than the moon could break the eternal gravitation towards its orbit around Earth.
Benny’s lips left bruises on his skin, trailing down his neck accompanied by his hot, heaving breath. Suddenly he tensed, let go of Dean, and stood frozen against the wall. When Dean saw the excruciating pain on his face he braced for an incoming predator from any direction, because what could possibly set a vampire back on their heels so badly?
Then it clicked. Benny. Vampire. Struggling over a mess up. The threat was a nearby predator. The threat was Benny himself.
To be continued….
OOOHHHH, this is so fantastic and INTRIGUING! I love Bones becoming a Hellhound, that is AWESOME. I love me some hellish pups! I can’t wait to see where it goes!!!! Thank you so much, what a gift you’ve been this week. :D There’s so much here I love - Sam and Dean living together in their loving, grumpy way, Sam being the voice of reason, the prank war (!!!), and Bones. Bones is absolutely my favorite. And Dean. What a lovable dumbass. lol. I look so forward to part II!
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The Joker x Reader- “The Bionic Woman”
The Joker’s son has a new obsession: his father’s much younger girlfriend. What started as an innocent crush is quickly escalating to a full blown fixation, especially since Alexis decided that if he can’t have Y/N, The King of Gotham shouldn’t either.
“Y/N…” Alexis gently taps your shoulder, smiling as soon as you open your eyes, “… breakfast is here.”
Even if you hear the shower and know he’s already up, you still turn towards The Joker’s side of the bed, stretching.
“Mooorning,” the sleepy Y/N hums. “I’ll jump in the shower too and we’ll be downstairs shortly, alright? You can start without us.”
“I’ll wait,” the 20 year old informs, watching his father’s girlfriend pulling down on her cute tank top before getting out of bed. The matching shorts makes her long legs stand out and he just can’t help it:
“Hey, when are you going to take a shower with me?”
The disapproving stare you give while heading into the bathroom makes the young man lift his hands up in surrender.
“Sorry! Sorry, bad joke. Ummm… but should I still hope though?”
You keep walking, uttering the perfect answer for his insistence:
“I wouldn’t bet any money on it!” you scoff and he laughs, the fake grin disappearing as the door is slammed.
“I got shampoo in my eyes,” J growls because Y/N’s words made him aware she’s there also. “What are you betting on?” he keeps on rinsing all the bubbles clouding his vision.
“Nothing really,” you take off your outfit in a hurry and slide the glass panel, sneaking in the shower by the King of Gotham. “Alexis came to say breakfast is here.”
“Oh goody, I’m kind of hungry,” he wickedly smirks when your fingers massage his hair until there is no more shampoo. “Did he run his mouth again?” The Joker asks and your silence is confirming the suspicion. “Are you going to trade me in for the younger model?” he slaps your butt to get a reaction and you snicker, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“Naaaah, I like my old one,” the playful answer pleases him.
“Do ya’?” J glares at your boobs and you continue:
“What am I supposed to do with a kid? I need a real man, babe.”
“You sure do,” Y/N is slowly pushed against the back wall of the shower since he wants to add a bit of extra fun to his morning.
“The food will get cold,” you glide your hands down his wet body completely not giving a damn at this point though: feeling his soft skin and toned muscles makes you be up to whatever he desires.
“A quickie doesn’t take that long,” The Joker winks and leans over for a kiss, dodging your puckered lips in the next second. “Awww, not fast enough Pumpkin,” he teases and as revenge you grope him, knowing it will prompt retaliation. “Wanna play that game, hm?” J’s raspy voice gives you goosebumps as he lowers himself on his knees, satisfied when you let out a scream in anticipation. “Good lord, woman; I didn’t even do anything yet,” he gently sinks his teeth in your inner left thigh, purring louder when you squeal.
“I’m not a kid”, Alexis mumbles on the other side of the door because he’s been listening to the conversation going on in the shower. He softly punches the wood frame and Y/N’s increased moaning triggers him to finally exit the master bedroom at the mansion The Joker owns outside Gotham.
At least Alexis realizes he has to be careful after badly messing up three weeks ago: you are on speaking terms again and that shouldn’t be taken lightly.
It was Friday and J had to stay overnight at one of his clubs to wrap up a profitable deal with a new business partner. You were tired and decided to return to the mansion where out of boredom you had a few whiskey shots before going to sleep since there was nobody else around besides security patrolling the perimeter. Let’s just say they are not the most cheerful bunch…
At some point in the night, you sensed movement next to you and cuddled up to the body, assuming it was The Joker.
“I…I think I’m drunk babe,” your slurry speech made you giggle. “Wanna have fun?” and your hand went inside the boxers, immediately taken out by their owner. “That’s mean,” you admonished when you got squeezed in a tight embrace and felt your face kissed all over. “Such a tease,” you yawned and hugged the stubborn boyfriend. “And apparently a gentleman since you don’t want to take advantage of your tipsy girl,” the conclusion made the other party huff.
It was dark in the room and you wished you could have seen J’s face and how worked up he was by the closeness; you could tell anyway.
“Suffer in silence then,” you pouted and snuggled to his chest, definitely not suspicious about the episode because you had alcohol on board.
Next morning was a fiasco.
Something being abruptly swept from your arms made you open your eyes and saw The Joker dragging Alexis from under the purple sheets.
“What are you doing in my bed, hm?!”
J didn’t look happy and Alexis regained his balance, alarmed he got busted and stood there by the nightstand, intensely gazing at the carpet.
“What’s happening?” you got on your elbow, slightly dizzy from the hangover.
“Yeah, Alexis; what’s happening?” The Joker sneered and those fierce blue eyes made the young man confess:
“I…I was making sure she’s OK after she had a few drinks. I was nearby just in case…” the weird reason was stipulated and you interrupted.
“Babe, you didn’t sleep here?!” Y/N frowned as she asked her boyfriend.
“No, I was at the club all night; just got back!” The Joker informed and you darted out of bed, ignoring the splitting headache.
“How dare you?!” the slap landed on Alexis’s cheek before you finished the question. “I thought you were your father!”
J’s son didn’t argue because he wasn’t given a chance; the detail that stood out in his mind was the fact that his parent didn’t suspect Y/N of anything, not for a moment.
It was a certainty that The Clown Prince of Crime was a jealous individual. Probably an understatement, yet he didn’t hesitate to suspect his own flesh and blood rather than his woman. Which made Alexis nervous he might get in serious trouble.
“Listen here, you asshole!” you shouted. “I won’t tolerate this crap, do you understand?!”
“I swear I only wanted to make sure you don’t need anything after you had a few drinks…”
“And how do you know I had a few drinks?! I thought I was home alone! Unless you creeped around the house watching me and that’s not cool! And why didn’t you say a word once you came in the bedroom?!”
Damn, you caught on to that! He didn’t think you would have since you were inebriated…
“I’m really sorry… I didn’t mean to be disrespectful…”
The Joker was annoyed but your tirade wasn’t over: based on previous behavior and evidence from past actions, it was clear he had a crush on you. So Y/N had to explain the best way she could:
“I love your father! HIM, not YOU! Frankly Alexis, I have a hard time even liking you these days!”
The 20 year old held in his breath, hurt by the bitter news: he kept on hoping you’ll switch your affection and give up on The Joker, yet his dream wasn’t becoming a reality. Not anytime soon. Maybe you required time to see he was a better, safer option?
The King of Gotham pretended not to be affected by your revelation; why would you mention something trivial as love anyway? It wasn’t part of the plan. The two of you only got together to aggravate Harvey Dent: J can’t stand your dad and you get a kick out of creating trouble. Your rebellion against the former politician doesn’t come out of hate; it randomly happens when he tries to be overprotective and you fight back.
A year and a half ago fighting back meant a date with The Joker that turned into a little bit more under the pretext of irritating Two Face. The truth is J looks great for being 47: he seems younger, kind of ageless due to his unconventional appearance after the Ace Chemicals incident; he’s intelligent, has a dope sense of fashion and to quote your own wisdom “the only one in town that can satisfy a woman.”
Yes, the 30 year old Y/N Dent could have chosen another boyfriend, but she actually stopped seeing other guys since she dated J. And for some strange motive, he stopped seeing other girls on the side too, all under the excuse of antagonizing The Coin Flipper (The Joker’s favorite nickname for your dad).
The supposedly pretend relationship progressed towards something else to the point of him going ballistic if anyone indicated anything about the age difference. Your favorite memory is when J lost it while you were at the hideout on Glisson Avenue. Y/N prepared to accompany The Joker for a gathering involving money laundering and got in the car first, when the unthinkable was implied:
“Oh, is your daughter coming also?” Max sarcastically inquired, believing it was hilarious to bring it up. New York’s gang third in rank doubted his stand-up comedy skills as soon as J’s grave voice snapped:
“My what??!!”
Max couldn’t fix the transgression and apologizing would have done nothing, especially since he got a bullet in his thick skull that halted any sounds before they came out.
“Anybody else that shares the same ideas?!” he addressed the crew and Frost replied for all of them:
“No, sir!”
“Get rid of the body!” J barked and got a kiss the second he was next to you in the back of the car.
“You didn’t have to do that; I really don’t care about a complete jerk’s opinion,” you whispered and J grouchily snarled.
“I do! I have a son; never had a daughter and I don’t want rumors about me sleeping around in my youth! Reputation is everything!” the wacky clarification made you smile.
You rested your head on his shoulder, wondering why you both went through so much trouble just to upset Harvey Dent.
*************
20 minutes went by and the couple still didn’t show up for breakfast. Alexis is rushing back upstairs to remind you and The Joker the food arrived; he’s straining to remain calm after you brushed him off again. It’s frustrating that Y/N doesn’t pay attention to his charms and fancies his father instead of the obvious, more convenient solution.
The door to the master bedroom is cracked and Alexis peeks inside: you are trapped under The Joker on your tummy while he keeps nipping and biting his way down your back.
“You know what would make that old gizzard lose his marbles?” he sucks on your soft skin, leaving a lovely hickey on your right hip.
“Please don’t call my dad a gizzard,” Y/N snorts, amused at the moniker nevertheless.
Your boyfriend ignores the complaint and his over the top proposal comes without any warning:
“If we get married, he would have a heart attack and die. That sounds amazing, doesn’t it?”
You roll on your back, not certain if you heard correctly.
“And if we had a baby, we can basically buy his casket. I mean, that would kill him for sure!” the delighted green haired pest rambles on. “Silver coffin goes best with his skin tone, we could preorder tomorrow. ... … … … Why are you so quiet?”
“Are you… are you asking me to marry you?!...”
“Evidently. Of course I have to underline it’s for exasperating that old fart. Nothing else.”
“Of course…” you sniffle and The Joker buries his face in your neck, waiting.
“So… yes?”
He feels a faint movement and sighs:
“Are you crying?”
“N-no…”
“Liar,” he lifts his head up to look at your teary eyes. “You’re reading too much into this; the sole purpose is to annoy Harvey.”
Alexis is listening at the door, his fists so tight the nails are cutting the flesh. The young man’s ears are ringing and he can’t stand watching his father making out with Y/N, definitely about to have sex again.
And that’s when the diabolical intention takes shape in his brain: if he can’t have Y/N, The Joker shouldn’t either.
*************
1 hour later
J is entering the kitchen, aiming for the coffee first. As he pours the hot liquid in a cup, his son nonchalantly interrogates:
“Where’s Y/N?”
“Skipping breakfast; she’s going to visit Dent and give him some important information,” the elusive description infuriates Alexis because his father is not saying anything about proposing to his girlfriend.
“Why do you always have to win?” he resentfully mutters and J suddenly pays attention to his offspring.
“Huh?!”
“Do you think it’s cool parading around with something that should be mine?!” Alexis yells, shaking from the outrage he can’t control. “I won’t let you have her!! You can’t have her!! She’s mine!!”
The Joker slams the cup on the counter, angrily directing his suspicion towards an envious son:
“What the fuck did you do?!”
************
You barely backed out of the parking lot and drove a few feet when your cell phone rings.
“Hi babe,” you slide the screen, steadily driving on the paved alley.
“Get out of the car!!!” The Joker shrieks and you defend the decision you both agreed upon minutes earlier:
“I’ll return shorty, ok? I’ll tell my dad and…”
“Alexis rigged the car! There’s a bomb inside, it’ll explode soon!! GET OUT!!!”
“Oh my God!” you slam the breaks and flee the vehicle in a hurry, panicked.
As The Joker is running out of the mansion followed by a few henchmen, the loud explosion throws Y/N to the ground; debris fly all over the place and a few hit the collapsed body.
The small group reaches you and they are not sure if you’re still alive: there’s a lot of smoke, rubble and ashes around the unconscious woman.
“Hey Y/N, wake up!” J kneels by your head, attempting to wipe the soot on your cheeks.
“Help me with this!” Frost commands the others and the hood is lifted off your feet, everyone present freezing at the bloody mess concealed under the heavy piece of metal: your left leg is severed from below the knee, bone shards sticking out of the punctured skin.
“I need a doctor!” The Joker shouts and Richard is already dialing the number on his phone. “Somebody call Dent!” he orders and cups your face, worried about the serious condition you’re in. “Y/N, can you hear me?”
No answer and no movement.
The crew doesn’t even pay attention to Alexis, too absorbed wrapping Jonny’s jacket around the amputated leg. He silently watches everything, shocked to assess the aftermath of his actions.
“I didn’t mean to do this…” he pulls on his hair, terrified at the frightening view. “I swear I didn’t mean to…”
“GET HIM OUT OF MY SIGHT!” The Joker finally notices the young man’s presence, returning to his task of trying to wake you up.
Two goons drag him away against his will while he keeps bawling and shouting:
“Dad, I didn’t mean to! Please, I didn’t mean to!!! Daaad!!!!”
***************
5 days afterwards
“I’m here to see Y/N,” J straightens his shoulder in front of Harvey.
“I already told you she’s not doing well enough to receive visitors,” Two Face grinds his teeth and the men standing behind are making sure to block the entrance.
The fact is J wasn’t stopped from coming into the property, but he was denied access to see you for the past two days since you were brought to your father’s villa.
“I want to see my girlfriend!” The Joker reiterates and his own team is prepared to intervene if the boss decides to fight his way in.
“You have such a nerve showing up here again!” Dent brings up what’s been eating him inside and lashes out: “Your son crippled my daughter! Or was it you and blamed another in order to cover your tracks?!”
“I had nothing to do with it!” J defends himself and his threatening demeanor alerts Frost his employer is about to snap. “Alexis doesn’t live with me anymore; he’s on the other side of town, constantly under surveillance. Understand?! So get the hell out of my way!”
“Don’t you have any respect for the state she’s in?!” your parent changes tune. ”Y/N needs to rest!”
The Joker exhales and glances at the second floor where he knows your room is, electing to force his luck.
“Fine, I’ll be back tomorrow! Got it?” his finger goes under Harvey’s nose, then turns around and walks away in front of his goons. “Hold my coat,” J takes off the purple garment and shoves it in Frost’s hands, speeding towards the building.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Harvey screams although he guessed The Clown’s intention: J is climbing the decorative ladder full of roses leading to your bedroom’s balcony and in a few moments he’s on the terrace, stumbling on the long curtains as he steps inside.
The room is converted into a medical ward, a bunch of supplies neatly organized on extra shelves needed for your special care. The Joker takes a sit on the side of the bed, watching the pale Y/N peacefully sleeping. The IV dripping pain medication and a mild sedative into your bloodstream makes a faint beeping sound each time 2 milligrams of liquid is released from the intravenous bag.
The thin blanket you’re covered with reveals your curves, making it obvious more than half of your left leg is gone.
The Joker pecks your forehead, hoping you’ll wake up before your father will barge in and kick him out.
“Sleepy head,” he takes the hand that’s not hooked to IV in his, gently massaging your fingers. “You have a visitor…” he smirks as soon as your eyes are narrowly opened.
“J…?” you try to concentrate, yet it’s almost impossible to verbalize your thoughts. “You … where…” the incoherence halts the sentence. “ Where were…you?”
“I was at the private clinic,” he justifies his absence. “Then Harvey brought you here; the damned Coin Flipper was a total dick and didn’t let me see you.”
“What did you just call me?!” Dent huffs because the compliment received as he opens the door to your room doesn’t strike his fancy. He wants to yank The Joker away but seeing his daughter starting to cry halts his movement and harsh words he’s about to spill out.
“I…I lost my… my leg…” you slowly blink and attempt to wipe your tears, not having too much coordination due to all the strong medications you’re taking.
J bends over and kisses you, willing to compromise for once.
“It’s alright, Pumpkin. We’ll get you another one, ok?”
You nod a yes and The King of Gotham shifts his head, gazing at his adversary.
“OK?”
Harvey stretches his facial scars in a vexed grimace, temporarily agreeing with The Joker for his daughter’s sake.
**************
After 4 months
“Ummm, I think I’m ready,” you nervously pull down on your short dress, emerging from the walk-in closet. It feels awkward because this is the first time going out after the incident; you wanted to cancel but J insisted you’re overdue for a date.
“There she is,” your boyfriend snickers and gestures for you to sit in his lap. The titanium prosthetic custom made for you lights up certain pressure points with each move you make, yet the unique design doesn’t necessarily mean a boost in confidence.
“Can we just order some sushi and spend the night home?” you beg and The Joker abruptly declines the suggestion:
“Nope, I already made reservations at our favorite restaurant and then we’ll go to one of my clubs.”
He digs in his suit’s pocket and takes out a small box, urging you to open it:
“For you to use,” he winks and you gulp, opening the extravagant container that reveals… fancy business cards engraved with words that make you laugh:
-- Bionic Woman
-- The Joker’s Fiancée
-- Future Mother Of His Baby
“Lemme clarify,” he points out at the first line. “Bionic Woman because you could literally pass as a superhero with superpowers with this amazing new leg of yours.”
You keep giggling and he continues: “The second one is pretty self-explanatory and the third… we have to work on.”
The happy look on your face gradually dies out.
“You know what the doctors told me,” you sadly smile. “After the complications from my… accident, there’s less than a 15% chance for me to get pregnant.”
“I can work with whatever percentage!” J boasts, not a fan of your mood switch. “I don’t want to brag, I’m a modest person,” he dramatically flares his arms, ”but I’m good at what I do, even if I’ll probably have to get into Pilates or something to up my game; but I bet you 10 million dollars I can make it happen! Unless you’re a chicken and don’t have the guts to bet.”
“Deal,” you hesitantly accept the offer, aware of J’s strategy.
“Oh, almost forgot,” he reaches the coffee table for another present wrapped up next to the laptop. “This is for us.”
You pull apart the shiny paper and burst out laughing again seeing the book presented as a gift: “Miller’s Funeral Home Casket Catalogue”.
“We have to make a decision for the old gizzard’s coffin because he will die for sure when we’ll announce our plans to get married.”
“Please don’t call my dad a gizzard,” you frown. “He’s only 8 years older than you.”
“Like I said: a goddamned old gizzard,” The Joker passes his fingers through his hair, slapping your side so you can get up. “Now that you have business cards to share and a good catalogue with stellar options, I think we should go eat. I’m starving,” he follows you towards the elevator at The Penthouse, fascinated with the prosthetic that is actually a work of art. You are able to wear your stilettos also and J pinches your butt, aroused.
“You know what your best superpower is?”
“No,” you grab his arm to make sure you’re not going to trip on the carpet.
“Annoying your dad! I mean, with our combined efforts, we can at least hope for a stroke before we even give him the final blow with the marriage news.”
You snicker at The Joker’s perfect scheme, wondering why you both go through so much trouble just to upset Harvey Dent.
Also read: MASTERLIST
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#the joker x reader#the joker fanfiction#the joker jared leto#the joker imagine#the joker#joker#joker fanfiction#joker jared leto#the joker suicide squad#joker suicide squad#harvey dent#mister j#Mistah J#Mr.J#dc#DC comics
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One event, when she was still young, changed Lorelai's whole life. At that time she wasn't even aware of the impact that event will have on the rest of her life.
She didn't even know what impact that event will have on the choice she made when Death stood in front of her and asked her to choose a path.
I didn't use any movies, books or series for inspiration the story is my original work.
This is just the result of my weird imagination and brain telling me what to write. I hope you liked it :)
It’s still just a story, like all of my other stores. It doesn’t have a deeper spiritual, moral or ethical meaning.
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Chapter 1. Tattoo
Lorelai was sitting on a chair resting her arms on the back of it. Her back was bare and Alina, the tattoo artist, had already copied the template of the tattoo on her bare back. Since the first time she saw a tattoo, she knew that she wanted one too. The first tattoo she saw was a tattoo of a skull holding a rose in its mouth. Something about the skull tattoo fascinated her. She didn’t know what but she felt mesmerized by it.
Alina was a really good tattoo artist and a designer and she had her hands full with Lorelai’s design requests. Lorelai thought out her tattoo to the last detail. It took Alina a month to get all the details of the tattoo right. Because of all the details, the tattoo had to be big, so Alina told Lorelai that the best place for the tattoo would be her back.
The final tattoo design was marvelous. It depicted death’s bust with a skull in a black hood. Behind death was a scythe starting from the right side and ending on the left side of death’s head, with a full moon on the left side of the scythe. The hardest thing for Alina was drawing the centerpiece of the tattoo design, an hourglass from a picture that Lorelai gave her.
Lorelai once waisted in a museum of antiques with her parents when she was a child, and saw a black hourglass taller than her, with breathtaking carvings on the vertical pillars and black sand in the bottom chamber. Some vertical pillars had a dragon, some had skulls and other human-like carvings coming out of the pillars. It looked ancient and had white letters engraved at the top and the bottom of the frame, but the carvings and the letters looked as if they haven’t been damaged by time. The hourglass was a challenge, but Alina captured its essence perfectly with the carvings and letters. She put the hourglass in the middle of the tattoo, under the death’s skull and into its bony hand. Lorelai asked her to put some black sand into the top chamber, just to balance it a little.
The tattooing process took four sessions and Lorelai did feel pain while Alina was working around her bones, but it didn’t matter, she was happy that her dream will come true, that she'll finally have a tattoo. She was actually glad that the tattoo was on her back, in a place her parents couldn’t see it because they were always against tattoos.
She remembered the first time she told them that she’s going to get a tattoo. It was two years ago, but it felt like two days ago. They looked at her as if she was some kind of delinquent, they both frowned at her and shouted at her that they didn’t raise their daughter that way. It started a big fight between them. Now that she was eighteen, and that she actually could get the tattoo without their approval, she made the decision to get the tattoo and not tell them anything.
After the last tattoo session, Lorelai spent a whole hour just standing in front of the mirror looking at her back. In her eyes the tattoo was perfect and the white letters on the top ‘o vorr dorr aeai’, and the letters on the bottom ‘vhoro da sa mozd’, in the middle of the deaths black robe stood out and elevated the whole design. She was so focused on the tattoo that she didn’t hear someone knocking on the front door. Putting her shirt back on she walked towards the front door and opened it.
Their neighbor Mr. Marcus was standing there rubbing his hands. When he saw Lorelai, he smiled and started to talk about his morning. About how his toaster was acting funny today and how he tried to fix it. She listened to him but wasn’t paying attention. It wasn’t like Mr. Marcus was a bad person, he was nice and friendly, but he was boring. His life was uninteresting, he had no hobbies, no friends and worked at the IRS. After a while, Lorelai got lost in her own thoughts. She got back to reality when Mr. Marcus asked her. “So, what do you think?”
“Sorry, about what?” Lorelai asked.
“About where should I go next.” Mr. Marcus said.
“You lost me there. I don’t know what you mean. Why are you asking me?” Lorelai asked.
“Well, you have to tell me.” Mr. Marcus said.
“Ok. Where would you like to go?” Lorelai asked.
“I don’t want to go back. I don’t deserve that. I would like to go left but I’m scared.” Mr. Marcus said.
Lorelai had absolutely no idea what Mr. Marcus was talking about so she said “It can’t be that scary. Go try it.”
“I think I will. Thank you.” Mr. Marcus said and started walking left. Lorelai closed the door and went to her room.
‘What was that all about? Why would I have to tell him where to go? He’s a grown man. And what was with not deserving to go back.’ Lorelai thought as she walked into her room and sat on her bed. What she couldn’t see was that a grain of black sand on her tattoo fell from the top chamber into the lower one.
A few minutes after she heard sirens and, through her window, saw police and an ambulance stop in front and walk into her building. She heard a commotion on her floor and walked over to the front door. She opened the front door a bit and saw the police knock on Mr. Marcus’ apartment. There was no answer so they kicked the door down and walked in together with the paramedics.
Lorelai opened the front door a bit more and saw Mr. Marcus lying lifeless on the floor. She stood paralyzed. ‘Did I do that? Did my advice kill him?’ She thought as her heart started beating faster.
“No, he’s dead for too long.” Lorelai heard one of the paramedics say.
“Probably early in the morning.” One of the police officers said holding up a toaster.
Lorelai saw the toaster and remembered Mr. Marcus telling her about it just a few minutes ago. One police officer came towards her and said “Hello, young lady. Did you hear something from your neighbor’s apartment this morning? Was someone other than your neighbor here or did you maybe hear someone scream?”
“No, I was asleep. I didn’t hear anything. What happened to him?” Lorelai asked.
“At first glance, it looks like he tried to fix his toaster but got electrocuted. We just want to check that someone else wasn’t involved.” One of the other police officers called him. “I have to go now. Thank you for the information” The police officer said and left. They put Mr. Marcus’s body in a black body bag and took him away.
Lorelai closed the front door and sat on the floor. Nothing made sense. ‘If he died early in the morning, how could he talk to her just a few minutes before the police and the ambulance arrived here? How is that possible?’ She thought as she hugged her knees.
Her mother saw her sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, eyes wide open, and asked. “What's wrong?”
Slowly Lorelai lifted her head and looked at her mother, stood up and said “Mr. Marcus is dead.”
“Ah, that poor man. Death comes for everyone eventually.” Her mother said.
“Yeah.” Lorelai said and went to her room.
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Chapter 2. Questions
After school, Lorelai asked her best friend Ella to go get coffee. They lived a block away in the same direction and knew each other since kindergarten. There was a small cafe they both loved on their way home. Ella couldn’t come because she had after classes, Lorelai decided to walk home from school and get a cup of coffee alone. It was a warm spring afternoon and she enjoyed the walk until a woman approached her all flustered.
“Ufff… I finally caught up to you.” The woman said.
“Sorry, miss. I think you mistook me for someone else.” Lorelai said.
“No. I’m looking for you. I saw you a long way back and hurried to catch up with you.” The woman said.
“But I don’t know you.” Lorelai said.
“I just need you to tell me where to go next.” The woman said.
“I don’t know.” Lorelai said.
“But you must know. That’s why I’m here. You must know where I need to go next.” The woman insisted.
“Why don’t you choose yourself?” Lorelai asked.
“I can’t. You have to tell me.” The woman said raising her voice.
‘Mr. Marcus said he didn’t deserve to go back, so back is bad. I told him to go left and he was a little scared to go there, so left is something different but not bad. If there is back and left, there must be right and forward. But I have no clue what each path means.’ Lorelai thought but said “Hmmm… Where would you like to go?”
“I didn’t do everything that I wanted so I would like to go forward.” The woman said.
“Then go forward.” Lorelai said. The woman thanked her and started walking forward, passing her.
Lorelai thought about the woman’s words and turned around to look at the woman but there was no sign of her. ‘What did she mean by I didn’t do everything that I wanted?’ She thought.
Lorelai continued walking, got coffee to go and walked home. Again, on her tattoo, a grain of black sand dropped down into the lower chamber.
In the middle of the night, Lorelai was awoken by the sound of something hitting her window. Half asleep she walked over, opened the window and looked down on the street. A small rock hit her and she heard someone say sorry. She looked in the direction of the voice and saw a guy around her age.
“What?” Lorelai asked.
“I need you to tell me where to go next.” The guy said.
“Now? Are you crazy? Can’t this wait until morning?” Lorelai asked.
“No. I need to know now.” The guy said.
“We can’t keep shouting like this. I’ll come down.” Lorelai said, got dressed, went out of the building and saw the guy standing on the steps to her building entrance.
“So, where do I go next?” The guy asked. He was dressed like a gang member or drug dealer and even had a gang tattoo.
“Why can’t this wait?” Lorelai asked.
“I already lost a lot of time finding you, we have to hurry.” The guy said.
“Are you a gang member?” Lorelai asked.
“Yeah, so what. Just tell me where to go.” The guy frowned at her and raised his voice.
Lorelai had an urge to tell him to go back but instead, she said. “What if I tell you to go right?”
“What, you want to waste my time? I don’t want to be there and then move wait to move forward until I pass all those stupid tests.” The guy said.
“I have a feeling you must go right. Go right.” Lorelai said.
“You can’t do this to me. You bitch!” The guy shouted at her but started walking right.
Lorelai turned towards the building entrance, opened it, turned her head to look at the guy but he wasn’t there anymore. A second ago he stood on the steps and now he’s gone. Another grain of sand, on her tattoo, found its way into the lower chamber.
Thank the heavens it was Friday today and that she could sleep in tomorrow. Too tired to think Lorelai went back to the apartment, fell on the bed and as soon as her head touched the pillow, she fell asleep.
The next day Lorelai slept in all the way until lunch and she still felt tired. The guy from yesterday was still in her head. Taking care of the tattoo, she thought about the guy’s words, about passing the tests to move forward. Trying to put the pieces of information she gathered together, she heard her mother calling her to come and eat lunch, so she got up, got dressed and headed towards the kitchen.
After lunch, Lorelai took a notebook and drew a crossroad with four directions. She labeled them and next to the direction BACK she wrote bad because Mr. Marcus said he didn’t want to go there. Next to the direction FORWARD she wrote good but she was hesitant about what to write next to the direction LEFT. Mr. Marcus was a bit scared and also hesitant to go left but he went left so it must be good but a different good than forward. Next to LEFT, she wrote different good. The only one left was RIGHT and, by the reaction and the words of the guy yesterday, next to it she wrote different bad.
Looking at what she drew and wrote Lorelai still had no idea what it all meant and why did people look for her to ask her where should they go. She thought about talking with Ella about it, but what was the point. Why drag Ella into all of this when even she didn’t know what all this means. The only things that didn’t make sense, besides the people asking her where to go, were that she talked to Mr. Marcus even though the police said that he died hours before and the guy that disappeared a few seconds after talking to her.
Lorelai’s phone rang, Ella was calling her. She asked Lorelai to come with her out tonight. One of their classmates was celebrating her birthday and asked them to come.
“Shure. Are you gonna pick me up or are we gonna meet somewhere?” Lorelai asked.
“The party is at her apartment so we’ll meet there. I have to do something before the party so I’ll be there around nine. I’ll text you the address, ok?” Ella said.
“Yeah, text me the address. I’ll meet you there around nine.” Lorelai said.
Lorelai wasn’t in the mood for a party, she was still feeling tired. She told Ella that she’ll come to the party so she decided that she’ll stay a while and go home after two or three hours. Since she's already going to the party, she decided that she’ll show off her new tattoo. Searching through her closet she finally found a perfect black shirt with a low back. She put it on and looked at her back in the mirror. The whole tattoo was visible, just as she wanted. After some more searching through her closet, she found a matching skirt and decided that what she picked out will be the perfect party outfit.
There was more than enough time until the party so Lorelai went back to putting the pieces of information on the directions she had together. ‘It would be easier if I had someone to ask what does all this mean. Wait! Maybe there are others. But how do I find them when I don't know how these people find me? This all started after I got my tattoo. That can’t be a coincidence.’ She thought and decided to call Alina and ask her if she tattooed a similar tattoo like hers on someone.
“Hi, Alina! Sorry for calling you on your day off. No, everything’s alright with the tattoo I just have a question. Yeah… Did you tattoo anyone with a tattoo like mine? ... Yeah… You didn’t. Can you ask around? I mean can you ask your friends if they tattooed anyone with a tattoo like mine? … Yeah, death and the hourglass with black sand and white letters … You can! Oh, thank you! … Yeah, call me back at any time. Thanks again! Bye.” Lorelai said. Her tattoo was specific so she hoped that, if this whole thing is happening because of the tattoo, Alina would find out if one of her friends had a client ask for the same or similar tattoo.
With that done Lorelai hoped that no more people were going to ask her where to go next before she could speak with someone who knows more about this whole thing that’s been happening to her.
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Chapter 3. Pieces
Around an hour before the birthday party, Lorelai got dressed, put on a jacket, got out of the building and headed towards the address Ella texted her. The address wasn’t far so she decided to walk. It was a nice spring evening and a lot of people were still out walking, enjoying the warm weather after the cold winter. As she was walking a man dressed all in black ran beside her pushing her out of his way. She stumbled, looked at him, thought about shouting after him but then saw a police officer running after him. They both ran into an alley and a few moments after, she heard a gunshot.
There were sounds of police sirens getting closer and Lorelai saw more police officers running towards her and the ally. Afraid, she quickly crossed the street and started walking away from the whole commotion. She felt someone grab her hand and pull her into a side street, behind a corner of a building. It was a man dressed all in black. He looked like the man who ran into the ally. He grabbed her neck with his hands and tightened his grip, choking her. Looking into her eyes, he said. “When I loosen my grip enough for you to talk, you are going to tell me to go forward really slowly so I can hear each letter. If I hear any letter besides f I will tighten my grip and choke you to death. Nod if you understand me.”
Lorelai slowly nodded. Her neck hurt so much that she couldn��t speak. She was shaking and tears started to form in the corners of her eyes and drop down on both sides of her face.
“Good. I’m going to loosen my grip a little now and you start talking. Remember, if you say anything other than forward, I will kill you.” The man said and started to loosen his grip.
Lorelai coughed a few times and, as quickly as possible, she said. “Go back.”
The man’s grip started to tighten around Lorelai’s neck as he was shouting and cursing at her. ”You bitch! I don’t care how long it takes but I will find you and kill you! I will kill you and everything you love for doing this to me you whore!”. After a few seconds. his voice and hands around her neck started to fade. Lorelai thought that she was losing consciousness, that she was going to die, but the man holding her just disappeared. Lorelai fell to the floor coughing and crying.
Lorelai felt a hand on her shoulder and she jerked way fearing that the man was back.
“Sorry, miss. We heard a commotion coming from here. Are you all alright? What happened? What’s your name?” Lorelai heard a man’s voice say. She lifted her head and saw a police officer crouching next to her.
Crying and coughing Lorelai looked around, trying to see if the man in black was still somewhere close by, and said. “My name is Lorelai. Mn dressed in black, he looked like the man who ran into the ally over there. He shouted at me and told me that he’ll kill me. I don’t know what happened but my mind was going blank and then he was gone.”
“Would you come with us? There is an ambulance there. We just want them to check your injuries.” The police officer crouching beside her said.
“Yes.” Lorelai said.
The police officers helped her get to the ambulance and while the paramedics checked her injuries the police officer that spoke with her talked to a man dressed in normal civilian clothes.
“There is no severe damage. Your throat is a bit hurt and there are bruises on your neck. I know that being attacked can make you feel scared and anxious so I gave you something to calm you down, it will help. You will be as good as new in a week or two so don’t worry. Ok?” The paramedic said.
“Yeah… Thank you.” Lorelai said and the paramedic went to speak with the same man in civilian clothes. After they were done talking the man in civilian clothes came towards her.
“Hi, Lorelai. I’m detective Harker. I know you just went through a lot and told the police officers what had happened. Do you mind telling me what happened?” The man asked.
“I told the police officers everything. Didn’t they tell you?” Lorelai asked.
“They did. But they don’t listen very well. They just listen, they don’t pay attention to the details and the details are what’s important. Don’t you agree?” Detective Harker asked.
“Yeah, details are important.” Lorelai said, remembering how important the details of her tattoo were important to her, and continued. “I was walking down the main street when a man dressed in black clothes with a black hat showed me to the side, out of his way. I stumbled and saw a police officer ran after him into that alley.” She pointed to the alley. “When I saw the police officer, I knew that something serious was going on so I started walking away from the alley and heard a gunshot.”
“How much time passed between them entering the alley and the gunshot?” Detective Harker asked.
“Around a few seconds. I know because I didn’t walk that far away from the alley. After the gunshot, I heard police sirens and saw more police officers ran towards me and the alley. I thought that the man in black killed the first police officer and that he will come out and hurt me so I crossed the road and quickly walked away from all the commotion.” Lorelai said
“So, you didn’t see what happened in the alley?” Detective Harker asked.
“No, I just heard a gunshot. But on the other side of the street, a man grabbed my arm and pulled me in the side street, where the police officers found me, and grabbed my neck. He was dressed all in black like the man who ran into the alley. I could have sworn that he was wearing the same clothes as the man who ran into the alley. He started choking me with both hands and telling me that he was going to kill me.” Lorelai looked at the detective and thought about telling him what the man wanted from her but she doubted that he would believe her so she said. “I don’t know what happened next but my mind was going blank and then he was gone.”
“The police officers probably scared him away.” Detective Harker said.
Detective Harker sat next to her for a few moments and said. “The gunshot you heard was the police officer shooting at the man in black, well, actually killing him. However, there are two things that are bothering me. You said that a man looking just like the man who ran into the alley attacked you and tried to choke you to death with both hands.”
“Yes.” Lorelai said
“Come with me for a second.” Detective Harker said and they walked together into the alley.
Detective Harker asked. “Did the man that choked you wear the same clothes as this man?”
Lorelai froze in place. Not only did the man wear the same clothes, but it was also the man who choked her. She started to shake, standing there speechless. “I… I … I don’t know.” She finally managed to say.
“If he did then my case isn’t closed with this man’s death.” Detective Harker said.
“Why?” Lorelai asked.
“Because the bruises on your neck are identical to the bruises on the necks of the victims his man killed. And now he may have an accomplice.” Detective Harker said.
‘Oh no. How can I tell him that he was right? That there is no accomplice, that the dead man was the one choking me.’ Lorelai thought biting her lower lip, her thoughts racing through her mind trying to find an answer.
“Ok. I’ll have some police officers drive you home to make sure that you’re safe. And this is my card. You can call me any time if you remember anything else.” Detective Harker said and gave her his business card. He called one of the police officers over, told them to take Lorelai home and make sure she’s safe.
At home, her mother saw the bruises on her neck, started crying and asked her what happened. After Lorelai explained she remembered the birthday party and that she didn’t call Ella. She called her and told her that she won’t be coming. After she explained why Ella insisted on coming over tomorrow and after some time Lorelai relented. After the conversation, she went to her room and undressed. She felt so exhausted that she just put on a random T-shirt, fell on the bed and instantly fell asleep.
The next day Ella came over and when she saw the bruises on Lorelai’s neck, she hugged her and said. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry I let you walk alone to the party.” Ella started crying but continued. “I promise I’ll never let you go so late alone anywhere again.”
“Hey, It’s ok. The police saved me so everything’s fine. It’s not your fault. If you were there you could have gotten injured yourself, so don’t worry, I’m fine. Ok?” Lorelai said.
“No, you are never going alone anywhere again.” Ella said.
“Fine, if you insist.” Lorelai said.
They spent the rest of the day in Lorelai’s room talking and having fun. Lorelai hid her drawings of the crossroad, she didn’t want to involve Ella in the things that were happening to her. Not because she thought that Ella wouldn’t believe her, but because she didn’t want her best friend to get hurt as she did.
After Ella left Lorelai thought about last night's events again. Until now she wasn't sure that the people asking her where to go were dead people or souls but after tonight, she was now sure. The man from yesterday was dead when he attacked her and disappeared while still choking her. Now the pieces of information she had made sense. The crossroad had four paths, each representing different places with different things the souls would go through. She had to send each soul down one of the paths.
The difficult part was deciding what path to send the souls to. The most obvious path was sending them back like Lorelai did yesterday. To her, the back path was for the evil souls. The second obvious path was forward, to her it represented the opposite of the back path, it represented something good. The right and left paths were still a mystery to her. The right path had something to do with tests but she had no idea what the left path was. Still, the most confusing thing was why was this happening to her in the first place.
As time passed, the bruises on Lorelai’s neck healed and each day more souls came to ask her where to go next. She decided to ask the souls questions about their life and make a decision based on their answers, the way they talked and acted towards her and soon began to see patterns. A lot of souls lied about their lives and she sent a lot of them on the right path. Some she sent forwards, but she sent left only the ones that asked her to go left. Fortunately, she didn’t encounter a soul she had to send back.
Alina called her back about the tattoo and told her that none of her friends tattooed anyone with the design they made but that they were very interested in the design and would like to use it. Lorelai still wasn’t sure if the tattoo was the cause of the things that were happening to her so she asked Alina to not use the design. After some arguing, they made a compromise. Lorelai told her to change the design a little and remove the white letters and Alina agreed.
One day, after school, Lorelai was walking home, she had to pick up some things from a store near her school for her mother. While walking she felt someone pull her skirt. She turned around, looked down and saw a little girl holding a doll pulling her skirt.
The girl looked up at her wide-eyed and asked. “Where do I go next?”
This was the first time Lorelai had to tell a child where to go. She didn’t know if she should ask her the questions that she usually asked the other souls, it somehow seemed inappropriate asking a child how she died. She just took the girl’s hand into hers and told her. “Go forward.”
The girl hugged her doll and started walking forward. After a few steps, she disappeared. Lorelai stood there for a few moments looking at the place where the girl disappeared. She didn’t know how to feel about sending a child’s soul down a crossroads path. After a while, she went to pick up the things for her mother and headed home.
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Chapter 4. Answers
It was almost the end of the school year, which meant that the annual school dance will be held in a week. Ella was in charge of the decorations for the school dance and volunteered Lorelai to help with the decorations too. Lorelai thanked her by looking at her like she’s going to kill her but still stayed every day after school and helped.
One day Lorelai wasn’t feeling well so in the decoration workshop she told Ella that she’ll go home early. She packed her things and left. There were a lot of people still walking outside, but it was starting to get dark, so she hurried home. She entered a park that was on her way home and saw a black figure standing on the other side of the park. It wasn’t that dark outside, she could still see other people clearly, something was off about this figure. She stopped walking but the black figure kept coming towards her.
Lorelai started to walk back slowly, something in the way the black figure moved seemed threatening. She wanted to get out of the park, to try to lose the figure in the side streets, but as soon as she started moving the black figure accelerated its pace. In a few seconds it was just a few paces away from her. The black figure suddenly stopped, looked at her and leaned forward.
“I told you I’d find you and kill all that you love.” It said and Lorelai recognized the voice.
“You are the one I sent back.” Lorelai said.
“Yes, and I was fortunate that it was you who sent me back. You screwed that up ad now you’re going to lose all that you love.” The black figure said.
“How? How did you get here?” Lorelai asked
“Thanks to your incompetence. Now let's start by getting rid of you first.” The black figure said, started walking towards Lorelai and lifting its arms, with the intention of choking her.
Lorelai started to back away, to run from the black figure, but slipped on the gravel floor and fell on her back. She started to get up when suddenly all around her and the black figure time stopped. All the people stopped moving, the tree branches stopped swinging and everything was quiet. The black figure took a step back, looked around and asked. “Is this some kind of a trick? What are you doing?”
Lorelai, still lying on his back, got up on her elbows and looked around. She saw a man, around his thirties, with a scythe coming towards them. He stood between her and the black figure and said. “What a mess.”
“Get out of my way! This doesn’t concern you.” The black figure said and tried to bypass the man to get to Lorelai.
The man touched the forehead of the black figure with the tip of his scythe and said stop. The black figure immediately stopped moving. “Good. Stay there.” The man said and turned towards Lorelai.
“What did you do to him?” The man said.
“Nothing. When I first saw him, I sent him back.” Lorelai said.
“How?” The man asked.
“What do you mean how? I just said go back.” Lorelai said.
“Is that a joke? Is not following the rules a joke to you?” The man asked.
“No. I just told him to go back.” Lorelai said.
“Why? What did he do?” the man asked.
“He killed and raped six women, it was all over the news and he tried to kill me.” Lorelai said.
“Ok. Let me fix this mess.” The man said and again touched the forehead of the black figure with the tip of his scythe. “Go back for a hundred years, then go through the decoruption ritual and be judged.” As the man said the words an unseen force pulled the black figure and he disappeared at one point screaming.
Lorelai stared wide-eyed at the point where the black figure disappeared, hoping that he won't come back again. She was so focused on that point that she didn't hear what the man in front of her was talking about. She saw a hand and fingers snapping in front of her face and looked towards the man, now crouching in front of her.
“Good. Were back to reality. Now tell me is sending some souls in the wrong direction a joke to you or do you have a hidden agenda?” The man asked.
“I… I… What?” Lorelai asked and looked at the man wide-eyed trying to understand what he was talking about.
“Ok. You are obviously still under shock. Let’s start slow. I’m Max. What's your name?” The man asked.
“I’m Lorelai.” Lorelai said.
“Good. Now, Lorelai tell me why are you sending some souls in the wrong direction? As a path teller, you should know better.” Max said.
“What is a path teller? Is that connected to the crossroads?” Lorelai asked.
“Oh no…” Max tapped the bottom of his scythe twice on the floor and it shrunk so it fits in his palm. He showed it to Lorelai and asked he. “Can you show me your scythe?” He attached the scythe to his belt.
“I don’t have one.” Lorelai said.
“You don’t you have one? Did you lose it? You have the path tellers hourglass, you have to have the scythe.” Max said.
“The hourglass? I don’t actually have a real hourglass. I have a tattoo of one on my back.” Lorelai said.
“Can I see?” Max asked.
“Sure.” Lorelai said, took off her jacket and lifted the back of her shirt. Max looked at the tattoo and told her to put her shirt down. She turned around to ask Max if the tattoo was the reason that the souls were coming to her, but found him sitting on the floor, frowning, biting his finger.
“What’s wrong?” Lorelai asked
“You have the path teller hourglass on your tattoo and the words of the path teller on it. That's why the souls are coming to you. But you aren’t a path teller. I have to report this.” Max was talking really quickly and sounded worried. He stood up and looked at Lorelai.
“Go home and stay home until somebody comes to you. And avoid souls at all cost. Understand?” Max sad.
“Understand. I’ll be home.” Lorelai said.
Max nodded, snapped his fingers and disappeared. Time started flowing normally around Lorelai. She got up and went home. She was glad that she told Alina to remove the letters from the tattoo design, so no more people had to go through what she did.
Around ten o’clock Lorelai was lying on the bed watching a movie with her earphones on. Someone abruptly took off her headphones, she looked up and saw Max.
“You could have just said hello. You didn’t have to be so rude and take off my earphones off.” Lorelai said.
“I said hello three times, but you didn’t hear me.” Max said and looking at her blankly.
“I see that they sent you here. What’s the verdict?” Lorelai asked.
“You know that you messed up some of the soul paths?” Max said.
“Yea, you told me that already. Which ones did I mess up?” Lorelai asked.
“You remember the soul of Mr. Marcus? The first one you saw and told to go left? Max asked.
“Yea. I always wondered what happened to him and what’s the left path.” Lorelai said.
“The left path is reincarnation as an animal.” Max said.
“Ohhhhh… That’s cool.” Lorelai said.
“It wasn’t for Mr. Marcus’s soul. He was reborn as a fish and eaten alive after two days. His soul was so traumatized that he's still on the right part. They are still getting all the negative emotions and experiences out of his soul so it doesn’t go corrupt.” Max said.
“Oh no, poor Mr. Marcus.” Lorelai said and continued. “What's the right path? What happens to the souls there exactly?” She asked.
“The souls there go through the process that gets all the negative emotions and experiences, that they collected through their lives, out of them and they pass tests to see if the process was successful. The souls have to go through this process because too many negative things can corrupt them and they can end up like the black figure.” Max said frowned and continued “And by the way, you should have sent the little girl right.”
“But she was just a child.” Lorelai said.
“You are not a path teller so you don’t see their souls. That little girl is an old soul that was full of negative energy and she manipulated you. I’m afraid that, when you told her to go forward and reincarnate as a human, she will be exposed to too much negative things in her next life and that her soul will go corrupt.” Max said shaking his head.
“But when you sent the black figure back you said that there is a decoruption ritual. Doesn’t that mean that the souls can be healed?” Lorelai asked.
“Some can, but a lot of them can’t. A lot of them stay corrupt even after the ritual and they fade away like all other souls without a body.” Max said.
“What about me? Do I get to be a path teller or not?” Lorelai asked.
Max scratched his head and said “Ahhh… Here’s the thing. We can’t make you a path teller.”
“Why? Did I screw up so badly?” Lorelai asked.
“It’s not that. The only one that can make you a path teller is Death. And we don’t know where he is.” Max said.
“You don’t know where Death is?” Lorelai asked and looked at Max like he was wearing a dunce hat.
“Some think that he just left, some that he’s doing something important, but I think that he’s recruiting new path tellers. And a lot of them, by the last numbers I saw. I don’t know why but I think something big is going to happen.” Max said. “For now, I can just tell you to remove the white letters from the tattoo and the souls will stop coming to you.” He said avoiding looking her in the eyes.
“What if I want to be a path teller?” Lorelai asked.
“I already signed you up but I don’t know when that will be. But without a scythe and the sight to see the soul’s true nature, you are just putting yourself in danger so think about it. Ok?” Max said.
“Ok.” Lorelai said.
They said goodbye and Lorelai sat on the edge of her bed hugging a pillow. Max was right, without the sight to see souls she will just send souls in the wrong direction. Without a scythe she could put herself in danger if she meets a corrupt soul. Her only option was to remove the white letters and wait for Death to make her a real path teller.
As Lorelai was thinking about her options a spot on her back started to itch. She scratched it unconsciously and all of a sudden felt a sharp pain around it. The pain suddenly spread all over her back. She arched her back in agony, clenching her teeth, trying not to scream. A black mist started to come out of her back and the pain became worse. The black mist gathered in front of her and started to take shape.
The pain stopped when all the mist came out of Lorelai‘s back. Lorelai took a deep breath of relief and looked in front of her. The mist finally took shape and Death was standing in front of her. Speechless, she just stared at Death, not sure what to do next.
“Hello, Lorelai.” Death said.
“Hello.” Lorelai said and immediately felt stupid for greeting Death in such a lame way.
“I have been watching your progress as a path teller without powers and I can tell you not to listen to Maximilian. He made more mistakes than you without powers. In you, I see a natural path teller.” Death said.
“Thank you.” Lorelai said.
Death summoned a scythe with a black wooden handle and tapped twice with the bottom of the scythe on the floor. The scythe shrunk so it fitted in the bony hand of Death.
“It is time for you to choose. If you take this scythe you will become a path teller. If you choose not to take it, I will remove the white letters from your path teller hourglass. Choose.” Death said.
Lorelai looked at the scythe in the Death's hand and thought about the last past months. About how her life changed when souls started asking her where to go. At first, it was confusing but later when she put the pieces together, she actually liked being a path teller. She lifted her hand and took the scythe from Death’s hand.
“Wise choice. There are two things I have to do now.” Death said and leaned towards Lorelai.
Death put its hand on Lorelai’s back. It didn’t feel like Death put its hand on her back, it felt like Death put its hand directly on her soul. Death moved the black sand, on her tattoo from the lower chamber to the upper chamber, leaving a few grains of black sand in the lower chamber.
“Since you already have a path tellers hourglass on your back, I used that one. The path tellers hourglass makes you immortal when there is sand in the upper chamber. On your hourglass, I moved the black sand in the upper chamber. I left the grains of sand in the lower chamber for the souls you already told where to go.” Death said.
“What will happen when all the sand falls down into the lower chamber?” Lorelai asked.
“You will become mortal and when you die your hourglass will become real and your tomb.” Death said. “Now close your eyes.”
Death put a finger on Lorelai’s forehead, drew half of a circle and said. “Open your eyes.”
“Whoa! The world looks more vivid.” Lorelai said.
“That is the power of sight. A path teller will come to you and explain everything you need to know. I must go now.” Death said tapped the bottom of his scythe twice and disappeared.
Lorelai ran to the mirror to look at her tattoo and almost all the black sand was in the upper chamber. Only a few grains of sand were in the lower chamber. She took the small scythe and tried to figure out how to make it big. She knew that tapping twice on the bottom made it small but she didn't know how to make it big.
“Hello.” Max said and startled her.
“Don’t just barge in my room.” Lorelai said frowning.
“You got a scythe? How?” Max asked.
“Death came here a few minutes after you left. Can you tell me how to make my scythe big?” Lorelai asked.
“Tap it twice on the bottom.” Max said.
Lorelai tapped the small scythe on the bottom and it got bigger. She hugged it, smiled, looked at Max, grabbed his arm and with a grin said “Tell me everything.”
“Damn it, why me?” Max said shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head.
————————————————–
Thanks for reading :)
Every comment is welcome
#tw implied death#TW implied murder#souls#death as a character#path tellers#tw violence#Original Work#fantasy
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I didn’t write this it was requested
ImmoImmortals (1/8)
[Originally posted on my fanfiction.net account back in May, before I had a tumblr, but since the Bubbline fandom’s pretty lively here, thought I’d share. It’s been turned completely AU by Stakes, but still works pretty well as an alternate history. Romance/Angst/Tragedy
[As it turns out, Marceline and Bonnibel have more history than all of Ooo, and back in the beginning, Marceline still had a moral code, and Bonnibel still had a heart. But a thousand years is a long, long time, and nothing lasts forever.
[Adventure Time belongs to Pendleton Ward and the song “Immortals” to Fall Out Boy.]
.
(they say we are what we are
but we don’t have to be)
.
“Why isn’t there any…chicken…soup?!”
That plaintive cry echoes throughout the dead city, ricocheting off busted cars and broken buildings, and muffles in the freshly fallen snow that clogs one of its alleys. In the alley’s center, an elderly man, his skin tinting to blue, shakes his fists at the unsympathetic leaden skies.
And nearly gets concussed by the falling can of chicken soup.
“What? I’ll freeze you!” he yells, spinning around with his hands extended, crab-like, but there’s nothing there—no threats, no oozing monster. Just a deep divot in the snow, shadowed blue as his skin. He lowers his hands, the fear fading from his face, and fishes out the miracle can. “Er…”
“Simon? Simon, what’s going on?”
He turns around, still cradling the can, but waves arrestingly at the girl halfway out of a rusting automobile. “Marcy! Stay in the car! I’ve got your soup, but it’s cold now—the air, not the soup, although I suppose it’d be cold anyway, being that it’s in a can and all—but whatever, I mean, you’re not well, and what if there’s more monsters—”
His protests fall on deaf ears, as Marceline disregards his concerns and clambers through the snow to his side, even though it’s up to her knees and she’s decidedly not equipped to be trekking across a polar landscape. She laughs upon seeing the can, like it’s the prize at the end of a long quest, but her attention is quickly caught by something in the background.
Something smiling. Something pink.
The half-demon approaches the sticky substance where it’s strung across the wall. “Is this who gave you the soup?” she asks, mirroring the smile hanging in the translucent material: the happiest semicircle of a curve.
“Huh? What?” Simon bleats, and he looks vaguely at the pink goop. “What’s that? You think that thing gave me this soup?” He chuckles, but it’s ranging towards a cackle, and Marceline slants him a suspicious look, which swiftly swivels to fixate on the crown hanging from his belt. Simon clears his throat and tries to salvage the situation and fails rather miserably. “What? It’s just a wad of sentient bubblegum.”
“Simon!” she protests, glancing nervously at her magenta benefactor, whose smile has faded. “That’s really mean! I think she heard you! And she probably has a name, you big jerk!”
“Eh? She? Why d’you think it’s a girl? It’s a blob,” the man says, pointing up at the strings of gum that wander up the wall like rigging on a ship. “Quite a bit of blob, too.”
“You really are a jerk,” Marceline declares, laying her hands on the gum somewhat to the sides of the eyes: her best guess as to where the ears are. “And of course it’s a girl. It’s pink. What kinda boy would be pink? Geez.”
“A bubblegum boy, that’s who,” Simon grouses, but there’s no real fight in his words, and he exhales a long sigh. “Fine, fine. ‘Princess Bubblegum’ here gave me the soup, sure. Can you just eat it now? You’re sick, Marcy, and I want to help you. Would you let me help you like I’ve always done?”
Her dark eyes narrow, not oblivious to the sarcasm riding his words, but she capitulates with a nod. “Okay. I am hungry, anyway.”
He beckons, already halfway back to the dilapidated husk of the car. “Come on. It’ll be warmer in here, and safer, too. Once you’ve eaten, we need to get out of this city. Who knows how many more slimy monsters are prowling the streets.”
Marceline starts to follow him, but she hesitates, glancing back at the gum. “But what about her? We can’t leave her here, Simon. Those oozy monsters might attack her next, and she can’t protect herself.”
“She can if she drops ballistic cans of chicken soup on their heads,” he mutters, but with a note of fondness. Rather more realistically, he poses, “There’s enough gum up that wall to weigh both of us down, Marcy. How do you want to go about carrying her? Or are you suggesting that we chew her up and blow the world’s biggest bubble and balloon away from here?”
The half-demon child laughs. “Oh, Simon, you’re so silly! Blowing a bubble, geez. You’re pretty dumb for being so old. No, we…pull her down, kind of, and mush her up until she’s…person-shaped. Like…like a snowman, but with gum, and a girl. A gum-girl. Yeah. We’ll make a gum-girl.”
One of Simon’s eyebrows rockets skywards, and he cranes his neck, scanning the lattice of pink elastic roped up the wall. “Well,” he says at last, “I’ve heard stranger ideas. What the heck. Let’s give it a whirl.”
Giddy, Marceline claps her hands together and turns back to the nearly-featureless face on the wall. “Did you hear that, Princess Bubblegum? You can come with us. Just…come on down here.”
The smile returns, spreading wide and semicircular again. As the child and the old man watch, the strands of pink gum shiver and contract and coalesce, creeping down the building like a vine growing in reverse. It pulls in streamers and reclaims clumps until, at long last…
Simon blinks. “It’s a wad,” he echoes.
Marceline crouches next to the lump, which is almost half her height and possessing all the form of a beanbag chair. “Aw, Princess, that’s not right. You need to have legs! And arms! Otherwise, how’re you gonna do anything?”
The small, hazy eyes are half-closed, though, as if coming this far were exhausting enough. With a last burst of energy, a tendril extends and scrapes loopily through the snow.
The half-demon cocks her head to the side. “Sugar?” she reads, and she sends a questioning glance to her adopted parent.
Simon scratches his whiskery chin. “Makes enough sense,” he muses. “Not only are simple carbohydrates the core ingredients in most metabolisms, given the fact that she’s composed of gum, it might also serve some secondary, structural purpose.”
Marceline’s brows pinch together. “…What?”
“She can’t form a body without sugar,” he explains, and he sighs again, more heavily this time. “But to get sugar, we’ll have to venture even further into the city.”
His small companion, though, falls on her knees and hugs the pink blob. “Aw, c’mon, Simon, we have to! It’d be great to have a friend!”
He blanches. “Aren’t I your friend?”
She considers this. “Well, yeah, but…you’re kinda like a dad, Simon. I meant a friend who’d be another kid. And then you’d have another kid, and we’d…” She falters, her chin trembling, and tears bead up in her eyes. They slip down her cheeks in crystalline trails and drip, soundless, onto the mound of gum, which looks up at her sympathetically. “We’d be like a family.”
Simon stares at her for a long time, the crown heavy on his belt. One day, he knows, the power of it will pull him beneath its gilded surface and he’ll drown in its depths; one day, he won’t be able to be there for Marceline, to protect or provide or simply accompany. When that day comes, he would dearly like to guarantee that she won’t be alone, even if all she has left is a princess made of bubblegum.
Walking over to her through the snow, he braces an arm around her small shoulders and presses a kiss into her night-black hair. “We are a family,” he gently corrects her, and he empties his pack onto the ground. “Here, take Hambo,” he says, passing over the teddy bear. “I think our new friend here will fit inside. That way, we can carry her to the sugar and still able to run away if we have to.”
Marceline scrubs the tears off her cheeks and grins, sharp-toothed and riotously happy, and she squeezes Hambo so hard in her arms that his seams threaten to burst. “Thanks, Simon! You’re the best!”
He chuckles, a little embarrassed, but shimmies the empty pack over the pink blob and hefts the whole thing onto his shoulders. “You still need to eat your soup,” he reminds her.
“Oh, right!”
.
It doesn’t take them long to find sugar; the stuff is apparently more plentiful than chicken soup, or perhaps horrible slime monsters prefer more complex offerings. Either way, they find torn-open, paper-wrapped pounds of it spread about the shelves like snow in the first grocery they check. After exchanging a glance and a shrug, Simon sets his pack down and opens the flap while Marceline gathers handfuls of the sweet crystals and dumps them over the bubblegum blob.
Some of the grit sinks in, but most of it just spills over the top and sits there, delicious dandruff.
“Um…” Marceline bends over the bag, head tilting to one side, lips pulling to the other. “Are we supposed to do something, Princess…?”
But the bubblegum begins writhing, kneading the sugar into its own flesh, and the half-demon stumbles backwards. Simon catches her under the arms and pulls her a safe distance away, and both of them look on in wary interest as the pack begins to jostle this way and that as the gum surges about inside it. The motions are so violent, though, that the flap flops shut, and neither the man nor the child can quite summon the courage to approach closely enough to tip it open again.
At length, the shaking stills, and Marceline gets her weight back on her feet and creeps closer. There is movement again, but it is now sluggish and slow. The half-demon reaches out and pulls aside the flap…and looks down into a face that is no longer so featureless, into eyes that are no longer so small and dark and a smile that isn’t a perfect semicircle.
It’s better, though. It’s practically human.
Violet lashes blink across lavender eyes, and teeth as white and square as sugar cubes shine in her smile. Her skin is pale, barely pink at all, but it absorbed the majority of the sugar and so faded out. Her hair retains its obnoxious shade and almost all its stickiness, too, falling in globs instead of strands around her small, round-cheeked face.
“Whoa! You’re like alive and stuff!” Marceline exclaims, grinning another razor-edged smile.
The gum-girl bobs her head. With the help of the half-demon’s hand, she unfolds herself from the pack, standing strong and steady on her new legs. “Bonnibel,” she says in a voice that’s light and sweet.
Marceline quirks a dark eyebrow. “Eh, what?”
“My name,” she clarifies, and she touches a hand to her breast and bows. “I’m Bonnibel.”
The other girl chortles. “Not Princess Bubblegum?”
Bonnibel tucks her chin to her chest in a posture of deep thought. “No,” she says at last, “but I suppose I could be, if you want.”
“Nah,” Marceline dismisses, “I like Bonnibel. I’m Marceline, and this is Simon,” she says, taking in her other friend with a wave.
“Yes, I heard,” the gum-girl confirms, and she offers a bow to the old man as well. “Thank you for coming along to save me.”
Simon arches a doubtful eyebrow. “We hardly saved you,” he says. “You pulled yourself down off that wall without any help from us.”
“Yes, but I had nowhere to go before,” Bonnibel explains. “I had no reason to leave the wall for years, and no sugar to grant me form. You see, I got blown there during the final bombings.” She stretches her fingers into stars and adds for emphasis, “Splat.”
“Gross,” Marceline remarks with a smirk, fangs just jutting into her lower lip.
Bonnibel nods solemnly. “Gross, indeed,” she confirms, and then she smiles again, sugar-bright. “But then you two came into my alley, and spoke of friendship and family, and I…had almost forgotten about such things. I’ve been so lonely.”
The half-demon boldly grasps one of her hands and extends her other to Simon, who completes the chain. “Well, you’re not alone anymore, Bonnibel!” she declares, her smirk widening into an almost perfect semicircle of a grin.
“No,” she agrees, “I’m not.”
.
.
(i’ll be the watcher of the eternal flame
i’ll be the guard dog of all your fever dreams)
.
Slouched next to the campfire with her crossed arms balanced on her knees, Marceline stares through the flickering yellow flames at the sprawled figure of Simon. He’s deep asleep, his crown hugged possessively to his chest, as if he fears someone will take it from him—and his fear is well founded, as Marceline has attempted exactly that over the years but has always been met with failure. Now she doesn’t really try, because afterwards, Simon always seemed more enraptured by the power than before. She doesn’t want to be the one that pushes him over the edge.
She couldn’t catch him if he fell. It’s not like she can fly.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
The half-demon glances sidelong at Bonnibel, who’s peering at her from the depths of her own sleeping bag. Lavender eyes flash orange in the firelight. “What thing?” Marceline prompts, scratching idly at one pointed ear.
Now laughter flashes, too. “Trying to think.”
“Har har,” Marceline tosses back with just a smidgeon of acid. “You’re hilarious, Bonni. Go back to sleep already before I bop you one.”
But the gum-girl disregards that warning and sits up, smoothing out the rumples in her sleeping bag. “Really, though,” she presses, “what’re you thinking about? You’re so intense, you look like you’re gonna blow a blood vessel.”
Exhaling through her nose, Marceline leans back against the half-rotten log behind her and gazes up at the stars scattered—like sugar, like snowflakes—across the velvety black expanse of sky, their light poorly hidden by the leafless branches of the surrounding forest trees. She fails to respond, although a muscle works in her jaw, pulsing like her heartbeat.
Bonnibel waits half a minute more before surrendering—but not in the way Marceline would have expected. Instead of rolling over and punching another ticket to dreamland, she wriggles out of her sleeping bag entirely and reclines at her friend’s side. They’re the same height, the half-demon idly observes: their arms, their legs are the same length, too. But these facts don’t really surprise Marceline, and she’s always secretly appreciated the unspoken explanation. After all, Bonnibel doesn’t have any rules about growing up—the girl’s made out of gum, for glob’s sake. She could skip straight to adulthood if she wanted to, if she packed on enough sugar.
But she’s always been very careful about how quickly she ages.
She’s always been the same height as Marceline.
Their shoulders brush, and the half-demon sighs once more, blustery this time. “He’s calling you Princess Bubblegum again.”
The other girl hums, an unconcerned confirmation. “It’s a little creepy,” she concedes, “but he’s harmless. It’s nothing to keep you up at night.”
Marceline’s lips twist in a grimace, one fang poking free. “It’s not the creep-factor I’m worried about. I mean, I don’t want him creeping on you, ’cause that’s mega-nasty, but…” She trails off, her expression creasing further, and she pulls her legs closer to her chest, locks her arms more tightly around them. She’s fairly bristling with angles, like a defensive star. “But he hasn’t called you that in seven years, Bonni.”
Eyes dimming, Bonnibel, too, stares across the fire.
“I think he’s forgotten,” the half-demon concludes in the most regretful whisper. “And not that he’s forgotten that it’s not your name or whatever. I think he’s forgotten the last seven years altogether.”
She tucks her chin in. “And he’s calling you Marceline,” she adds slowly as the realization occurs to her.
“Exactly,” she agrees, even less than a whisper now. “He’s never called me by my full name. I introduced myself with it, of course, but…he never used it. I’ve always been Marcy.” She tries to swallow, but her throat’s too thick, and the knot of emotion serves to slowly strangle her.
Until Bonnibel rests a hand on her shoulder, that is; then she can breathe easier. She takes in several gulps of the cool night air, willing its chill to calm the hammering of her heart, and she shakes her head in a terribly lost motion, black hair rustling in a waist-length curtain. “What’re we supposed to do, Bonni? It’s the crown, I know it’s the lumping crown, but…I don’t think I can save him from it. I mean, what am I? I’m a scrawny teenaged half-demon, not a hero. And it’s taken him already. There’s nothing I can do.”
Pink fingers tighten in reassurance. “Perhaps not,” she admits, low and gentle. “But he’s not a lost cause yet.”
“So, what?” Marceline rasps, half-sneering and hating the tears that burn in the corners of her eyes. “We’ll sit around, twiddling our thumbs, until he becomes one?” She shoves the other girl’s hand from her shoulder, not caring that such a forceful motion almost causes the threadbare fabric of her t-shirt to tear. “That won’t solve anything!”
Bonnibel studies her in the shivering firelight, her expression inscrutable, her eyes dark and distant. “Not every problem has a solution,” she says at length. “Some equations are broken from the beginning.”
“Simon’s not an equation,” Marceline snarls, fangs gleaming gold, knuckles bleaching white. “He’s a person.”
A wrinkle appears in her brow. “I know that.”
“Do you?” the half-demon snaps, and she unfolds her gangly limbs to stand, stiff and shaking, above her friend. “’Cause it sure as hell doesn’t sound like it! It sounds like you’re ready to write him off, like one of your stupid experiments when they go wrong!”
Bonnibel’s lips seal in a thin line, but whatever she intends to say is never heard: across the fire, Simon stirs lethargically and half-opens one swirling, ice-blue eye. “Hrm, Marcy? Is that you? Are you alright?”
Marceline slackens like a sail that’s lost the wind, flapping loose against the mast of her spine. “Yeah, I’m—I’m fine,” she croaks, and her voice splinters into shards. “G-Go back to sleep, old man. Glob, you’re such a pain.”
“Hmph! You’re no cakewalk yourself, kid,” he mutters, and his white-lashed eyelid drops shut again, sweeping the snowy madness out of sight.
Marceline stands there and trembles, tears sliding slickly down her pale gray cheeks, until Bonnibel breathes a soft sigh and wipes them away. The droplets soak into her sugary skin, melting shallow depressions, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “We won’t leave him,” she declares, fingers lingering on the slanting planes of the half-demon’s face.
She snorts, but there’s no humor in the sound. “He’ll leave us,” she points out, cracking and hollow.
“Yes, one day, he will,” Bonnibel murmurs. “But we’ll stay until he does. It’ll be his decision.”
The skin strains around Marceline’s eyes and mouth, and she corrects darkly, “It’ll be the crown’s decision.”
There is nothing Bonnibel can say to that, so she says nothing.
.
It takes three more months, and Simon, lost in the depravity of his magic, is no longer so harmless. A horrified Marceline has to tackle him off Bonnibel, yelling and grabbing fistfuls of his beard and his coat, and even then, she can’t hold him down unaided. He’s old, true, but the crown grants him terrible power, and she’s just a scrawny teenaged half-demon, not a hero.
In the end, Bonnibel whacks him in the head with a stick. Even though that knocks off his crown, both girls know that doesn’t make a difference anymore: the crown is in his soul, its madness buried deep where they can’t dredge it out. So she hits him again and again until he’s exiled to unconscious realms, but she has more trouble extricating Marceline, who’s sobbing into his chest, all regret and apology and anger.
Mutilated by the magic, he has betrayed her loyalty and her love, and that knife sinks up to the hilt in her heart and twists and twists and twists.
Bonnibel manages to untangle the other girl’s fingers and drag her away; Marceline is incoherent in her grief, and she lacks the clarity to walk or stand. So after a dozen paces, Bonnibel lets her friend sag against her and cry a divot into her shoulder.
Before they flee, Marceline throws the hated crown as far as she can, heaving it somewhere into the dark trees. It won’t help him now—he’ll always, always find it, chained as he is to its irresistible anchor—but it makes her feel a little better.
It makes her feel like she tried.
(sometimes the only pay-off for having any faith
is when it’s tested again and again everyday)
.
Three years pass, three years without Simon—but not without snow, no. They crossed some mountains, and there was a trio of winters to contend with, but this snow melts, and it doesn’t taste like insanity. Three years in which Bonnibel carefully adds seemingly inconsequential amounts of sugar to her own frame, because after three more years, Marceline isn’t quite as scrawny anymore. She’s still a riff on the theme of angles, pointed ears and teeth and nose and sharp triangles of collar- and cheek- and hipbones, but there’s a softness now that wasn’t there before, even considering their meager diets, their constant travel.
Bonnibel’s taken note of these changes, but she has to, she tells herself, because she has to augment her own body to match. They’ve grown up at the same rate, and they’ll continue to do so. She’s not noticing anything because shewants to, oh, glob, no.
She doesn’t admire Marceline’s hair when it shines iridescent like a raven’s wing in the moonlight. She doesn’t stare when Marceline’s movements are languid and lithe, smoothed by a grace that Bonnibel can’t quite replicate, despite having almost exactly the same proportioned limbs. She certainly doesn’t wonder what it’d be like to twine her fingers through Marceline’s, and not for comfort or for support or simply not to lose one another on foggier days but just because she can.
She doesn’t think about any of these things, ever.
Never, ever.
“Kssh. Earth to Bonnibel. Come in, Bonnibel. Over. Kssh.” And knuckles rap on her sugarcane skull.
“Ow!” the gum-girl protests, and she swats peevishly at her friend’s arm. Snickering, Marceline retracts her hand and plops down beside her in her usual effortless lounge. “You’re back already?”
“Yup,” the half-demon replies, tilting her head back to ease the kinks from her neck. Bonnibel resolutely does not trace her eyes up the slender curve of her throat. “No sign of any nasty monsters anywhere around our campsite—hooray.” She raises a loose fist in a parody of triumph, and she tips her head forward again, opening one dark eye to peer at her friend. “Good thing, too, ’cause you woulda been dessert. How lost in thought were you, eh? Forget to bring a map when you wandered into that big ol’ brain of yours?”
“Shut up, Marcy,” Bonnibel grouses, and she sniffs importantly. “Maybe I was concocting marvelous plans about how to fix the entire world, and now you’ve gone and interrupted me, and everyone will suffer. Way to go.”
But the other girl shrugs, an easy ripple of thin shoulders. “Well,” she concedes, “I am the daughter of Evil Incarnate. If I didn’t ruin the world’s chance for, um, a second chance, then I’d hardly be living up to the family expectations.”
She squints sidelong at her friend. “Yeah…what’s up with that?” she asks. “Like, how evil are you?”
“Pretty evil,” Marceline quips, forked tongue flicking out from between her sharp, sharp teeth. “But seriously, I don’t even know. Glob, I haven’t even been in the Nightosphere since I was way young; I don’t remember much, ’cept for like fire and brimstone and junk. Mom thought I’d grow up better in the human world, but I guess she wasn’t expecting the Mushroom Wars. ’Course, for all I know, Dad orchestrated the whole thing. Seems kinda like his style…more souls to munch and all. Whatever, though, right? I mean, if I am the harbinger of the Apocalypse or somethin’, then mission accomplished ’cause, wow, did the Apocalypse happen hardcore. Go me, I guess.” And she raises another fist, this one much more sarcastic, into the air and gives it a half-hearted pump.
Bonnibel absorbs this with the impartiality of a true scientist, and as such, she goes on to wonder, “Do you have any abilities? Outside of the physical characteristics, you don’t seem particularly demonic.”
Marceline shifts her weight, getting more comfortable against the pillows of their packs braced against the sheer cliff wall. “Who made you drink curious juice, Bon?” she asks in a lazy drawl, her eyes slipping shut, as if she intends to take a nap, conversations be damned.
The gum-girl tries not to take offense at this. “I just realized that we always talk about the present, that’s all. Where we are, where we’ll be going tomorrow, what’s for dinner. Nothing consequential, really. Nothing about…before.”
The atmosphere crystallizes, ever so slightly. Before means before Simon, and that just dredges up his frozen ghost. Marceline suddenly seems to have more edges than usual, but then, just as suddenly, she relaxes. “Oh, is that all?” she says, her tone determinedly light. “Well, dang, you shoulda just said. I think I’ve got some latent magical talent that I’ve never really messed with. Like I’m pretty sure I can open a portal to the Nightosphere whenever the plop I want, but really, who wants to do that? And I’m immortal, just like the old man.”
Bonnibel lifts her eyebrows, impressed. “You’re deathless?”
“I’m…something?” Marceline hedges, her brow furrowing, and she stares inquisitively off into the night. Storm clouds are brewing in the west; she can smell the change in the air from here, and she vaguely concedes that they’ll need to set up the tent soon. “I mean, I’m aging, right? I don’t know if I’ll stop at some point or what. I’m only half-demon, after all. I think I’ll live forever, though; it’s a surety I’ve got in my bones. But, like…I also think I could die,” she adds, more quietly. “That’s in my bones, too.”
“I don’t want you to die,” Bonnibel blurts before she can think better of it.
The other girl tips her a wink, and Bonnibel’s glad the darkness hides her blush. “Aw, shucks. I knew you were sweet, but now you’re just giving me cavities. Lemme just dig out my toothbrush and—”
“Shut up,” she grumbles once again, and she pulls her knees in to her chest and sulks with her chin on their knobby curves.
Marceline sniggers. “Geez, I didn’t know you were so sensitive. Guess you’re not hard candy.”
Bonnibel throws her a flinty glare. “I do have feelings, you know.”
The half-demon rolls her head back again and flaps an unconcerned hand. “’Course ya do, babe. There’s bound to be more than just sugar in your veins.” She frowns but doesn’t straighten up to ask, “Now how does that work, eh? How do you function? I’m not the only mysterious person in our intrepid little duo.”
“I function on the same principles as everyone else,” Bonnibel says, adding conscientiously, “at least, everyone else who exists in a corporeal fashion. The only difference between us is that I’m carbohydrate-based and you’re protein-based.”
“English, Bonni.”
The gum-girl sighs. “I’m made out of sugar and you’re made out of meat.”
“Well, geez, you could’ve just said,” Marceline says with hint of annoyance that smoothes into a luxurious shrug. “Whatevs. That’s all I’ve got. I’m tappin’ out.”
Bonnibel stalls for a long time, trying to organize her thoughts, and they’ve never been so hard to file before. As of late, though, she finds that as much as she prizes her intelligence, she’s liable to be receiving awards for idiocy if she remains in the unsettling grasp of this strange emotion whilst in Marceline’s presence. But even with the threat of embarrassment, she can’t find it within her heart to want to leave—just the opposite, in fact.
She’ll do anything to stay.
Awkwardly, she clears her throat. “Marcy,” she ventures, soft, “do demons…have feelings?”
“Just went over this,” her friend drawls, twirling one finger in a circle for emphasis.
“No, I meant like…” Her throat closes up and chokes off the words, and only with determined prying can she open the pathway again. “Like, y’know…feelings.”
Marceline blinks up at the faraway stars and watches for a few beats as more and more of them are covered by the incoming clouds. “Like feeling-feelings? Like love and crap?”
Love and crap, Bonnibel echoes internally. Oh, glob. What do I see in this girl. “Yes,” she confirms aloud. “Like love.”
“’Course,” the half-demon replies, settling more deeply into her comfortable slump, lashes like crow’s wings feathering on her cheeks. “I loved Simon. I loved my mom. I…think I love my dad? Ish? That one’s hard to say; I don’t remember the dude. I’ll have to pop into the Nightosphere one of these days and have a big ol’ family reunion.” She shrugs again, clearly done talking.
Bonnibel’s more than certain that her candy heart is going to crack in half. “And…no one else?”
Marceline furrows her brow and stares, once more, straight up at the sky. “Have I met anyone else?” she wonders, sounding genuinely confused.
The gum-girl reaches over and taps her fist into her friend’s forehead, exactly as Marceline herself had done when she arrived at the campsite. “Hello, you dingus! Me! What about me!”
The half-demon shifts her gaze down and across until charcoal irises meet lavender ones. “What about you?” she protests, bewildered.
Bonnibel resists the urge to throttle her, or perhaps just to burst into mortified flames. “Argh! Do you love me?” she all but yells. The words echo off the cliffs, mockingly hollow.
And Marceline explodes laughing. “Whoa, calm down, Bonni! Of course I love you,” she says, still chortling, her arms wrapped around her ribs: “You’re my best friend! Glob, what a dumb question.”
A strange, curious ache sets in the back of Bonnibel’s jaw, like she’s eaten too much sugar—except she can never eat too much sugar, and this ache goes deeper, far deeper, right down to the molasses in her marrow. She turns aside stiffly, and it will rain soon; she can smell it too, the promise of moisture, the pressure of the surly atmosphere. They need to set up the tent. She needs to stay out of the wet, lest she start to melt.
But she gets to her feet, instead. “I’m going for a walk,” she says, her voice small.
The humor hitches in her friend’s smile, warping it into something closer to a frown. “Er…okay?”
Bonnibel doesn’t reply. As she wanders off into the darkness, she vows never to ask Marceline that again.
Never, ever.
.
It starts to rain, and Marceline curses, fumbling through their packs for coats, blankets—anything that will pass as a makeshift umbrella. “Stupid sugarbrain knows she’s gonna melt but goes for a freaking joyride anyway,” she mutters under her breath as she irritably knots a jacket around her waist. She slips a second one on properly, hiking its collar up against the rain even though her hair provides more of a barrier than the stiff material can really hope to match. “Stupid lumping sugarbrain…”
She crawls out of the tent, and the steady plunking of rain on canvas is replaced with the rather more intimate plunking of rain on her face; the droplets are fat and heavy, each one bursting like a ripe berry as they strike her skin. Marceline scowls and retreats momentarily into the tent, snatching up a well-worn baseball cap and screwing it onto her head, and the pressure of it makes her ears stick out even more, appearing almost wing-like at a glance. The cap’s bill shelters her face from the deluge, though, and grants her a modicum of comfort, so she sets out again, still grumbling but no longer quite so miserable.
The cliff road is dark and wet and treacherous, and only intermittent lightning flashes illuminate its tortuous length. Once upon a time, Marceline recalls, she and Simon had flashlights, but the batteries succumbed to time and use and went to rest with everything else antebellum, and they never did manage to find replacements. Marceline retains the flashlight, though, empty and useless as it is; it’s stowed in the bottom of her pack, as if it will still keep her from getting lost in the dark.
It doesn’t help her now, and not just because she didn’t bring it along, and she slips more than once on the slippery rocks, the broken asphalt of the long-forgotten mountain pass. Rusting guardrails flare and shine in the lightning’s evanescent electric glow, but there’s no sign of Bonnibel, not even a trail of half-melted sugary footprints, which Marceline has been hoping she’d find. Eventually, after a quarter hour of determined trekking, the half-demon discovers that the road winds back into the mountains, and along the path of least resistance, too—or the path of greatest resistance, if you’re a pessimist—because it carves a tunnel into the rock face. Its far end is a distant gray smudge, and its arched length is opaque and black.
Marceline has no time to appreciate the brief respite from the rain; her breath hisses in past her fangs, instead, when she realizes what’s lying on the ground just inside the tunnel.
It’s a leg, still oozing sugary blood, molasses-slow.
“Bonni?” she yells, and its first iteration is a shriek, scraping up the octaves in her throat via the train of sheer panic. She grapples for control after that and manages to shout, rather more audibly over the raging storm, “Bonni! You in here? You alive? You better freakin’ answer me!”
A weak reply reaches her pricked ears, small and shrill with fear. “No! Marcy, get out of here! Go away!”
Relief washes over Marceline like a tsunami wave, and it almost topples her, too. She hangs onto her balance with grim determination, and after a wavering moment of pure nausea, she gingerly lifts the severed leg—it’s surprisingly heavy, for being made of sugar. Biting back against the acid that rises unstoppably in her throat, she ventures into the tunnel.
“Don’t be a total moron, dude,” she says, loud and carrying, although the cheerfulness falls terribly flat. “Who d’ya think you are, the lumping gingerbread man? You can’t just go around lopping off your limbs and think you’ll be fine.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Bonnibel’s voice possesses more of an edge now, its timbre buzzing like a saw. “Get outta here!”
Marceline homes in on the sound, stumbling in her haste and the inky darkness, and she can barely distinguish the shadow of her friend from the shadow of everything else. “Here you are,” she declares, and she crouches down, willing the enveloping blackness to recede so that she can investigate the gum-girl’s terrible injury. “I’ve, er, got your leg…I’ll just set it down, shall I? Like right next to whatever stump you’ve got left, yeah?”
Bonnibel recoils in the thick gloom, though, her shoulder blades endeavoring to burrow through the stone wall behind her. “Glob, Marcy, I don’t care about my leg!”
“Now that’s just blood loss talking,” the half-demon dismisses. She scootches closer again, still wielding the leg like a determined carpenter wrestling with a broken chair. “Can I borrow some of your hair, maybe? I think I can, like, glue it back on, kinda, with the gum…”
“Stop it! You don’t understand! Why aren’t you listening to me?” Bonnibel reaches out, and at first she twists her fingers in Marceline’s jacket’s sleeves, as if she wants to keep her here, but then she uses her grip to propel her friend backwards, instead. “It’s still here! It’ll attack you next—”
But Bonnibel’s warning is truncated as Marceline slams into her, and that only happens because something, in fact, slammed into Marceline. The girls’ foreheads knock together sharply, dizzyingly, and with a discombobulated groan, the half-demon braces her hands on the tunnel wall and tries to lever herself back up. The weight on her back, though, is so heavy, and somehow, it’s getting heavier…
“What the hell?” she grunts, and this close, she can read Bonnibel’s expression: utter terror. The same fear lances through her willowy frame as a voice—low and guttural and riding cold, rancid breath—purrs in her ear.
“Ahhh, you smell good,” the vampire says, slow with relish, and something that feels very much like a tongue slides slickly up Marceline’s neck. “Like real blood, not that syrupy crap…”
The half-demon only has time to gasp, “Oh, shit—” before the vampire’s fangs pierce the delicate skin on her neck and delve into the mineral-rich seam of her carotid artery. Agony like no pain she has ever felt before rushes through her veins: a wildfire or chain-lightning or anything that moves too fast to be predicted or blocked. It burns, it burns, and then, once her entire body is screaming itself hoarse, the pain switches direction, running against the grain of its own just-inflicted wounds as the suction starts.
She can feel like the life draining out of her, but she can’t stop it.
Bonnibel tries. Not paralyzed by the vampire’s poison herself, she drives her fist into the monster’s head with as much power as she can manage, howling rage at him all the while. Her pummeling, though, achieves no victory, and helpless saccharine tears flood her cheeks.
Marceline’s heart stops, a sudden arrest that leaves it hanging hollow behind her ribs, and it never starts again. The last thing she sees before the world fades into inescapable shadow is Bonnibel’s horrified face, her eyes wide, their lavender irises washed gray in the darkness.
And then she doesn’t see anything.
The vampire, swollen with blood like some disgusting, engorged spider, finally plucks his fangs from Marceline’s neck and tosses her body aside with all the care and ease of a child discarding a rag doll. Another scream catches in the traffic jam in Bonnibel’s throat, and she stares through the blurring screen of her tears at her friend’s corpse sprawled gracelessly on the cracked asphalt, just a shadow within a shadow.
“Mmm, delicious,” the vampire says, his voice thick and lush like velvet now. “So much more satisfying than you, my candy princess. Your red was so watery, and your blood…mm, it was not very pleasing. Not nearly enough salt, no.” He runs his tongue, stained with Marceline’s ichor, over his icicle fangs, and his eyelids flutter at the pleasure of the taste.
A thousand desires flood Bonnibel, principal amongst them the driving need to rip out the vampire’s throat, but before she can rush to any foolish action, a dry laugh rasps in the air. It’s a quiet sound, and she’s surprised she can hear it over the continual rumble of thunder and shudder of rain. Her own heart stills in her chest when a very familiar voice reaches her ears.
“Haha, oh, wow…did you think I’d take death lying down?”
Bonnibel’s gaze flickers aside, and yes, Marceline’s body is stirring, awkward like a marionette that’s had its strings cut and needs to learn to stand on its own. Her hair sweeps across her face in a black curtain, but the strands slip aside to reveal her eyes, gleaming red, the dark red of sullen embers in a banked fire. Her lips pull back in a terrible grin, and the once-even serration of her teeth is interrupted now by the sharper points of prominent canines.
The vampire beast still squatting in front of Bonnibel stares at her, his jaw slipping open in wordless shock. With dint of great determination, though, he manages to speak. “I didn’t want to turn you!” he all but squawks. “I wanted to kill you! I—I did kill you!”
“I’m the daughter of Evil Incarnate,” Marceline lets him know, as she had let Bonnibel know. She stretches her arms wide like she’s expecting applause. “You can’t kill me.”
She lunges then, faster than Bonnibel’s eyes can follow in this gloom, and snarls her fingers in the bat-like fur rising up all over the vampire beast’s body. She pivots on one foot and, with unprecedented strength, throws the monstrous form across the tunnel, where he slams into the far wall and groans pathetically.
The gum-girl stares up at her friend for a fracturing instant. “Marcy?” she whispers.
Marceline glances over her shoulder, and something in her face softens; some of the fire in her eyes dims. “This must be how Simon felt,” she remarks, quiet and bitter and with half her mouth still cranked in a parody of a smirk. “Calmly accepting a curse just to protect a friend. Yeah. I think I understand now.”
Her heart wrenches in her chest. “You…you came back like this…for me?” she croaks.
“Don’t be an idiot, Bon,” she replies, the insult curling fondly off her tongue, and her smile straightens out. “You already know I love you. Glob, you only just made me say it. So what did you expect? That I’d leave you here with this lumping freak to die? Geez.” And she shakes her head. “You’ve got like the worst opinion of me, babe.”
Her heart just writhes further. “Marcy,” she echoes, plaintive and pleading—although for what, she doesn’t exactly know.
“Sit tight, not that you have much choice,” Marceline quips, and she jerks a thumb at the beast, who’s stirring again. “I’ve got a vampire to slay.”
It’s hard to discern much in the darkness, but Bonnibel can see that, for being new to the vampiric lifestyle—deathstyle? Unlifestyle? She’ll have to work on that—Marceline manages to steal and keep the upper hand. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that the other vampire seeks strength in its huge monstrous form, which might have been more of an advantage if the tunnel weren’t so cramped. Marceline, by comparison, flits about easily, dodging and landing quick strikes, and Bonnibel is certain that it’s not just a trick of the dark—she’s certain that Marceline’s flying.
The male vampire’s roars suddenly cut short as the female dives in for the kill; humans might need to kill vampires with elaborate methods, all garlic and sunlight and wooden stakes in unbeating hearts, but amongst their own species, brutal violence suffices. Bonnibel closes her eyes, because even the storm-dark is not enough of a shield against the carnage, and she presses her fingers into her ears, too, so she doesn’t have to hear the cold flesh tearing free of ancient bones.
She only knows it’s over, then, when Marceline is gently pulling her hands down, and she blinks up at her friend. Smoldering eyes gaze back at her, level and searching, and the new vampire must feel her arms trembling beneath her grasp, as she sighs and lets go.
“Oh, Bon,” she breathes sadly, “you’re scared of me, aren’t you.”
She doesn’t pose it as a question, already resigned to the answer.
“No, I’m not,” Bonnibel protests, not admitting that she’s more than a little disconcerted by the change. It’s a lot to process, but she’s a scientist by nature, and she approaches all things with as much clinical detachment as she can muster, and she scrambles for its objective comfort now. Marceline being a vampire just means there’s a fresh set of variables to consider in the never-ending experiment of their lives. Nothing more, nothing less.
“My leg’s torn off,” she points out, as if that’s a detail inconsequential enough to be forgotten. “I think the blood loss is having some ill effects on my constitution, that’s all.”
Marceline crouches down, her vision now augmented by the inclusion of infrared, and reviews the wound. “Yeah, it’s not pretty,” she remarks, her tone still a bit brittle around the edges. “I think my gum-glue idea is gonna work, though. It should keep things from getting worse, at least, while I nip back to camp and borrow a cup of a sugar, heh.”
Bonnibel tugs a clump from her hair and hands the sticky wad over. The new vampire accepts it without really looking, and after swiveling the severed limb so that it’s lined up with the stump, she smacks it down haphazardly. “Um, there?” she ventures, tilting her head to the side without much confidence.
The other girl laughs, thin and light. “I’ll seal it better while you head back to camp. Don’t worry about it.”
Marceline grimaces doubtfully, and she rocks back on her heels, not yet departing. The sullen embers in her eyes are shadowed by her lashes as she stares down at the ground. “I’m…not gonna end up like Simon,” she whispers at length. “I know being a vampire comes with a whole ton of baggage, but I won’t let the bloodlust drive me mad or anything. I won’t go nuts.” Her eyes flicker up. “I won’t hurt you.”
There’s supplication in her tone. It’s raw, so raw.
Brow pinching in sympathy, Bonnibel reaches out and brushes her fingertips across Marceline’s cheek; the pale gray flesh is cool now, no longer suffused with the warmth of living tissue. It’s more than enough to bring tears to her eyes, but she determinedly holds them at bay. “I know,” she says, soft, and she taps a finger to one of the new fangs. “Besides, I have it on good assurance that I don’t taste good to vampires.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” Marceline remarks impishly. She sticks out her tongue, just to taunt, not to taste, but it’s a fine line.
Despite the blush heating her own cheeks, Bonnibel rolls her eyes. “Glob, gross, Marcy.”
The vampire chuckles and gets to her feet—or not, because she hovers above the crumbling asphalt—and this newfound ability gives her pause. After a second of deliberation, she shrugs out of her jacket, draping it over her friend, and then scoops the gum-girl effortlessly into her arms.
“Wh-What are you doing?” Bonnibel yelps, the blush returning full-force.
“Dude, I can fly,” Marceline says with a shrug, and she unties the second jacket from her waist and arranges it on the other girl’s legs. For a moment, then, she’s just holding Bonnibel with one arm, and not apparently taxed in the slightest. “It’s super radical. And, like, I can get us back to camp and to all the sugar your little candy heart desires in no time flat. Maybe it’ll be the greatest thing ever, me being a vampire, eh?”
The optimism rings false, but she’s trying, and hard.
After a second’s hesitation, Bonnibel lowers her head to Marceline’s collar, and as she shuts her eyes, she catches herself listening for a heartbeat. Her friend’s chest is silent, though, and she twists her fingers in the vampire’s shirt over the spot where the sound should’ve been. “I know it’s a curse, and I know it won’t be easy for you,” she murmurs, throat thick, “but I’m really lumping glad you’re still here.”
Marceline’s fingers flex. “Yeah,” she agrees, “me, too.”
“We’ll be fine,” Bonnibel adds. “We’ll…we’ll both be just fine.”
Something like a laugh escapes the vampire as she floats out into the rain. “Oh? Is that what your science tells you? Is that a fact?” There’s no real venom in her voice, though—just more bitterness.
“No,” Bonnibel admits, the softest yet. “It’s just faith. I believe in you. In…us.”
Her lips tilt, and it might be a smile, though it’s hard to tell for sure.
(live with me forever now
pull the black-out curtains down)
.
Summer steals across the ravaged world, bringing warmer winds and longer days, the latter of which only yields complications for Marceline. She discovers early on—with drastic results—that vampires don’t appreciate sunlight, and Bonnibel has to bodily shield her from the burning rays while she digs through her pack with blistered hands in a desperate search for appropriate articles of clothing. But layering up isn’t so bad, because she doesn’t really have a body temperature anymore, and like a lizard, any amount of warmth she absorbs is almost instantly dispelled. It’s strange, and it takes some getting used to, but by the time they achieve the western side of the mountains, slapping on a hat and gloves in eighty-degree weather is second nature.
They could’ve simply begun traveling nocturnally, but Bonnibel has the worst eyesight in the dark—her fructose-filled diet isn’t exactly bursting with vitamin A—and they’ve yet to come across a handy pair of night-vision goggles in any of the abandoned cities they encounter. They do find an unbroken pair of sunglasses, which Marceline dons with a serrated grin and a tip of her hat, and in the end, she doesn’t really mind the sun.
Its indirect warmth almost makes her feel alive again.
She’s aware that Bonnibel’s kept a close eye on her ever since her transformation, but it’s tactfully done, and Marceline knows she means well. Cataloguing her strengths and weaknesses might prove useful down the road, and it would be outside of the gum-girl’s nature to ignore the chance to study something. For example, it’s Bonnibel who discovers that Marceline can simply subsist on the color red, not blood itself, and the vampire believes for a little while that she won’t have to be a monster at all.
But the color is thin and lacking compared to the fluid, and it doesn’t sustain her half as well. She hunted for food long before she turned into a bloodsucker, though, and now she’s the kind of predator that other carnivores can only dream of imitating. Hunting is a breeze, and she no longer has to bother with cooking.
Still, she doesn’t eat—or drink, rather—in front of Bonnibel. She just…doesn’t.
Some things shouldn’t be observed, even by a scientist.
But this new life, or whatever it is of Marceline’s, acquires much the same rhythm as the old. Sometimes, she almost forgets she’s a vampire until she notices that she’s hovering a few inches off the ground on absentminded instinct, or that she has a craving for strawberries that has nothing to do with flavor.
Bonnibel’s still there, though, right there beside her, and that’s all that really matters.
Sometimes, Marceline finds herself holding Bonnibel’s hand, just to preserve the illusion of her own lost body heat in her friend’s warmth.
And sometimes, she finds herself twining their fingers together, just because she can.
.
By autumn, they reach the coast. The ocean stretches out before them, seemingly infinite as it conquers the horizon, and the cities here seem less pillaged—still ruined by the apocalyptic might of the Mushroom Wars, but not as ransacked in the aftermath. They wander down pockmarked and desolate streets, scavenging supplies from shops, until Marceline sees one they’ve never found intact before: a music store.
“Oh, Bonni, we have to check this out!” she exclaims, all giddy enthusiasm, and she tugs on her friend’s arm.
The gum-girl raises her eyebrows, a little surprised by this excitement. Sure, she’s heard Marceline humming nonsense to herself and singing made-up songs to the moon, and sure, maybe she likes listening to her voice more than she really should, but somehow she’s never actually pegged the vampire as a musician.
She allows herself to be pulled into the dark, musty, cobweb-filled interior and glances around at the veritable forest of instruments decorating the walls and littering the floor. “Do you…know how to play any of these?” she asks. Stretching out a curious finger, she plucks the string of a rotting acoustic guitar; it only makes a dull thunk.
“Well, no, not know exactly,” Marceline says. In the shade of the shop, she’s busily stripping off her sun-gear until she’s just left in jeans and a t-shirt, and Bonnibel rolls her eyes inwardly at the latter garment. It’s such an ugly shirt, like the worst thing she’s ever seen, black and branded with some cartoonishly terrifying version of…she’s not quite sure—zombie marshmallows, maybe, spitted for their future as S’mores? But when the vampire found it shortly after her transformation, she was thrilled by the discovery.
Dude, this was like the best band ever, she confided. And this thing’s like in mint condition. Check it! And she tugged it on.
Of course, it fit perfectly. Fate and all that.
With the way Marceline’s floating to and fro now, unable to focus on anything in the grip of her exuberant glee, Bonnibel’s reminded of that day and of the fact that vampire or not, her friend is still reassuringly human. No monster would ever be this overjoyed by music, or a t-shirt.
Marceline’s speaking, though, and her voice drags the gum-girl back to the present with a bump.
“That’s why I’m gonna try every last lumping one until I find one that fits. You don’t mind, do ya, Bon? It’s not like we have anywhere to go, right?” And she glances pleadingly at her friend, fingers laced together in prayer, scarlet eyes full of blood and delight.
Bonnibel shrugs. “Why not? I’ve still got half of that chemistry textbook left.”
“Nerd,” Marceline teases, lips curved in a fond smirk, and she turns eagerly to her task.
The gum-girl opens the tome and invests herself in learning, listening with only half an ear to the vampire’s extremely thorough and often woefully out-of-tune exploration. She gets so lost in the wonders of thermodynamics and equilibrium that she doesn’t even notice when it becomes quiet again. She reads right through to the section’s end, and before she can begin the learning about the properties of gases, it occurs to her that she’s getting hungry, and only that prompts her to look up.
Marceline is reclined cross-legged on the window sill, surrounded by discarded instruments. Her eyes are shut, loosely so as if she’s only half-caught in a dream, and she cradles a red electric bass in her lap, vertically as if it were a cello with its neck extending up past her own. She isn’t really playing anything, just hugging it to her chest and plucking the lowest string over and over and over again, steady as a metronome.
Dunnn. Dunnn. Dunnn.
Quietly, as if she believes she’s witnessing a wizard casting a complex spell—not that she’d have half as much respect for that—Bonnibel approaches, her brow wrinkling in quizzical thought. “Marcy,” she whispers, hesitant to break the almost-silence but needing to satisfy her curiosity, “what’re you doing?”
The vampire doesn’t open her eyes or even reply right away. She just keeps plucking that string. “I want this one,” she finally replies, soft and sure.
Bonnibel considers the instrument politely. She’s picked up a thing or two, so she asks, “Are you certain? I think a regular guitar, as opposed to a bass guitar, would grant you more versatility.”
“No. This one,” Marceline repeats, instantaneous. “The bass…I need the bass. The vibrations of the sound…I can feel ’em in my chest, Bon.” She taps one of the prongs on the top of the guitar’s body, which is resting squarely on her sternum. “I haven’t felt anything in my chest in a long time, not since…” She trails off, her lids rising halfway, but her ember eyes are still shadowed by the lashes. Her voice scrapes, roughshod, in her throat as she concludes, “It’s like a heartbeat. It’s like having a heartbeat again.”
Empathy nearly overwhelms Bonnibel, and she’s forced to swallow before she can speak. “Then you should definitely get that one,” she agrees. “Don’t forget to stock up on extra strings and all. Who knows when we’ll find another place like this.”
“Yeah, good idea,” the vampire murmurs, still playing that lone note.
Bonnibel gazes at her for a long moment, sadness swirling in her lavender eyes. “You seem to be doing well,” she ventures at last. “With the whole vampire business.”
Marceline chuckles, low and dry. “Yeah, I’ve somehow come out on top, haven’t I? I mean, sure, I have to drink blood now, but I had to eat back in the day, and a balanced diet at that—now I don’t ever have to worry about getting scurvy again. Going feral, sure,” she concedes, “but that’s the only problem, and it has an easy solution. Just think of the positives, dude: I can fly, which is beyond mathematical; I’m super strong; I like never get tired; my teeth are even sharper; and I can heal from almost any injury in no time at all. Being allergic to sunlight is hardly worth complaining about.”
As Marceline mentions her healing ability, though, Bonnibel’s gaze is drawn to the two holes pierced in her neck, which still gape as raw as the day they were inflicted. “What about those?” she asks, nodding at her friend’s stigmata. “They’ve never gone away.”
She reaches up gingerly, just brushing across them with her fingertips, and winces. “I don’t think they’re ever going to.”
The gum-girl frowns at her friend’s reaction. “Do they still hurt, too?”
“Nothing awful,” Marceline dismisses in a show of bravado. She lowers her hand and tilts the bass in her lap, holding it now in the more established horizontal position. “I guess that’s a strike against vampirism. Oh, glob, is that three strikes? Then I’m out.” She grins, but it falters, and she turns her head to stare out the window, her gaze getting lost in some middle distance.
Before she knows what she’s doing, Bonnibel’s shifting closer, and her own fingers extend to trace the bloodless holes. Marceline flinches away, but it’s just reflex, and when she understands her friend’s intentions, she relaxes against the window frame once more, tacit permission.
Bonnibel touches the pale skin beside the marks, not wishing to cause the vampire pain, and all she can think is that the flesh is so smooth and that she wants to touch more of it. Her fingers ache with the desire; her cheeks burn with it; but Marceline has her eyes closed again and doesn’t notice. Maybe that’s what gives Bonnibel the courage, or maybe she’s more reckless than she ever believed, because she leans in and ever so carefully presses a kiss to the eternal wound.
Marceline stiffens beneath her touch, a more subtle reaction than her earlier one that is nevertheless infinitely more profound. A breath she habitually inhales catches in her throat.
Bonnibel still has the blood to pound in her ears, and it nearly deafens her as she draws back. “There,” she whispers, barely audible to either of them. “All better.”
The vampire is blushing, and it must be from the blood she consumed earlier, because otherwise the reaction wouldn’t be possible. But it is, it is, and heat and color she thought lost forever flow up her otherwise empty veins to settle in her cheeks.
Embarrassment is understandable, Bonnibel thinks within the haze of her own awkwardness. After all, she did just kiss her friend on the neck—not a place generally associated with platonic gestures. Which it was decidedly not, but if anyone asks, she’ll swear to that lie for all eternity.
Marceline at last musters a response, and it’s caught between a surprised hum and a strangled grunt. Her eyes, wide and even redder than her cheeks, are fixed on the gum-girl in…it’s hard to say. It might simply be shock. But then again, there might be something more than her usual banked fire burning in their depths.
“You can fix things with kisses, right?” Bonnibel remarks with a shaky laugh, several eons too belated to be a legitimate explanation.
Another indistinguishable sound escapes Marceline’s throat, and she blinks a few times in an effort to regain her composure. At length, she manages to unlock her jaw and woodenly reply, “So I’ve heard.”
The gum-girl dips her head, looks aside. “Ah, well, good. I hope it helps.” She makes to move away, but Marceline lashes out, viper-quick, and snags onto her wrist. She stares down at the pale gray fingers wrapped around her own pale pink flesh, as if daring them to disappear. When they don’t, she tentatively returns her gaze to the other girl’s.
Those changeable eyes, locked on hers, draw her in. She wonders briefly if it’s some sort of vampire hypnosis designed to attract prey, but she disregards that notion as ludicrous in the next second. She wanted Marceline long before she became a vampire. It’s a bit moot, as thought processes go.
“You asked me once,” Marceline says slowly, deliberately, “if demons were capable of love.”
“I did,” Bonnibel confirms, her voice little more than a breath. Oh, how she can’t look away.
“I’m not a demon anymore,” Marceline continues. “Bit of a downgrade, really, when it comes to my evil-factor, but…” She trails off, shakes her head. “That’s way beside the point. My point is—”
“—Are vampires capable of love?” Bonnibel finishes for her, the words slipping out as gracelessly as amateur skaters on ice.
The vampire in question studies her for another timeless moment, and the setting sun somewhere outside stains everything in molten orange. And it might just be a reflection, but Bonnibel can swear that the fire in Marceline’s eyes is real, and she can almost swear it’s burning just for her. She shivers at the thought, despite all the heat prickling her skin.
“Yes,” Marceline says, as low and rough as musical sandpaper. She tugs on her friend’s wrist, pulling her closer, and lifts her other hand to the back of her neck, pulling her closer still. “The answer is decidedly yes…”
She doesn’t need to breathe to live, but she needs to breathe to speak, and the air is cool and soft like twilight’s last caress as it drifts across Bonnibel’s lips. In the next moment, Bonnibel discovers that her lips are cool and soft, too, and that she tastes like the reddest autumn leaves and wood smoke and the promise of winter’s edge, something cold and dangerous and utterly thrilling lurking just a whisper out of sight. Sensations ride down her spine on an express train to the bottom of her belly, where they curl and twist and conspire to sap all the strength from her legs.
She stumbles forward, catching one hand heavily on the window sill and blindly planting the other on the wall beside Marceline’s head, and accidentally crushes their mouths together. The vampire makes a small sound, but whether that’s in protest or pleasure, Bonnibel can’t discern. But she does feel her grin a second later, and there’s a rasp of fangs against her lower lip.
“M-Marceline,” she gasps, a shuddering little breath.
“Yeah?” the vampire prompts languidly between searing kisses.
For the first time in her life, Bonnibel gives up on thinking. She just tangles her fingers in the collar of that ugly t-shirt, even though it’s no longer the worst thing she’s ever seen. Maybe it’s the best. Maybe she’ll never be able to see it again without swooning a little inside.
“Just do that again.” She means to make it a command, but it comes out rather closer to a plea.
The fire fairly dances in Marceline’s eyes, and she obligingly scrapes her teeth across once more.
(i’m bad behavior
but i do it in the best way)
.
Time passes.
So much time.
Centuries rise and ebb like tides in the sea of the gods, pulling the spinning, half-destroyed world along their undulating sine-wave path to infinity. Marceline and Bonnibel see all of it, or all that’s left of it: they climb to the peak of the highest mountain, cross the vastest sundering ocean, and even stand on the lip of utter ruin. There, they gaze down grimly at the subtle yet shocking transition of rocky crust to molten mantle all the way down to the starkly disconcerting glimpse of the planet’s sullen iron core, almost invisible behind the rising convection currents.
They find settlements occasionally, too, groups of survivors that have cobbled together rudimentary societies.
“It’s like watching history come full circle,” Bonnibel observes once after they’ve departed a village of friendly albeit seriously mutated crab-people along the waterfront. “We’re nomadic hunter-gatherers. Now other people are starting to experiment with agriculture and the concept of stationary communities. Fascinating.”
“Yup,” Marceline lilts in absentminded agreement, floating along on her back and picking out a new melody on her bass. “Totally math.”
“More like ‘totally anthropology’,” Bonnibel corrects, reaching up to tweak her girlfriend’s elbow.
“Bah, you keep your fancy schooling,” the vampire grumbles, rolling over and out of the other’s grasp, though she flickers a teasing tongue and lazily opens one eye in an inverted wink. “I’ll keep the sick jams.”
The gum-girl shakes her head, accustomed to these barbs; they’ve never been sharp, anyway. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a nerd and you’re a badass. Got anything new, Marcy?”
The vampire’s smirk acquires a particularly wicked slant. “I’m sure even after five hundred years I can come up with something new, babe,” she replies, all sultry taunt, and she waggles her eyebrows in a suggestive ripple. “Wanna bet? I know you wanna bet.”
Bonnibel snorts. “What makes you think I want to bet against that?” she wonders rhetorically, her own lopsided grin dimpling one cheek.
“So you’re willing to find out?” Marceline presses, licking a fang in a thoughtful fashion.
Her girlfriend catches onto her collar and pulls her around in mid-air, capturing her in a sudden and clumsy but far from unsatisfactory kiss. “Glob, would you just rock my world already?”
“Yes, princess,” the vampire agrees, her smile edged in razor-wire.
As it happens, even after five hundred years, Marceline can come up with something new.
Afterwards, as they’re lying in the grass—Bonnibel half in the sun and Marceline all in the shade—the former raises a tired question. “I wonder if there’s any way to accelerate social progress—you know, get things back to where they were before the Mushroom Wars.”
The vampire blinks up at the lush canopy above them, her saving grace from daylight’s wrath. And then she snickers, still tracing her fingers in idle swirls up Bonnibel’s bare arm. “Dude, is that seriously what you’re thinking about at this moment? Social progress? Really?”
She smacks her hand lightly on her girlfriend’s stomach. “Don’t mock me, Marcy,” she chides. “I wasn’t thinking about that during, for glob’s sake. Now that my blood’s back to circulating in my brain and my hearing’s returned—”
“I always consider it a bonus if I can deaden one of your senses,” the vampire interrupts in a fit of cocky triumph.
Bonnibel continues speaking as if Marceline hadn’t. “I think it would be beneficial to the world if we established…a role model. Display a higher-ordered society that everyone else can imitate and learn from. There’s still very little security, what with gangs and bandits and glob knows what else. We’re only safe because you’re mega-terrifying.”
“Thank you,” Marceline quips with a toothy grin—and with her particular pearly whites, that’s saying something.
“Indeed,” the gum-girl acknowledges. “But not everyone on earth can have a vampire bodyguard. So our next best alternative is structured society.”
The other girl shakes her head, grass catching in the ankle-length strands of her inky hair. “So, what, Bonni?” she poses with audible humor. “You wanna save the world?”
“No, not save,” Bonnibel corrects. “The world’s already been lost. But fix, perhaps. Not everything, and not everywhere, but maybe some things, here. Or somewhere else. But somewhere.”
Marceline wrinkles her brow and considers her girlfriend sidelong. “Who knew you were such a hero,” she remarks, but the humor is gone, replaced with a curiosity that shades towards suspicion.
“Oh, plop, no,” she dismisses. “I’m not a hero. I’m a scientist. I identify problems, and I provide solutions. It’s not altruistic, exactly, it’s…rational.”
The vampire sniggers, amused once more. “Real stirring speech, babe. You might wanna work on that before you accept your Nobel prize.”
Bonnibel rolls her eyes and sighs, “Oh, Marceline. As if there’s Nobel prizes anymore. But I would totally win one if there were, obvi,” she adds impishly.
Shrugging and disrupting Bonnibel’s comfortable repose on her shoulder, Marceline remarks, “Well, I’m all for, er, saving the world. I mean, why not. So how do you wanna go about this, eh? It sounds like it’s gonna be really lumping complicated.”
“First we have to research,” the gum-girl declares, all confidence. “We need to get back to that one library, the really ginormous one.”
“Dude,” Marceline protests in an elongated whine, “Oxford is like so freakin’ far away…”
Bonnibel sits up, brushing grass flecks from her skin, and reaches for her shirt. “Nevertheless,” she insists, and after wriggling into the garment, she leans down and plants a kiss on her girlfriend’s lips. “If you take me there, I’ll do to you what you just did to me.”
The vampire perks up, cautiously. “That sounds totally rad, babe, but does that mean I get rewarded now or in like three weeks? ’Cause, three weeks…that’s a long-ass time to wait. I’ll be, like, chafing by then.”
Bonnibel taps one of her fangs; it makes a faint ting. “You need to save your energy for flying.”
Marceline scowls. “You suck, man. You really, really suck. Like hardcore.”
The gum-girl casts her a fond, askance look. “So tonight, when we’re done traveling for the day and you don’t need to fly anymore, then I’ll reward you. Geez, if you would just let me finish talking…” She trails off, smiling close-lipped and not at all mysterious, and bursts out laughing when the vampire takes to the air so quickly that she nearly collides with the trees branches above them.
“What’re you freakin’ waiting for?” Marceline protests, yanking on her outfit for daylight travel—gloves and hat and sunglasses crammed crookedly in place. She darts out into the golden glow once she’s done, gathering up the rest of Bonnibel’s clothes and tossing them in her face. “Get dressed on the way! Nobody will see! C’mon! Places to go, babe, places to go!”
.
The library is subjected to so many cobwebs it almost looks like it has snowed indoors, and the windows, equally subjected to centuries of grime, only let a fraction of the sunlight inside. That’s just as well for Marceline, and Bonnibel very carefully navigates with a glassed-in lantern, her feet kicking up thick, choking clouds of dust.
They’ve been to every library in the world before now, and they have an established routine. While Bonnibel hems herself in on all sides with teetering towers of tomes, Marceline wanders in and out, hunting for her own meals and scavenging supplies for her girlfriend’s. In her free time, she floats along the stacks, sometimes perusing the volumes for her own pleasure or fetching something new for Bonnibel, but mostly she finds a comfortable perch up in the ceiling’s arches and strums out song after song on her bass.
It’s a symbiotic relationship. They’re both remarkably independent, for being so reliant on each other.
Weeks pass, filled with long dusty days and short dusty nights, and sometimes, Bonnibel shares her new knowledge and fledgling theories with her girlfriend, who listens politely as she hugs her bass. But by and large, the gum-girl keeps her thoughts to herself, and Marceline’s unbothered by that. If something truly important comes up, Bonnibel will let her know, and there’s no point pushing for answers before then.
Eventually, though, the vampire observes that the genre of the books has changed. No longer are they concerned with history or philosophy or even science; now they venture into more mystical realms, flirting with the bounds of sorcery and magic, whispering promises of power and dominion.
Marceline hovers near one of the more recent stacks, nudging aside a treatise on Marxism and idly thumbing through the biography of someone named Machiavelli, who doesn’t seem like the nicest sort. “What’s up with all this junk, Bon?” she wonders, one fang snaking out to balance her rising eyebrow.
The gum-girl doesn’t look up from the ancient, yellowed pages of her latest interest. “Mm, oh, that stuff…that’s just different theories on government, really. I need to examine every alternative so that I can create the most efficient hybrid. I’ve been over it all, though. I think I’ve got a handle on what’ll work best.”
The vampire nods as if she really understands. “Radical, babe,” she remarks, and she floats closer to her girlfriend, glancing down over one pink shoulder. “And…what’s this? I mean, if you’ve filled up your thinking cap, then shouldn’t we make tracks? Start building…whatever we’re gonna build?”
“The model kingdom,” Bonnibel provides with a hum and a nod. “Yes. But you can’t have a kingdom without subjects.”
Marceline’s lips pull to one side, and she peers closer at the page—it’s written in a foreign tongue, though, and no amount of scrutiny will force it to yield its secrets to her. Somehow, that makes her feel uneasy, as if Bonnibel’s hiding things from her, as if she’s reading different languages on nefarious purpose. She shakes her head and tries to shake the feeling with it, but it won’t quite budge.
“Er, well,” she begins, slow and confused, “aren’t we going with the whole, if you build it, they will come notion?”
“Oh, glob, that’s optimistic,” Bonnibel dismisses, her eyes tracing the strange script. “And mega-naïve. You can’t just build a castle and expect the right people to show up.”
Everything unsettled in her belly sloshes a bit more, and Marceline swallows. “The right people?” she echoes, even though she hardly wants to hear the answer.
“Yeah,” the gum-girl absently confirms. “Our model kingdom should be easily imitable, so that others can construct replicas of it without needing to acquire all the knowledge that went into devising it in the first place. Everything has to go according to plan, then, and so we’ll create the subjects—subjects that will perfectly match the kingdom.”
The vampire half-expects those words to echo in the library’s dusty air, they’re so ominous. She has no idea how to respond to that, so she just hovers there, struck dumb with this swelling dread.
“I’ll need more than just science to do so, at least initially,” Bonnibel continues, oblivious of her girlfriend’s reticence. “I think I’ve discovered the answer, though. Many of these books reference Stones of Power, which seem to be collected in one special book called the Enchiridion. If we find the Enchiridion, then we’ll have everything we need.”
With effort, Marceline pries her teeth apart. “And where’s this En-ky-whatsamajigger?” she asks, and it’s so, so hard to keep her usual nonchalance tacked onto her tone.
Bonnibel flips through the thin parchment pages until she reveals the inked contours of a map. She points at it, all the explanation required.
“Oh,” Marceline whispers. “X marks the spot.”
.
There isn’t an X, but buried deep beneath the ruin of a temple, condemned to millennia-long sleep in the cradle of a catacomb, there is the Enchiridion.
Marceline’s skin has been crawling ever since Bonnibel set them on this quest, and now that the moment is here, she just wants to vomit—an urge she hasn’t had since she used to use her stomach. The book reeks of power, giving off waves of it that entice Marceline’s half-demon soul to sit up like a dog and beg, because it reeks of evil, too, and so strongly that even she wants to make it her master.
Even she, daughter of Evil Incarnate, wants to submit to its thrall.
“What is this?” she asks hoarsely, one hand raised as if she expects it to shine sunlight at her.
“Technically, it’s a hero’s handbook,” Bonnibel explains, blowing the thick coating of dust off its leather cover. “I believe it was designed as such as a safeguard. Only someone pure of heart could claim the book, so only someone pure of heart could claim the Stones.”
And are you? Marceline wants to ask but doesn’t dare. Pure of heart?
Head cocked to the side, Bonnibel studies the book for a long moment in the flickering light of their lantern, and then she reaches out with steady fingers and twists the sword emblazoned on the cover. To the vampire’s surprise, the sword spins like the hands on a clock, and a compartment in the cover cracks open, revealing glittering gemstones, arranged in a circle.
Three of them are already missing.
“Oh, plop,” the gum-girl laments, her brow furrowing. “That’s a bit disappointing. It’ll be okay, though; I shouldn’t think we need quite that much power. Besides, if we do,” she adds, and she digs into the stone sarcophagus that held the book and withdraws something gleaming on a chain, “we have this amulet. Pretty math, eh?”
Marceline swallows, something in her instincts—her demon instincts, again, not her vampire ones—recognizing the shape of this magic. “I dunno, Bon,” she whispers. “Amulets of power are…” She trails off, trying to find the words. But for all the skill she has for penning lyrics, she can’t fathom a way to subvert this doom with mere diction.
“Powerful, I bet,” Bonnibel finishes for her, sounding freakishly unconcerned, and she loops its golden chain around her neck without so much as a flicker of doubt.
“What’re you doing?” Marceline shrieks, and she snags at the chain. “Take it off, Bonni, take it off now!”
The gum-girl recoils, batting the vampire away with one hand and pressing the amulet’s pendant snug to her chest with her other. “Fudge, Marcy, what’s gotten into you?”
“Do you know what this thing does?” the vampire protests, swiping at it again—ineffectually, again. Bonnibel’s stronger and faster than she should be, for being a hodgepodge of sugar and gum. “Do you even know what you’re taking on? What if it’d blown your head off?”
The other girl eyes her with irritation and just a pinch of pity. “Except it didn’t, Marceline. It’s harmless.”
“Harmless?” the vampire echoes, not believing that for a second, and she glares darkly at the amulet. She wants to sink her fangs into it, bite it hard and drain its poison.
Bonnibel stares at her, lavender eyes dark in the catacomb’s shadows and flickering in the lantern’s light, and she shuts the Enchiridion’s compartment and hugs the book to her chest as well, caging it in with her arms. “What the plop’s gotten into you?” she repeats, her voice hard-edged.
Marceline’s jaw works soundlessly for several iterations, incredulity jostling in the queue of other emotions. Eventually, she finds it easiest just to ignore the question and pose her own. “This kingdom,” she says with difficulty. “What’s it gonna be like? Who’s gonna be king, eh?”
“There won’t be a king,” Bonnibel sniffs. “It will be a monarchy, though. All simple societies start with a single sovereign leader. Lawmaking is easier that way, as is enforcement. It will also be easier for other groups to imitate the structure—they’ll only need one really capable person to begin.”
Marceline’s shaking. Dear glob, she thinks, I’m actually shaking. “So, what, Bon? You’re appointing yourself queen?”
Bonnibel looks away. “I was thinking princess, actually.” Her lips curl, the ghost of smile. “Princess Bubblegum, even.”
“That’s sick,” the vampire spits, automatic and dead-certain. “Mega-sick, and not in a good way.”
“I don’t mean it in poor taste,” Bonnibel denies. “It just seems like a good title for the ruler of a candy kingdom.”
“A candy—?” Marceline echoes, and she coughs up a peal of acrimonious laughter. “Blood and hellfire, Bonnibel, what’re you planning to do? Bake your subjects in your own image?”
To her horror, Bonnibel simply shrugs. “More or less, yes.”
“You can’t do that!” the vampire shouts, the sheer volume knocking down dust from the ancient stone ceiling. “You can’t make people and then—then have them do your bidding! You’re not a god!”
“I know that,” she snaps. “I also know that if you’re not going to help me, then get out of my way.”
“Bonni…” Marceline staggers back a step, as if those words were a physical blow. “Y-You can’t be serious. Not after all I’ve done for you!” And she taps two fingers to her bitemarks.
Bonnibel shakes her head. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” she says, quiet and steady and so eerily, eerily calm. “I’m grateful, obviously, for your sacrifice, but the fact remains that it was your sacrifice. I don’t hold with the old-fashioned notions of life-debts, so I can do what I please with the life that you saved. And what I want is to craft a kingdom. My kingdom.”
With a hollow, fracturing laugh, the vampire shakes her head as well. “Oh, Bonnibel…is this really all about power? Because I thought if either of us was gonna go crazy, it was gonna be me! Because of this!” She strikes her stigmata again. “I’ve been terrified for centuries that I was gonna snap and do something horrible. But in the end, geez, it’s you, Bonni! You’re the one who’s gone completely whack! I never thought it would be you. I mean, come on—I’m heiress of the freakin’ Nightosphere and a vampire to boot, and you’re literally made of sugar! And probably spice and everything nice and you’re freakin’ pink and yet somehow your heart’s colder than Simon’s! At least he was possessed by evil magic! You’re choosing all of this with your eyes wide open! It’s sick!”
Bonnibel’s hands tighten on the Enchiridion, and it is true: there is more ice in her eyes than there ever was in the old man’s. “I already told you,” she says, biting off each syllable with scientific precision, “that if you don’t like it, you can leave.”
The dead tissue of Marceline’s dead, dead heart cringes in its bony prison in her chest, and tears spring to her eyes, tears filled with burning salt that Bonnibel’s have never contained. “And go where?” she demands hoarsely, even though her arms are spread in something much more like a plea.
The self-proclaimed monarch turns away. “Wherever you like. You have the entire world to choose from.”
Marceline sags, every last vestige of strength drained from her body as surely as that vampire had once drained her blood. She sways in the weak breeze that worms through the catacombs, as if it truly has the power to topple her. “That’s it?” she whispers.
Bonnibel doesn’t look back. In fact, she begins striding away, taking her amulet and her book and her light with her. “That’s it.”
The words echo in Marceline’s ears.
They never quite fade.
(i try to picture me without you but i can’t)
.
Centuries pass, but this time, oh, they pass so slowly.
After some deliberation—and some tears, so many tears, entire storms and rivers and oceans, and she doesn’t know how she can shed them when she never drinks any water, but even so, she can’t make them stop—Marceline surrenders to fate or destiny or whatever it is and retreats from the world entirely, seeking refuge in the Nightosphere.
Home sweet home, she thinks. Nothing like fire and brimstone to warm the cockles of my unbeating heart.
The Nightosphere is chaos, unrelenting and raw, but it seems like the most benign of tumors when Marceline considers the sterile, calculating order that Bonnibel is imposing on the world above. She tries not to think of it, though—it’s impossible not to, or not to think of her, but at least she tries. She lives in her father’s house and watches as he presides with cruelty and stark, raving madness and recalls that absolute power corrupts absolutely and how’s that going for you, Bonnibel?
She samples some souls, but she doesn’t really like the taste. It doesn’t hold a candle to blood. (It certainly doesn’t hold a candle to Bonnibel.) There’s plenty of red here, though; the place is madly decorated with it; and even if she used her whole eternity to drain each morsel gray, she’d still never drink it all.
She joins a ghost gang. They’re petty and stupid and mean, and Marceline finds herself hoping they’ll corrupt her, that this whole place will corrupt her. Maybe if she rusts and rots, maybe then she’ll be able to go back to Bonnibel and look her in the eye and not cringe at that cold, cold clarity she sees there.
She writes a lot of angry songs. She writes a lot of sad songs. She writes songs for her, too, with words that plead and beg and forgive and condemn and forgive again, but she burns the papers where she scrawled the lyrics. Sometimes she records them just so that she can tear the cassette tapes to shreds, just so she can watch it all fall apart.
It’s lonely. She forgets things, things she ought to remember.
Then her father eats her fries, and that’s the last lumping straw.
The world outside the Nightosphere is foreign to her now, and she hisses in pain as the sun scalds her flesh, forcing her to retreat into the shadow of an overhanging cliff. Oh, yes, she vaguely recalls, that happens here.
This time around, she simply adapts to being nocturnal. There’s no one else’s comfort to consider.
She doesn’t know where to look first, so she just flies around, refamiliarizing herself with the geography. It hasn’t had a chance to change, not in a meager three hundred years, but there do seem to be more cities than she remembered. Not cities like there were in antebellum ages, towering spires of metal and glass, but cities out of antiquity, castles and fortresses of stone.
Not all of them are made out of stone, though.
One of them seems to be made out of incredibly stale cake.
Marceline floats down towards it in the darkness, and with her bird’s eye view, she perceives that this is the center of it all. The other castles, the other cities ring it like planets, each on their own orbiting arc, each revolving around this sun. Landing in front of the castle door, she knocks—she’s not a heathen, after all.
When someone answers, she almost cracks up laughing. It’s a banana. It’s alive. It has a spear.
“Who dares come to Princess Bubblegum’s door at this hour?” it demands gruffly, dark little eyes glaring at her.
Shit, I can’t believe she went with that title. But that’s an inward thought only, and outwardly, she considers for a moment and then flashes her fangs. “Tell Princess Bubblegum that Marceline the Vampire Queen wants to see her ASAP.”
The banana guard’s eyebrows rocket skyward. “Q-Queen?” it echoes. “Oh! Oh! Your Majesty! Forgive my rudeness! I shall fetch Her Highness immediately. Come in, come in!” It backs up, bowing over and over again, until she’s standing in the entrance hall, and it skedaddles across the cavernous room and waddles awkwardly up a flight of stairs at the far end. Left to her own devices, Marceline glances around. The whole place is pink: pink and made of sugar. It’s disgusting, and she wrinkles her nose and hawks a contemptuous loogie on the floor. The saliva melts into the saccharine tile, and she smirks, dark and humorless.
She’s only been waiting for ten seconds total when she gets bored. Lounging on her back in mid-air, she swivels her bass around and plucks out unconscious melodies as she wonders, for the first time, what the plop she’s doing here. What does she really expect to happen? What does she want to happen?
She doesn’t figure it out before Bonnibel arrives.
The princess pauses but once when she catches sight of the vampire, and then she glides across the hall, graceful as ever and seemingly pinker. But that might just be the surroundings, or because she seems to have acquired quite the penchant for purple, which only accentuates her coloring.
Marceline doesn’t notice much of these details, though. Her attention is fixed only on the golden crown.
“Why is it always crowns?” she laments under her breath. She slings her bass onto her back again and comes to rest on the floor and nods as cordially as she can manage. “Bonnibel.”
“Marceline,” the princess replies in kind, and one of her eyebrows arches. “You’re a queen now? Or so I’m told.”
The vampire smirks, all teeth and no heart. “I didn’t want you to think you could give me orders, Princess.”
“You wouldn’t listen in any case,” Bonnibel dismisses. She folds her arms on her chest.
Marceline hums inattentive agreement, and she can’t bite this bitterness back: “Nice crown, babe. Did it come with the title?”
Lavender eyes narrow. “In a manner of speaking,” she allows, ignoring the reference to Simon, to his descent into rotten madness. A pause, and then, “Did you simply come here to harangue me?”
“That depends.” The vampire cracks her knuckles, glacier-slow. “Does that mean I get to rip you a new one?”
“Crude but accurate,” Bonnibel concedes, and she shakes her head, her gaze falling away. She does not attempt to speak again, leaving the ball in the other girl’s court.
Marceline pushes off the floor, hovering about eight inches up, and circles the monarch like a buzzard weighing the chances of dinner. “A nice Franken-nana answered the door,” she snarks at length. “That’s pretty jacked up, Princess—giving life to fruit. Giving life to anything and then making it serve you. Pretty freaking jacked up. I s’pose I should be thankful that you didn’t cross the line of calling yourself Goddess Bubblegum and making them worship you, but it’s a small blessing. Practically a pittance.”
Bonnibel’s jaw tightens, but that is all.
“I don’t see your precious amulet,” Marceline continues, lashing out again, her tongue a whip, her fangs knives.
She sighs. “I lost it, quite a while ago.”
“Is that so,” the vampire murmurs, and her eyes sweep back to the crown. “Seems you didn’t lose the Stones of Power. You’re wearing that one pretty proudly.”
Bonnibel lifts an absentminded hand to caress the opalescent stone. “I retained this one, yes,” she admits. “The others I distributed amongst the kingdoms.”
“Mighty gifts from their benevolent ruler,” Marceline sneers. “What did they do to win your favor, eh?”
Unspoken, but glaringly loud: What could I have done to do the same?
The princess swallows but maintains level speech. “They established orderly, fair, and just communities. Thusly they were entrusted to guard a portion of the Enchiridion’s power.” She pauses again, almost as long this time, but Marceline has nothing more to say, so Bonnibel picks up the thread of the conversation by herself. “Speaking of…I’m actually glad you’ve come.”
“Oh?” the vampire challenges, but it comes out too raw to truly be a taunt.
She dips her head. “I would ask you a favor.”
Marceline barks a laugh, and it’s thin and full of tears. In contrast to that response, and to Bonnibel’s surprise, she permits, “Ask away, Princess.”
The monarch beckons the vampire to follow, and with a half-suspicious frown, Marceline floats after her. They ascend staircase after staircase until they reach the highest room in the tallest tower, where princesses are always required to live. When she realizes where they are, the vampire summons another scathing laugh, but again, it doesn’t come out quite as harsh as she wants it to.
“Wow, Bonni. Don’t you think it’s a bit presumptuous, asking me for a favor and then showing me to your bedroom?”
The other girl just slants her a look, otherwise not deigning to rise to that. She heads to her closet, instead, and shoves some of the boxes and dresses aside. Marceline ventures over, curiosity getting the better of her, and frowns as something catches her eye.
“Hey,” she says, reaching out for the sleeve of a black t-shirt. “Isn’t this mine?”
“What? Oh,” Bonnibel realizes, straightening from her crouch. “Yes. I…think you must’ve stowed it in my pack by mistake back…well, back then. Yes. Er.” She stares at the garment for a long, ticking moment, and then she returns to her rummaging. “You can take it, if you want,” she offers, muffled.
The black cotton is thin and almost slick between the vampire’s fingers, but cotton lasts practically forever if it’s not exposed to direct sunlight, and Marceline has always been careful to avoid just such a circumstance. She’s also always been careful to keep her own clothes in her own pack; she and Bonnibel have never exactly had the same taste when it comes to fashion.
Marceline’s throat thickens, just a sliver. “Nah, I haven’t missed it.” But you’ve missed me, she adds in the astonished silence in her head. Maybe you’re not a lost cause, after all.
“Oh, well, if that’s fine with you. I guess I have enough room in here to store it,” Bonnibel says, still with deliberate evasion in her voice, and then there’s the heavy metallic sound of a lock slipping free, of bolts sliding back. “Come on,” she adds, and she steps into the thick press of the hanging dresses.
Marceline steps closer guardedly. “Dude, where’re we going? Narnia?”
The princess laughs, and now Marceline’s throat does swell shut—it’s been so long since she heard her laugh. It’s beautiful. Musical, almost, light and bubbly. Like sugar. “Glob, no. We’re just going to my strongroom.”
“You have a…strongroom…” The vampire trails off, her mouth slipping open as she stares. Calling this place a strongroom is an understatement—it looks like the most fortified chamber in the whole world. “What’s this lumpin’ placemade out of?” she asks, brushing fingertips across a wall.
“The hardest substance known to candykind,” Bonnibel replies, and a grin flits across her face. “Jawbreakers.”
Marceline whistles appreciatively and tucks her hands into her pockets. Bonnibel is standing near the plinth in the room’s center, and she floats over. “What’s in the box?” she wonders, nodding at it.
In response, the princess pulls a key from around her neck and unlocks it. There’s a click and a rush of steam, and when that clears, there’s the Enchiridion.
Their last meeting playing sharp across her mind’s eye, Marceline wills her hands to unclench. “Why’re you showing me this?” she asks, low and hollow.
Bonnibel hefts the book from its resting place, her fingers tapping arrhythmically on the leather cover. “With the Stones of Power distributed, this…well, I have no reason to have it,” she decides at last. “It’s a handbook for heroes, and I’m not a hero.”
“Neither am I,” Marceline reminds her, ember eyes gleaming crimson with the blood of the creature she killed and drained earlier that night.
For a moment, the vampire swears that the princess is going to fight her on that one, but Bonnibel lets it pass. “You can fly, though. I’ve located a place to keep it safe, a place only a true hero can reach. You’ll be able to deliver it there with ease. The trials aren’t as insurmountable when you’re airborne and undead.”
She tugs at the strap of her bass, a nervous tic of a motion. “You’re not making much sense, Bonni. Geez, look around you—this place is a freakin’ fortress. Why d’ya wanna move it somewhere else?”
Bonnibel shrugs. “It doesn’t require a pure heart or heroic courage to get at the Enchiridion here. All it takes is the key.”
Marceline has to give her that. “And that’s no test for a savior,” she realizes. “Just a test for a really radical burglar.”
“Exactly,” the princess concurs. She proffers the book, heavy beyond its physical shell. “Will you take it there?”
“If you riddle me this,” the vampire replies, not yet accepting the tome. “What’re you expecting to happen, eh? You’re setting this up so you can judge someone competent enough to save you. So what danger do you imagine you’ll need to be saved from?”
There’s a terrible weight in Bonnibel’s eyes, too, even more so than that which burdens the Enchiridion.
“Would you believe me,” she whispers, “if I say myself?”
The only blood in Marceline’s veins is stolen and sluggish and cool, but that statement nevertheless serves to make it run cold.
.
Marceline takes the Enchiridion to the appointed place, skimming through the clouds over the trials below and placing it in the hands of its new guardians. She doesn’t return to the Candy Kingdom afterwards, choosing instead to wander the new, somewhat more civilized countryside of Ooo.
(“Why’s it called that? Ooo? It’s a lump of a name,” she asked Bonnibel before departing.
The princess exhaled an awkward laugh and scratched the side of her head. “Er, well, when I’d first built the kingdom, everyone who came by was so impressed by it that…well, the first words out of their mouths were, ‘This place is…Ooo!’, so, as a joke…”
“You named a country after a joke?” Marceline cackled. “Dude, I knew I loved you for a reason!”
That had killed the atmosphere pretty quick.)
That’s not why she doesn’t return, though. She doesn’t return because she couldn’t save Simon from his crown—she was just a scrawny teenaged half-demon, not a hero. Now, she’s a powerful eternally-eighteen vampire, but even so…
She can’t save Bonnibel from her crown, either.
(i’m still comparing my past to your future
it might be your wound but they’re my sutures)
.
All across Ooo, Marceline claims or constructs or carves out houses. She acquires dozens, in convenient places, in whimsical places, forever searching for a home that she knows is only present in the heart of a princess made of bubblegum.
She does whatever she wants, whenever she wants to do it. She even gets a terrible boyfriend who treats her awfully because sometimes, when he smiles at her, there’s a hint of Bonnibel in the curve. Eventually, though, she kicks him out, because a dash of remembrance isn’t worth putting up with his crap and she’s nine hundred years old, for glob’s sake. She’s finally outgrown fairy tales.
She’s not a knight, so she doesn’t get the princess. That’s the long and short of it. She might as well stop pretending.
(She still doesn’t have a home.)
.
Bonnibel labors ever for stability and progress, fashioning experiments in her lab and crafting order and prosperity outside it. She champions the rule of law, the rule of justice and decency, and in Ooo before anywhere else in the world, there is a glimmer of hope for the future.
Such hope is a little forced, a little false, since she had to create the population by herself, but there has never been any hope that could survive unsupported by sheer willpower. And there has never been any progress that rests on a foundation untainted with sin.
The world doesn’t work that way. And Bonnibel is shrewd enough to understand that, and cold enough to carry it out.
.
Princess Bubblegum has a line of suitors (because, let’s be real, they’re not there to court Bonnibel herself) that she never even begins to consider. She hasn’t thought about dying since that vampire ripped her leg off centuries earlier, and sees no reason to provide an heir to her throne, especially in such an uncouth way. But she glances at them sometimes, the poor candy fools, and each time she does, she experiences a little pang. Marceline’s never lounging there with her razor teeth and her red eyes and her raven-wing hair, ready and willing to sweep her off her feet and take her away from all this…gravity.
Marceline’s never there at all, except in the shirt she let Bonnibel keep.
In the beginning, the princess only takes it out sometimes, caressing the ancient fabric and remembering that first heady rush of Marceline’s lips on hers. She presses the cotton to her face and breathes in, deeper than deep, as if there’s really a scent left there after so many hundreds of years. There isn’t, of course, but the memories remain, twisted and tangled in the threads, inextricable as barbed wire in her heart.
As the years drag by and her crown grows heavier, she takes it out more and more often until she starts to wear it to bed. It protects her in her sleep, wrapping her in memories of happier times, of freer days. It adheres to her skin like armor, and maybe it’s more of a talisman than she thought, because the alluring whispers of the Stone of Power fall on deafer ears.
When it gets really bad, she wears it beneath her clothes in the daytime, too.
It keeps her mind sane, but it wears her heart so, so thin.
.
A message arrives at Marceline’s treefort during late summer when the dusk lingers thick on the western horizon in the most glorious, sullen shade of gold. She lazily pokes open the window with her foot, letting the carrier bird flap inside, and when it drops the envelope in her lap, she arches a curious eyebrow.
The bird pecks at her shoulder as she turns the letter over and recognizes the seal of the Candy Kingdom. With a frown trickling across her face, she absently sinks a fang into the scarlet wax and dissolves the seal, flicking open the paper a second later.
There’s not much of a message. Come to the castle, it reads. Very important.
It’s not even signed, but that doesn’t matter. Marceline’s been reading Bonnibel’s handwriting for almost a thousand years. It’s not as if she can mistake it.
For a moment, she’s caught at a crossroads. The flinching pressure in her hand wants to crumple the note, and the flinching pressure in her dead heart wants to preserve it behind glass and a frame.
In the end, she scowls and shoves it in a drawer and spitefully takes her time, waiting for full night to descend before nudging open the window again and following the bird’s invisible path through the skies above Ooo. The countryside below is dark except for the occasional flicker and flare of firelight, but Marceline pays it little heed; her attention is fixed on the growing silhouette of Bonnibel’s castle, pockmarked like the rolling hills with bursts of light.
Skipping all façade of manners, the vampire floats through one of the princess’s bedroom windows, sprawled on her back with her fingers laced behind her head. She’s irritated to be summoned like this—she’s irritated that she still canbe summoned like this, that she can’t possibly refuse to come when Bonnibel calls—and she is sure to let that emotion leak into her voice.
“What doth you desire, O Great and Chewy One? What could be so lumping important that you’ve deigned to break a century of silence?” she sneers, her eyes stubbornly, disrespectfully shut.
She opens them, though, when Bonnibel replies.
“Marceline,” she says, and her own voice is small. Very small.
The vampire peers at her, her irritation ebbing in the face of vaguely annoyed confusion and more than a modicum of concern. The princess is just standing in the center of her bedchamber, looking as small as she sounds. “What?” Marceline barks, harsher than she intends, but her nerves are starting to fray.
Bonnibel winces, though it’s not clear if her pain derives from Marceline’s tone or something else entirely. Either way, she approaches the vampire and, to her scalding surprise, takes hold of her hand. “There’s something you need to know. It would be easiest just to show you.” She wavers, gnawing on her lip. “It would also be fastest if you flew us there.”
The other girl stares at her for a calculating moment, and then she exhales a sigh through her nose and hefts Bonnibel into her arms, the motion as effortless as it ever was. “Point the way, Princess,” she says, soft and somehow tired.
Bonnibel does, sweeping an arm out like a compass needle, and together, they venture into the night; the moonlight ripples iridescence across Marceline’s hair, and Bonnibel’s body leaks warmth into the vampire’s cold, empty chest. Neither of them tries to breathe too deeply, because Marceline smells like everything her shirt no longer holds—the tang of metal from her bass strings, the crispness of fallen leaves, the cloying salty rasp of blood—and Bonnibel smells less like sugarcubes and more like purest syrup, something startlingly clear and only halfway sweet.
It’s easy for the vampire not to breathe, but the princess has less of a choice. She has to keep loosening her hands from their nostalgic death-grip in the other girl’s tank top as the scent and the memories nearly overpower her.
Marceline doesn’t need Bonnibel’s indicating finger to realize they’ve reached their destination; she started descending towards the snow as soon as she saw the white gleaming in the summer night. She lands lightly on the edge of it, not certain if she should set the princess down or not. As she hesitates, though, Bonnibel lowers herself and slides a pace away, seeking the return of her compromised composure.
The vampire tries not to be offended by that distancing, telling herself it doesn’t matter anyway, and valiantly refocuses. “So,” she remarks. “Snow in summer.”
There’s not really a question in her voice, but Bonnibel nevertheless provides an answer. “Yes. Simon has come to Ooo.” She pauses, glancing at her former friend to determine her reaction.
Marceline just stands there, though, stands there and stares across the unnatural ice. She seems stiff, her jaw tighter and her shoulders straighter than usual, and she bows her head in something like an acknowledging nod.
Bonnibel swallows. “He calls himself Ice King now. From what my reports have gathered, he doesn’t remember the past at all. Not you, not me, not himself.”
The vampire digs a small divot in the snow with the toe of her boot. “Reports, huh,” she murmurs, staring into the frozen blue shadow by her foot. “You’re spying on him?” Before Bonnibel can defend herself, Marceline shakes her head. “No, I get it,” she dismisses. “I would, too, if I were you. You have more reason to be cautious of him than anyone.” Her lips pull taut, causing the points of her fangs to flash in the starlight. “What’re you gonna do?”
“Nothing,” Bonnibel replies, and Marceline looks at her so sharply her neck cracks. “Seriously,” the princess insists. “His crown may have deranged him, but I can’t imprison a man who’s already imprisoned in his own head. That would just be cruel.”
A spiderweb of hairline fractures spread across the vampire’s countenance, giving the impression that the slightest touch will shatter her completely. “So what’re you gonna do?” she echoes, as hoarse as an asthmatic in a cigar club. “Just leave him to his own devices?”
She nods. “Unless he proves himself a deadly threat, I see no reason to act. I certainly see no reason to act preemptively.”
Marceline is unwilling to let this lie, though, and she picks at it masochistically. “But before…I mean, shit, Bonni, he tried to—”
“Yes, he did,” the princess interrupts, some of her own ice creeping across her words. “You don’t have to remind me. I haven’t forgotten. But.” She shifts her weight, braces her arms on her chest. “That was almost a thousand years ago. Not that there’s a statute of limitations on that crime, but…well, I have guards now. And walls. I’ll be safe.”
The vampire looks away. “Yeah. Safer than when all you had was me.”
“That’s not what I—”
Marceline holds up a hand, and Bonnibel submits to that. “It’s fine,” she whispers. “It’s true.”
No, it’s not, the princess almost blurts, but she catches the words halfway up her throat and tucks them back away. Instead, she remarks, “My reports also seem to indicate that in his advanced senility, he has in fact become ratherless of a threat. I think, perhaps, he is truly harmless once more. Potentially annoying, but harmless. Like…like allergies.”
The vampire bobs her head, over and over and over again, as if it’s loose on her neck. “Okay,” she breathes, and at last, she looks up, sweeping her gaze across the wind-sculpted snow drifts. “Maybe I’ll drop in on him one day.” Her eyes flicker to Bonnibel’s, and there’s a warmth in their depths that has nothing to do with bloodfire. “See if he wants to share some chicken soup.”
The princess almost tears up at that, almost flings her arms around Marceline’s neck and sobs every last truth into her collar. Like I miss you and I still love you and I’m so damn sorry that I hurt you and You’re so much better than I deserve, don’t you see, that’s why I can’t have you. She almost says it all.
But only almost.
“I’m sure he’d like that,” she declares, bright and brittle, and she sniffs—just from the cold, just from the cold. “We should be getting back, though.”
Marceline nods, still so preoccupied, and gently scoops her up again.
This time, Bonnibel doesn’t play at pretenses. She snarls her fingers in the shirt and tilts her face into the vampire’s chest, making sure each breath is thickly infused with her scent and pretending that the wind whipping in her ears is a heartbeat.
If Marceline notices, she doesn’t say a thing.
.
One day, a human boy comes to the Candy Kingdom, and he’s noble and brave and pure of heart. Bonnibel recognizes this, much as she is initially loathe to, and she dangles the Enchiridion in front of him. He claims it like a hero, and he does Ooo proud. He’ll do her proud, too, eventually—and not just because he’ll do anything to make her proud, but because her heart’s not quite as hard as it seems. Not anymore.
She never tells him, though, that she’s always a little bit disappointed that he’s not Marceline.
She really, really thought that, in the end, her hero would be Marceline.
(i am the sand in the bottom half of the hourglass)
.
The thing about mortals is that they die.
Finn lives a long and rich life. His deeds are the stuff of legend, his victories guaranteed to earn him a seat of honor amongst the gods—or so the tales promise. But in the end, he succumbs to the ravages of time, that temporal storm that has never done more than brush fruitlessly at Marceline and Bonnibel, and Ooo loses its greatest hero.
They bury him as he requested: rocketing him upwards into the stars with his collection of swords and his silly, now-threadbare hat and the bones of his faithful canine companion—Jake had passed decades earlier—so that he could have one last grand adventure, sailing eternal across the cosmos.
Afterwards, Marceline burns the treefort to the ground. She can’t imagine ever living there again; it hasn’t been her house in decades, and it was Finn’s home like it never was hers. She respects that. She lets it die with him.
Bonnibel sits with her while it burns, and they watch as it chars itself to ash, as the beams pop and split, as the fire gutters and spikes. Somewhere in the middle, when the smoke is beginning to irritate their eyes, Marceline takes up her bass and composes their friend a tribute, the kind of epic poem that exalted the heroes of old. Tears flow freely down her pale gray cheeks before she makes it through the first verse, and Bonnibel is already crying the moment Marceline picks up the instrument, before she even strikes the opening chord.
The only thing they save from the pyre is the Enchiridion, but it wasn’t really Finn’s. He was just its caretaker for a while, even if it can never hope to have a better one.
When the first light of dawn sees the last wisps of smoke dancing away on the breeze, Marceline shifts her bass onto her back. Her fingertips are bleeding stolen blood from the long, mournful hours of quiet song, but she seems unaware of that, and picks up the hefty book.
“Guess it’s back to the temple for this,” she remarks, glancing sidelong at Bonnibel to make sure.
The princess nods and scrubs the tearstains from her face. “To await its next champion.”
Marceline doesn’t ask what happens if there isn’t one; it doesn’t occur to her. Even if it had, Bonnibel gives her no time to ask, as she’s reaching over and pulling on the strap of the bass. “What’re you doing?” the vampire hisses, glancing swiftly towards the sunrise. “I’ve gotta get going, babe.”
In response, Bonnibel just shrugs out of her long coat and drapes it ungracefully over the other girl’s head like it’s a lampshade. “I know this is terrible timing,” she says, her hand coiling around the instrument’s strap again, anchoring in place. “And not just because of the dawn, but because we just lost Finn. He did more than protect Ooo, though; he gave us common ground once more over the years, and with it, the chance to renew our friendship.” She pauses, deliberating. “We’re almost there. I just need to apologize.”
Marceline forces her lips to smirk. “Then grovel away, Princess.”
“No,” Bonnibel insists, and she tugs on the bass. “I’ve been working on this for a long time. I’m afraid I’m not quite the wordsmith that you are,” she admits ruefully, and the vampire finally permits her to take her guitar. The strings are stained with stolen ichor, and it transfers redly to the princess’s fingers as she runs them up and down the instrument’s neck; she doesn’t care.
“You’re gonna play?” the vampire wonders, genuine surprise in her tone. “Dude, when did you learn?”
She slants her a glance that has a shade of reproach. “I’ve been watching you play for a thousand years,” she drawls, eyebrow tilting up, “and I didn’t write the melody. I borrowed it from you.” She chews on her lower lip. “It seemed most fitting that way.”
Marceline adjusts the other girl’s coat, making certain it’s shielding her from the sun. “Go ahead then,” she teases, and she tugs on the gray points peeking through her hair. “I’m all ears.”
A measure of weary sorrow shadows Bonnibel’s eyes, though, and she does not remark on that attempt at humor. She simply begins to play, and it’s a very familiar melody to Marceline, indeed. What’s worse, it’s a very familiar apology, reminiscent of one she received ages and ages ago.
“La da da da-da, I’m getting buried under my crown
La da da da-da, yeah, it’s pushin’ me so far down
I know I wiped the smile from your pretty gray face
I know I lost the one thing that I just can’t replace but I’m
Sorry I didn’t treat you with compassion or even courtesy
Sorry my ambition drove you so far, so far away from me
It was jacked up, what I was doing, but it felt necessary
I don’t know if ends justify, so I’m sorry for my means
Turn’s out that, I am the problem
Yeah, I am the problem
It’s true, I’m not very perfect, am I
I’m just your problem
And I-I-I-I am getting buried under my crown, and
I-I-I-I am freakin’ scared I’m gonna drown
You’ve gotta stay this time and save me, Marcy, please
I promise this time I won’t do lump to make you leave
’Cause I know I’m just your problem
And know what? You’re still my problem
But maybe together, we could solve ’em
(How ’bout it now?)
Let’s try to solve ’em…”
The last deep notes fade buzzing from the bass, and Bonnibel glances up at Marceline. There are fresh tears tracking down the vampire’s face, silent and as resigned to this fate as the princess appears to be herself.
“You, too, huh,” she croaks, her gaze dragging to the golden circle, as hateful as Simon’s crown ever was. “You said we could solve it, though. Do you know how to fix it?”
The real question, unasked: Is it already too late?
Bonnibel runs her fingers lightly along the strings, causing quiet little shrieks. “There’s always research,” she provides with the smallest shrug. “It’s always worth a try.”
“And if it fails?”
She shrugs again, a more exaggerated and far less casual ripple of her shoulders. That’s answer enough.
Marceline feels she ought to say something, even though at this point, everything’s inadequate. “I’m sorry,” she manages.
Bonnibel smiles, wobbly and wet. “I’m sorry, too.”
.
Not much happens in Ooo after that. Finn had lived at the end of an era, and now, a new age of stability and peace stretches out before them, long and summer-bright as it trails after the sun. Simon’s madness progresses to the point where he doesn’t remember desiring princesses at all, the phantom of his fiancée finally lost beneath a millennium of snow. He calms, and fades, and Marceline plays checkers with him on the weekends and always, always brings chicken soup.
It’s his favorite. He re-discovers this each time, and he’s always surprised that this young vampire would like to spend time with him, but she never corrects him, and she never tries to explain. She just smiles and passes him a steaming bowl and wipes her tears away as surreptitiously as possible.
(Tentative and uninvited, Bonnibel dropped by on Marceline’s first visit, borne aloft on a descendent of Lady Rainicorn and Jake, but she didn’t intrude on their private moment. She just waited outside the ice mountain, gently buffeted by turbulence until Marceline emerged with her empty can and her checkerboard. Neither of them spoke; they just shared a look, and then the vampire hugged her so tightly that she could barely breathe.
Marceline held on for a long while, long enough that the rainicorn started expressing his awkwardness in apologetic Korean. She pulled away, but the shadow of her touch remained, and the bond begun in Bonnibel’s song solidified and sealed, becoming something real and true and unbreakable.)
Almost unbreakable.
Bonnibel’s research, extensive as it is, has unearthed nothing.
.
They fall into a rhythm then, as they’ve fallen into one before. While Marceline haunts the ceilings like the world’s most musical ghost—at least, when she’s not touring Ooo with her latest crop of songs—Bonnibel spends her time ruling. But she delegates more these days, shaping trusted lieutenants into leaders in their own right, and begins hypothesizing about the inclusion of a senate or parliament into the Candy Kingdom’s constitution.
“It worked for both the Roman and British Empires,” she points out with a shrug. “It would balance the power and allow for expansion.”
“Aw, geez, Bon,” Marceline drawls. “Now you want an empire?”
But she’s smirking as she says it, and Bonnibel knows better than to take her seriously when her eyes glitter like that. Some of the humor is lost on her, even so, and she leans more of her weight on her elbow so she can cradle her head in that hand. It feels thick and full of lead, the crown’s slow poison seeping in.
The vampire sits up straighter where she’s reclining in the air. “You okay?” she asks, worry humming a counterpoint to her nonchalance.
“I’m fine,” the princess dismisses. “I was just disgusted by your joke, that’s all. Honestly, Marcy, I want lessresponsibility, not more. One day, I’ll be nothing but a figurehead, and one day, I won’t even be that.”
Marceline’s eyes hover anxiously on her friend’s crown. “What’s less than a lumping figurehead?” she says, the humor creaking and betraying her. “All they do is smile and wave and—and—and raise little dogs in freakishly large numbers.”
Bonnibel narrows her eyes, furrows her forehead, concentrates hard. Nothing is as easy as it was before she traded away her beloved shirt for Hambo; that garment truly was a talisman, and while she hoped that their revived friendship would prove to be an equally potent charm, it’s not so tangible. It doesn’t armor her while she sleeps. Things slip through the cracks…
But Marceline herself can’t save her, so an old t-shirt of hers, no matter how drenched it is in memories, can hope to do the same.
“I…I don’t know what’s less than a figurehead,” she finally mutters.
The vampire’s knuckles bleach as she strangles her bass; it chunners metallically in protest. “That thing you said earlier, babe? Whatever it was? I’d get on that. Like now. The sooner, the better and all. Chop chop.”
Blinking, as if she needs to reorient herself, Bonnibel gives a hesitant nod. “Yeah. I’ll draft a proposal today. I’ll convene the other monarchs in a few days to go over it, and then I can…issue the edicts and begin the process of…appointing magistrates.” She massages her forehead, an action Marceline has seen her mime far too often recently.
Slinging her guitar onto her back, the vampire floats down to the desk and plucks the pen from her friend’s limp hand. “You talk, I write. Saves time. Time’s a-wastin’. Don’t got no time to waste.”
The princess slants her a bemused look, and while Marceline is relieved to see the clarity refreshed, Bonnibel’s words are no reassurance. “What’re you talking about? Despite the fact that both of us have died at least once, we seem pretty indestructible. We have all the time in the world to waste.”
But Marceline just thinks of Simon, who can’t remember breakfast once he’s finished it, and now of Bonnibel, who doesn’t know what’s less than a figurehead.
“There are worse fates than dying,” she declares flatly. “There are worse curses than vampirism.”
It would’ve been better if Bonnibel argued that, but she doesn’t.
She already understands.
.
Time, time, time, Marceline panics, draining the red from everything she can reach. Simon’s crown had three Stones of Power. Bonni’s only has one. And she’s stronger than he was. She’s so strong. Plus, she’s held it off this long already. She can hold it off a little longer.
And she thinks of the Enchiridion, how it kept the Stones out of corruptible hands—and maybe not corruptible like evil, but like rust, how it bites into metal and eats it and rots it and takes away all its shine.
She can’t stop thinking about the book. She gave it up, twice, but she hadn’t earned it either time. It didn’t mean anything to hold it then. But now the stupid book is locked behind a maze of trials designed to prove its bearer worthy.
Anyone can earn the Enchiridion.
Well, anyone who is strong and brave and pure of heart.
She wonders if it still counts even if that heart forgot how to beat a thousand years before.
.
“Maybe it’s just the price we have to pay,” Bonnibel murmurs later that week, once her proposals are drafted and her councils have convened. She strokes her fingers idly through Marceline’s hair where the long strands stray across her own arm, not really aware of the action; her eyes are shut, and she’s half-asleep.
The vampire bows her tightly closed lips to her friend’s shoulder. It’s not a kiss, but it’s close. They’re not what they used to be, but they’re close.
At length, Marceline prompts, “Price we have to pay…?”
“To save people,” the princess clarifies, her fingers slowing, faltering. “Maybe people who aren’t heroes…maybe when they try to be them, they have to sacrifice more. Simon wanted to save you, and his crown took him. You wanted to save me, and now you’re a vampire. I wanted to save Ooo, and my crown’s taking me. We get what we want, but…but maybe our sanity’s the price. Lost in our own heads for all eternity.”
“Speak for yourself,” Marceline shoots back reflexively. “I’m not off my rocker and I don’t plan on falling off ever. My bloodlust is quite under control, thank you very much for asking, I’m touched by your concern.”
Bonnibel chuckles, little more than a humorous exhale, and her lips curl at just the corners. “Oh, Marcy,” she laments, “you’re such a dingus. But I guess that’s why I love you.”
The vampire stiffens. It’s probably not true. She’s probably just forgetting intervening time, like Simon forgot it. She probably thinks they’re still together, that this is five centuries earlier, or even earlier still. She probably won’t remember a lick of this conversation when the sun rises.
It makes Marceline want to scream.
Instead, she kisses Bonnibel’s pale pink neck, right under her ear, and whispers back, “I love you, too.”
.
In the morning, Marceline attempts the Hero’s Trials in a desperate bid to claim the Enchiridion.
She fails.
But she’s known for a millennium that she’s not a hero.
She’s also known for a millennium that she’ll do whatever she has to do in a pinch, like come back from the dead as a vampire to save the life of her only friend. So she hikes a middle finger at the universe and flies over the obstacles that she couldn’t defeat, and when the guardians squabble and protest, she kicks the living daylights out of them.
“I’m Marceline the Vampire Queen,” she growls as she grinds the last one’s face into the dust beneath the heel of her boot. “I don’t play nice, and I don’t play by the freakin’ rules.”
“But the Enchiridion…it must judge you as worthy,” he protests feebly.
“It’s a lumping book,” she snaps with a razor-edged scowl. “What the flip does it know?”
He doesn’t seem to know what to make of that. “Er…everything it contains…?”
“Shut up,” she snarls, and she kicks him hard for good measure and swivels her glare to the ancient tome. “You’re just a book,” she repeats, as if she’s trying to convince it, or trying to convince herself. “You have no right to judge me. Ideem myself worthy, and you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”
The Enchiridion doesn’t burst into flames or howls or anything when she lifts it from its rest. That might not indicate that it’s her by right, but it is hers for the taking, and so she takes it, takes it and flies around Ooo as fast as she can. She explains to the other rulers about the threat inherent in their crowns, but none of them believe her, none of them seem to have suffered any ill effects. For a moment, she wonders if Bonnibel’s delirious musings were right—if only people who aren’t heroes yet try to play the role are corruptible by the Stones.
The Enchiridion is known as the hero’s handbook. Maybe those who forget that fact are doomed to forget everything, and maybe heroes aren’t such wonderful people, after all. Maybe they’re as spiteful and vindictive and possessive as anyone, because who else would lay such a trap and cast such a curse?
Marceline doesn’t know if that’s true or right or anything more than a flight of fancy, but she takes the Stones just as she took the book itself—by force if she has to. Nobody has to like her after this. Nobody has to like her ever again. They can all lump off in parliamentary bliss for all she cares.
Once she collects the Stones, even the three in Simon’s crown that have been missing from the book from the start, she flies the completed set and the book it resides within to the edge of the world. It takes her a long time to reach the jagged cliffs, and she almost goes feral more than once from the strain she puts on herself. She manages somehow, though, and when she gets there and gazes down at the seething heart of the planet, she is convinced that she’s doing the right thing.
There are extremes of power that people should not be allowed to have—the Mushroom Wars proved that.
Hovering out over the planet’s mortal wound, Marceline holds onto the Enchiridion until she’s above the molten mantle; it swirls sluggishly miles below.
Without preamble or any fitting, final words, she lets it go.
It might splash. It might incinerate long before it strikes. She can’t tell.
All she knows is that it’s gone, good freaking riddance, and that this action, while pleasingly rebellious and undoubtedly beneficial to future generations, doesn’t change anything for her friends. She was too late when she began this quest, and too late even before that. Taking away the Stones of Power will do nothing for Bonnibel. It’s been made amply clear via the example of Simon, and via the princess’s own futile research, that the corrupting effects are irreversible.
That grates against Marceline, flays her alive. She knew she was doomed before she started, and she can picture the future facing them all: lost in their own heads for all eternity. Except for her, that is—like she said, her vampirism isn’t that terrible, and even when she goes feral, she can recover. It’s not like how it will be for Bonnibel and Simon. It’s not the same at all.
Still, she doesn’t know where that leaves her.
.
It takes a few more decades for the sickness to set in entirely, a few decades of stumbling pauses and a love so belatedly rekindled, but even their love, which has conquered so much, can’t conquer all.
Eventually, Bonnibel forgets Marceline.
It’s subtle in the end. There’s just a loss of recognition in the depths of those familiar lavender eyes, the suffusion of a terrible blankness that has been erasing in from the edges for too long.
The vampire clasps their hands together—hers are shaking so badly—and she brushes her lips against the princess’s forehead.
Bonnibel looks up at her, only mild curiosity in her gaze, and she reaches out to catch a teardrop on her finger. The saline melts into her sugared skin.
“Yeah, you’ll wanna be careful with that,” Marceline chokes out, her serrated teeth gleaming in a watery smile.
“Okay,” she accepts, and her brow pinches slightly. “Why are you crying?”
Marceline considers that for a sticking second. “I just lost the love of my life.”
“That’s terrible,” Bonnibel murmurs, and despite the consequences, she wipes away another tear. “What happened?”
Her mouth curves, subtle and slow, and she shrugs. “She went away.”
The princess’s confusion deepens as she wonders, “And you can’t follow her?”
Marceline thought her heart had died a thousand years ago, but as it turns out, it was merely comatose all the while, because now…now it dies. She nearly suffocates from the mess it leaves behind in her chest, but she perseveres with grim determination—she’s always been able to subvert death for Bonnibel. “No,” she says through the gravel in her throat. “Not where she’s gone.”
“Oh,” she realizes, but there’s no real comprehension in her eyes. Just sympathy for a stranger. “I’m so sorry.”
Marceline nods halfway, chin tucked to her chest, and just looks at her, as if she hasn’t memorized everything about her centuries before. She’s still so stupidly pink. And she’s still so stupidly beautiful.
“Take care of yourself, Bonni,” she says, as lightly as she’s able, “and always be nice to little girls lost and hungry in the snow.”
Bonnibel looks at her politely and doesn’t understand.
(Sometimes, later, she notices the photograph taped on the inside of her closet door, and she wonders who this black-haired, sharp-toothed girl is, and whether or not they were friends. She likes to think they would be. And some preferences are carved in the bones, so whenever she hears rock music, Bonnibel really likes it, and her favorite color is red.
The candy folk take care of her, as she once so diligently cared for them.
And she is at peace.)
.
Unable to summon the strength to fly with this strangled concrete filling her limbs and the riven husk of her heart, Marceline trudges out of the room and unloops the princess’s crown from her belt. Without its Stone of Power, it’s just a fragile circle of gold, and she has strength enough to snap it in half. She drops the mangled metal on the floor and adjusts the ride of her bass’s strap for a snugger fit, fishing in her pocket afterwards for a piece of chalk. Deftly, she draws a magic circle on the castle wall and smears bug milk across it.
Once she speaks the incantation, the portal to the Nightosphere yawns wide, an eternal inferno plagued with chaos. It doesn’t look like home, but that’s because Marceline’s home is behind her, draped in a violet blanket and gazing contentedly out the window at the fading autumn sun.
She slips her pack off her shoulders and roots through its meager contents. Resting underneath the disintegrating form of Hambo, there’s a lock of Bonnibel’s bubblegum hair; tears prick her eyes anew when she thinks that it’s really more of a wad. A sentient wad, maybe, that has a name and enough love in her heart to last a thousand years.
She likes to think that it smiles at her, as it had smiled at her before: a perfect semicircle. While she knows that isn’t true—it’s wishful thinking at its finest—she indulges the delusion. It’s not like she has long to pretend.
She’ll be forgetting herself soon enough.
Raw heat blasts across her face, whipping her hair back like the tail of the darkest comet as she steps through the portal and enters the Nightosphere. Its volcanic landscape stretches out to indeterminate horizons in every direction, and she floats above the burning madness, not paying it much attention. She’s seen it all before, and she’ll be seeing it until the end of time.
Her vampirism never was going to drive her insane, but it wasn’t the first thing to grant her eternity, either—her demonic heritage did that.
And that which giveth, taketh away.
.
When she arrives in a familiar craggy mountain, her father leaps to his feet, thrilled to see her. “Marceline! What brings you all the way to hell, eh?”
“Hey, Daddy,” she replies, none of her usual lilt in her tone. She gestures vaguely at the amulet resting against his chest. “I’m…here to take up the family business.”
“Oh, happy day!” he cheers, oblivious of her agony, and he joyfully rips his amulet from his neck. “My little monster’s ready to embrace her destiny!”
Marceline hates him for that speech, but she hates other things far more, so she accepts the burden of her birthright without comment.
As she weighs the amulet in her hand, her mind wanders back to the beginning, reviewing more than ten centuries years of life and desperately searching for a loophole, for all the good it will do her now. She wonders if they could’ve done things differently somehow, if they could’ve subverted this fate, if she and Bonnibel and Simon could’ve lived out their undying days happily and together.
But if they saved themselves, then they couldn’t save the world.
And they wouldn’t be heroes.
“Huh,” she murmurs to herself with a cluck of her tongue. “Not bad for a sentimental old man, a brainy bubblegum girl, and a scrawny teenaged half-demon. Yeah. Not too bad at all.”
Marceline smiles one last time, real and heartfelt and true, and then she slips the amulet over her head and lets the chaos carry her away.
.
Elsewhere, the broken, healing world spins gently towards tomorrow.
.
(we could be immortals)
.
.
.
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•Carried• Part II Erik x Reader
As promised, the second part to my drabble Carried.
Warning: A bit of smut
One Year Later
Summer had officially arrived and the temps were already in the 90s. That meant nights without covers and sleeping with the air conditioner on high along with a fan.
Your thick thighs stuck to the scorching leather seats of Erik’s Jeep. “Damn, you need seat covers,” you cussed, peeling your sweaty skin from the leather. Maybe wearing shorts wasn’t a good idea on the hottest day of the year.
“It’s them thick ass legs of yours,” Erik chuckled, throwing a hand on your leg and massaging it. “Not that I’m complaining though.”
You rolled your eyes, knowing he was probably thinking about his head between your legs earlier that morning. “Nigga, I’m hungry. When are we stopping for food,” you complained as your stomach growled. You two had been ripping and running all day and your stomach was screaming at you.
“We got food at home. I told your ass to drink that protein shake when we left the gym,” Erik threw back, keeping his eyes on the road as his hand remained on your thigh.
“Because that shit is nasty and I want real food, Erik,” you sassed.
Erik bit his lip, slightly turning his head, “But now you hungry after I told you to drink the shake? Stop complaining.”
At this point you were not trying to play around with Erik. When you were hungry, you would go completely Hulk if you didn’t eat. Your stomach was touching your back, it was hot as fuck and he was playing games.
“I’m not in the mood. I’m hungry as fuck, horny as fuck and it’s hot,” you admitted, pushing his hand off your thigh. “Annoying ass,” you muttered under your breath.
Of course Erik heard that shit and quickly did a U-turn and jumped on the highway. “Aight, we’ll head home then. That smart ass mouth about to get you in trouble.”
“You ain’t gone do shit,” you added, sucking your teeth. Egging him on usually meant some fire dick and you loved the challenge.
“Y/N, keep playing with me and I’ll pull this car over in the middle of the highway,” he warned, speeding up to switch lanes.
................................................................................................................................
Erik barely let you get your gym bag on the floor before he was pushing you against the front door. “Damn....wait,” you attempted to say before his lips were on yours. You could taste Winterfresh gum on his tongue.
“Nah, there’s no waiting now,” Erik spat, ripping at his basketball and compression shorts, while you busied yourself with your shorts. “You like talking shit to me, don’t you?”
He wasted no time and didn’t even give you a chance to answer before his lips were roughly back on yours, his tongue massaging yours desperately. Sex was always at another level with you two. He brought out the extra freaky side of you. A side you didn’t feel comfortable showing anyone else.
Moving towards the steps leading to the master bedroom, Erik turned you around and bent you over at the waist. Your hands barely connected with the step below you, before your man was right behind your ass and spreading your legs. “Really, right here,” you forced out, turned on by the thought of fucking on the steps. “Fuck,” you squealed, feeling his girth stretch you in a way only he could.
“What was all that shit you were talking earlier? Cat got your tongue,” he growled, with painfully, slow, deep strokes. “You said I wasn’t gone do shit?”
“Erik,” you moaned, reaching for his hand which had a tight grip on your hips. That would surely leave a mark the next day. “Please, faster.”
“Faster? We giving order now,” he said through a clenched jaw, continuing his slow pumps even with your failed attempts to make him speed up. “You gon’ take this dick how I give it to you.” His length became slicker the wetter you got.
“Oh shiiiit.” your cries echoed off the stairs, your walls clasping around him like a glove. He fell deeper, his thrusts becoming harder. Your mouth hung open, pleasure ripping through your body and making your legs shake. Wanting to feel more of him, you began moving against his strokes.
“Keep still,” Erik teased, his grip around your hips getting tighter and holding you in place. “You move again and I swear I won’t let you come.” What? Nigga, please. If I don’t get a nut, you don’t either.
His once slow, deliberate pumps turned into harder ones and were enough to make your knees week. That familiar knot formed in your stomach while Erik literally fucked you senseless. Your head was spinning, your heart was beating in your ears. If you had to hold on much longer, your arms would eventually give out and have you face planting. Keeping yourself still became almost impossible when Erik’s palm landed on your lower back, the force pushing you to your elbows.
“I can’t...” you tried to beg, words slurring together as the impending orgasm swelled in your stomach.
“Can’t what? Take this dick? What’s the matter, baby,” he barked, his voice shaking from the amount of force he was hitting you with. “Yeah, can’t back up that smart ass mouth of yours.”
“Erik, shut the fuck up and fuck me,” you hissed, your own voice shaking. Following your plea, Erik fucked you even harder, hitting that spot that made you cum every time. “Yes, baby...right there..shit I’m cumming,” you shouted, your legs collapsing but Erik caught you before your knees could touch the steps. “Baby...”
“You want me to cum inside this shit or not.” he asked, his strokes getting sloppy, indicating he was about to bust. You nodded your head, unable to use your words with yet another orgasm growing. “Use your mouth, baby girl. What do you want me to do?”
“Cum-fuuuck, cum in-inside me,” you stuttered, feeling warmth creep down the back of your thighs. “Oh my God,” was all you could mumble as your body finally couldn’t take anymore and fell to the steps.
“My bad, ma,” he chuckled when you glared back at him.
............................................................................................................................
Five weeks later, you began experienced the familiar symptoms. Mornings were the hardest for you since you couldn’t keep down your breakfast. You knew your body and the signs before you even took the test.
Pregnant, the dark letters appeared on the screen of the white stick that held your fate.
A nervous flutter in your stomach brought tears to your eyes. Fear. You were scared to death because of all the miscarriages you had experienced. You didn’t think you could go through that again.
Walking into the living room, you sat next to your boyfriend and put the test in his lap. “Congrats, daddy,” you grinned, though that fear was still written on your face. Erik glanced down at the test and then back up at you.
“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he said, leaning over to kiss your forehead and pulling you into his side.
You prayed he was right.
Five months
Six months
Seven months
Eight months
Nine months
You had finally made it to nine months, which had never happened in the past. Even after such an accomplishment, you were still afraid. To be safe, the doctors put you on bed rest and that only meant Erik would not let you lift a finger. He barely let you go to the bathroom by yourself and often stood by the door unless you begged him to leave.
“Erik, I need to take a shit, close the door and go away,” you yelled, shooing him out the bathroom. “Your nasty ass is really about to sit here and watch me?”
“If it keeps my child safe, then yes,” he spat, crossing his arms.
“Dude, if you don’t get the hell out of this bathroom, I’m never sucking your dick again,” you warned, that making him turn and leave. “Thank you!”
After washing your hands, you felt liquid roll down your legs and hit the floor. “What the fuck,” you cussed under your breath. Then you felt the pressure between your legs. “Shit! Erik!” The man must have been standing outside the door because he was in the bathroom before you could even call him again.
“What’s wrong,” he asked, taking in your position. “The baby?”
“My water just broke,” you replied, more pressure building. Maybe you were tripping out but you thought you could feel the baby’s head coming out.
“Come on, let’s get to the hospital,” Erik said, trying his best to stay calm. “Y/N, come on!”
“I’m not going to make it!”
“Whatchu mean?! Baby, come on, I’ll car-”
“Erik, the baby is coming now! We gotta deliver it right here,” you panicked. That was most definitely the head you felt. “I feel her head.”
If someone took of picture of Erik’s expression, it would be worth a million bucks. “Wha-I can’t deliver a baby!”
“You have to! Just call 911 and see if someone will walk you throu-argh!” Then there was the pain. “Erik, please.” Then the tears.
Erik immediately felt bad for yelling at you. “Aight, aight. I’m sorry, baby. Come on, lay down on this towel. I got you.” He pulled off your underwear and spread your legs at the knees. “Yeah, you right. Her head is starting to come out.”
“It hurts,” you cried, tears staining your cheeks.
“I know, I know. Just stay calm for me, okay. Imma need you to push,” Erik said, his voice calmer than it was minutes before. “Baby, you got this. I’m right here with you.”
You pushed as hard as you could when another contraction hit, the pain ripping through your lower half. “I can’t! It hurts too bad.”
“You have to. Listen to me,” he added, grabbing your hand. “Just breathe and then push. I’m right here with you, aight?”
You nodded and took a deep breath before pushing again. Taking a short break, you pushed again.
“Her head’s out. Just a few more pushes and she’s out,” Erik claimed, nervous as hell because he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.
A few more pushes later and you heard a cry, “Is she okay?!”
“Ye-yeah, she’s perfect,” Erik responded, gazing at the miracle baby in his arms. He immediately called 911 to get an ambulance for you and the baby.
When the EMTs arrived, your baby girl was safely wrapped in her father’s arms. “I got you, princess.” They clipped her umbilical cord and checked her vitals.
Once you all were at the hospital and settled in, the nurses brought your baby girl back to your room.
“She’s healthy,” the nurse announced, a smile gleaming on her face. “Congrats on your beautiful baby girl.”
The nurse placed the small human on your chest. “She’s gorgeous,” you whispered, misty eyed. Your heart grew as you stared at what you had created with Erik out of love.
“Looking like her daddy,” Erik grinned, kissing your forehead. “Thank you, baby.”
“What will we name her?”
Erik bit his bottom lip. “Hmm,” he fell into deep thought. “Faith.”
A tear rolled down your cheek, “I like that. Faith.”
Erik squeezed in beside you and threw his arm around your shoulders. “Imma protect you two until the day I die.”
Your gaze falling on Erik’s you took in the seriousness of what he had said.
“I mean that shit,” he reiterated. “Ya’ll don’t have to worry about a thing.”
And he meant it.
#erik killmonger x reader#erik killmonger fanfics#erik killmonger#erik killmonger x black reader#smut#black panther fanfics#black panther imagines#erik killmonger imagines
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