#you know. maybe I just want to see Blanche in a leather jacket now that I think about it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lulu-zodiac · 3 years

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Hidden in Plain Sight

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Jeremy Bradshaw

Tags: Early seasons Dean, pre-podcast Professor Bradshaw, denial, unresolved sexual tension, bickering, smut, gratuitous owl references, case fic

Summary: It's the fall of 2006, and a string of grisly deaths linked to local lore brings Sam and Dean to the village of Bridgewater. There, Dean finds himself working closely with the frustrating and unexpectedly compelling Professor Bradshaw.

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Dean feels about as comfortable in old colleges as he does in churches. There’s the same sense of exclusivity, that same reverence of things Dean has spent his life stuck on wrong side of. This campus even feels a little like a church, with its old architecture and sprawling ruby ivy and slit windows like narrowed eyes. His footfalls echo heavily along the cold stone corridor, making him feel uncomfortably aware of his own existence.

The door he’s looking for is old and made of oak, nestled in an alcove near the staircase, with a small plaque on it that reads Professor J Bradshaw.

Dean pauses for a moment, then knocks abruptly, suddenly noticing his knuckles are still smudged with earth. From within, a muffled voice instructs him to enter, and he does so, wiping his hand surreptitiously against the side of his leather jacket.

The first thing that hits him is the sheer volume of books in the room; they clutter every available surface, piled high in front of the big bay window like a strange line of defense. There are stacks of loose papers everywhere too, haphazard but clearly organized, some held in place by empty coffee mugs or odd-looking artefacts. The air is bright and warm, like this room catches the sun when it’s slow and mellow in the afternoons.

The second thing that hits him is the man sitting at the desk.

He doesn’t look up at Dean’s entrance, continuing to scribble away in a leather-bound notebook with intent dexterity, seemingly utterly lost in his own thoughts. He’s not what Dean expected; surprisingly young, maybe approaching forty, with a sharp jaw and tousled hair that just brushes his broad shoulders. When Dean clears his throat awkwardly, the man finally looks up with striking blue eyes that immediately pin Dean in place.

“Yes?” his voice is inquiring and several octaves deeper than Dean would have imagined, low and gravelly. He sets down his pen, looking at Dean with piercing focus.

“Uh – hey. Professor Bradshaw?” Dean feels distinctly self-conscious.

“Who wants to know?” the man closes his notebook with a snap and stands with surprisingly fluid ease, eyes still intent on Dean as though he’s cataloguing him.

He’s wearing a faded navy-blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up, slightly crumpled shirt tails poking out at the hem, just visible.

Drawing on years of sizing people up, Dean guesses that the guy probably has no one to go home to at night. If he goes home much at all, that is; the office has a distinctly lived-in look. It’s strangely reminiscent of the makeshift home feel of the impala’s interior.

“Um – Dean. Dean Collins,” Dean answers hastily, suddenly realizing he’s spent a little too long looking. “I’m uh – a student in one of your classes,” he lies the best way he knows how: with a charming smile. “I was wondering if you’ve got a moment? I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions about your work.”

“Come in, please,” Professor Bradshaw sits back down behind his desk, and gestures for Dean to close the door. “Take a seat.”

“Thanks,” Dean shuts the door and awkwardly removes three hardback books and a small, slightly drooping fern from the only available seat in front of Professor Bradshaw’s desk.

“Sorry – let me –” Professor Bradshaw leans over the desk to relieve Dean of the books and the plant. Close up, Dean can see faint lines softening the corners of his vivid eyes, and when he breathes in, he catches a hint of peppermint and the musk of warm skin, strangely compelling. Their hands brush for a moment as Professor Bradshaw takes the items, and Dean flinches, jerking away and planting himself firmly on the chair.

“So – Dean, yes?” Professor Bradshaw settles back into his seat. He’s still looking intently at Dean, gaze startlingly blue.

Wordlessly, Dean nods. He doesn’t know why he can feel the heat creeping up his cheeks.

“You’re not in any of my classes, Dean,” Professor Bradshaw says, with a slight edge to his voice. He reaches for a half-drunk mug of tea on his desk, expression skeptical.

Dean feels his stomach drop. “Uh, yeah – I’m new, just transferred a couple weeks back,” he bluffs quickly, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. He feels strangely flustered, visible.

“No, I don’t think so,” Professor Bradshaw says, flatly. “I believe I would have noticed,” he adds, wryly, with a kind of impatient warmth in his expression that makes Dean’s cheeks flare with heat all over again. Professor Bradshaw merely swallows a mouthful of tea and sets the mug back down, still looking at Dean. “So. Who are you?”

“Alright,” Dean puts his hands up in mock-surrender, smiling wide even though he feels stupidly on edge, knocked off course. “You got me. I’m – uh – a journalist. My boss has me writing a piece on local legends, and I was hoping to pick your brains. Heard you’re the expert on all that stuff around here, and thought I might be in with a better chance of talking to you as a student instead of some annoying reporter.”

“I see,” Professor Bradshaw leans back in his chair, contemplative. A shaft of sunlight filters through the bay window behind him, illuminating a hint of tawny in his dark, untidy hair. Dust motes hang everywhere like suspended snow. “Well, luckily for you, Dean, I find that my students can be just as annoying as reporters. And I still talk to them on a daily basis.”

Dean grins a little awkwardly, “Yeah?”

“Of course, I do get paid to do that,” Professor Bradshaw adds, dryly. “But perhaps I do them a disservice. Some of them are really quite inspiring.” He pauses, raising his mug to his lips. It has an owl on it, Dean notices absently. An overly fluffy one, with a slightly threatening glare. “I daresay I can spare five minutes. What is it that I can do for you, Dean?”

“Uh, so you study the supernatural, right?” Dean asks, clumsily. His hands are sweating where they’re shoved in the pockets of his jacket. “Ghosts and demons and all that shit?”

“I study the lore and mythology of supernatural beings, and why it’s important to humans to create such stories,” Professor Bradshaw clarifies, shortly.

“Right, got it,” Dean agrees, hastily. “But you’d know a bit about the Bridgewater coven?”

“I am familiar with the legends, yes,” Professor Bradshaw replies, reaching for his mug again. There’s an ink stain on the side of his index finger, smudged deep blue. Dean fleetingly wonders if it would rub off easily if he touched it, if it would leave a ghostly imprint on his own skin.

“Yeah – uh – so there’s been quite a lot of interest in the coven recently,” Dean blusters, annoyed with himself for how stupidly flustered he feels, “You know, since those bodies were found last week? At the burial site in Bridgewater Forest that’s associated with the legend? Yeah. Well, anyway, I was – hoping you might be able to tell me a little more about the legend of the coven.”

“I don’t see what the recent tragedies could possibly have to do with the legend,” Professor Bradshaw narrows his eyes skeptically.

“Right – yeah – nothing, I’m sure,” Dean lies hastily, “But the location of the crimes has definitely raised awareness about the existence of the legend, and that’s what we really want to provide for our readers.”

“Well, certainly, I can tell you the history,” Professor Bradshaw replies, briskly, “In fact, I teach an undergrad course on witchcraft in history and my lecture this Wednesday actually covers the legend of the coven. If you want a more detailed, nuanced version, you’re more than welcome to come along then – it’s at 11am in the Milton building. But I’m happy to give you the short version now, if that would be helpful?”

“Thanks – yeah, that’d be great,” Dean says, gratefully. “On a bit of a tight schedule today.”

“Well, the local legend about the Bridgewater coven has existed for almost two hundred years,” Professor Bradshaw starts, and immediately Dean can picture him talking in front of a lecture theatre full of kids. He’s a natural, something inherently captivating about the way he speaks. “In the 1800s, this village was an important site of religious pilgrimage. However, according to the legend, the village was also home to a small coven lead by a witch named Iris. Iris’s coven was said to have lived in secrecy in the forest on the outskirts of Bridgewater for years, and not to have troubled the village people. However, by 1816, the legend claims the coven had become very hostile, specifically towards the church. There were fears the coven had begun indoctrinating – or bewitching – members of the congregation.”

Professor Bradshaw pauses, swallowing another mouthful of tea. The muscles in his throat work, drawing Dean’s attention to the way his pale blue shirt isn’t buttoned up properly. He’s filled with the sudden, inexplicable urge to button it up correctly.

“More and more people started disappearing in connection with the coven,” Professor Bradshaw continues, setting his mug back down on the desk, and Dean jerks his gaze guiltily away from the line of his throat, clenching his hands into fists inside the pockets of his leather jacket. “The rapidly diminishing congregation lived in terror. The remaining members of the church all turned against each other. Then, at the height of local hysteria, Iris is said to have murdered Blanche, the minister’s daughter, in what is portrayed in the lore as some kind of statement of the coven’s power over the church.”

“Bet that didn’t go down too well,” Dean remarks, sardonically.

“Quite,” Professor Bradshaw catches Dean’s eye, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Anyway, according to the legend, the tragedy of Blanche’s death united the warring members of the congregation. They captured Iris and entombed her alive, using her own magic against her to keep her trapped. Iris’s death broke the spell on the members of the congregation who’d been indoctrinated against their will, and peace was restored to the village. The few remaining members of the original coven fled and were never seen again.”

“Wow,” Dean raises his eyebrows, “Very love-thy-neighbor.”

Professor Bradshaw snorts, “Yes. Religious leaders in the 1800s were renowned for sitting down and resolving their problems through compassionate discussion,” he remarks, dryly.

“Okay, but what about the other versions of the legend?” Dean asks, trying to remember the things Sam had told him to ask about, but drawing a total blank. His brain feels weirdly scrambled. It’s hard to remember what happened before walking into Professor Bradshaw’s office. “The other stories about the coven I’ve come across so far all seem pretty different.”

Professor Bradshaw frowns slightly. “It’s true, there are many conflicting accounts. Which is often the case with legends, being human constructions of the past,” he regards Dean slightly disapprovingly over the rim of his owl mug, a kind of skeptical stubbornness in the set of his mouth. “It’s not about knowing which ‘to believe’ – it’s about looking at why historically people have favored one version over the other and what that tells us about them.”

“Right, yeah, but aren’t legends often based on fact?” Dean pushes.

Professor Bradshaw pauses, contemplatively, “Yes. That’s certainly true in some cases.”

“Do you think it’s the case in this one?”

“Possibly,” Professor Bradshaw replies, haltingly. His expression is serious and he hesitates for a moment before elaborating; “In fact, I’m currently writing a paper about the historical figures who feature in the legend of the Bridgewater coven.”

“Yeah? Which ones?” Dean presses. He’s used to having to fake interest to get information out of people like Professor Bradshaw, but for once, he finds he’s genuinely interested. There’s something compelling about Professor Bradshaw’s evidently obsessive quest for obscure answers, something that resonates with all too much familiarity.

“Iris, predominantly,” Professor Bradshaw replies. “I’m very interested in the historical reasons women were condemned as witches. Often, it’s as simple as jilted male lovers using accusations of witchcraft as a means of revenge, or the women using herbal remedies that threatened contemporary male ideas of medicine and the body. Sometimes it’s to do with female homosexuality and society’s unacceptance of same sex relationships or women as sexual beings. Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for gay men to be condemned for witchcraft either. But statistically, more homosexual women died as a result of such accusations.”

“Uh – right –” Dean swallows, looking away. His hands are sweating again, and he wipes them surreptitiously on the insides of his pockets. Clearing his throat, he changes the subject, suddenly remembering the other thing Sam had told him to ask Professor Bradshaw about, “What about the runes?”

“Ah yes, the runes on Iris’s supposed tomb,” Professor Bradshaw’s gaze is suddenly inscrutable in a way that makes Dean’s heart thud uncomfortably in his chest. It sweeps over Dean, lingering and unnervingly blue for a moment, before he continues, “Very interesting. I’ve been studying them a great deal as part of my research. The true nature of them has always remained a mystery, and any attempts to discern their meaning haven’t fitted with the legend at all. I believe they may be key to understanding the history behind the creation of the legend. But,” he smiles, wryly, “It’s not an easy task. They’re unlike any runes I’ve come across anywhere else before.”

“Can I see?” Dean asks, partly out of interest, and partly for some way of distracting himself from the way his heart is still thumping uncomfortably fast.

“You’d have to visit the forest burial site to see them in person, but I do have a couple of sketches of the lines I’m working on at the moment,” Professor Bradshaw gets to his feet and crosses to the cabinet by the window, pulling the top drawer open.

The fall chestnut trees outside smolder amber behind his silhouette, midday sunshine pale gold and still where it filters through the window. Time seems strangely irrelevant. Dean watches as Professor Bradshaw flicks through a green binder, fingers quick and dexterous, skilled and uncalloused in a way Dean’s have never had the chance to be.

Dean swallows and looks away, ignoring the thud of his heart as he stares around at the rest of the room. He clocks a bunch of compendiums of mythology on the bookcase nearest him, and two other eccentric and slightly neglected looking plants. There’s a thick plaid rug on the couch in the corner, not quite concealing a plate of half-eaten toast. On the windowsill, there’s a little tin mug with a toothbrush in it that makes Dean wonder again just how often Professor Bradshaw goes home at all. He finds himself wondering whether Professor Bradshaw has always had nothing but an empty house to return to, or whether that’s a more recent development. He’s definitely old enough to be going through a divorce. The thought sits uncomfortably in Dean’s chest for reasons he doesn’t particularly want to identify.

“Here we are.” Professor Bradshaw’s gravelly voice, suddenly much closer, makes Dean jump. He glances around to find Professor Bradshaw standing beside him, holding out a sheet of paper. The smell of warm skin and peppermint catches Dean off guard, stronger this time, and still strangely compelling.

“Uh – thanks,” Dean says awkwardly, taking the proffered page. He feels Professor Bradshaw’s fingers brush against his fleetingly, warm and ink-stained.

Dean swallows, forcing himself to focus on the page in front of him even though his cheeks are hot with something he doesn’t want to think about. The sketches are good, a few strange vaguely Norse reminiscent symbols drawn hastily with accompanying, scrawled notes in the margins. There’s something about the runes that niggles at Dean’s brain, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, like something he’s known his whole life but can’t put his finger on.

“These are interesting,” Dean he frowns, tracing his finger along the two last symbols.

When he glances up, he finds Professor Bradshaw looking at him intently, blue eyes inscrutable. “Yes,” he says, leaning back against the desk and folding his arms across his chest. “Those are the ones which struck me too,” he’s speaking a little quieter, low voice distracting Dean from why the runes are so familiar. He hopes he can remember them, that Sam will be able to place what he can’t about them.

“So, uh, this tomb. The one with the runes on it – that’s definitely where that guy’s body was found last week? It wasn’t just nearby or something?” Dean forces himself to ask, ignoring the way his heart is suddenly thumping again. “And the girl found the week before – she was directly linked to the burial site too?”

Professor Bradshaw clears his throat, unfolding his arms. “I believe so, yes.”

“And that doesn’t seem – I don’t know – a little strange, to you?”

“Human beings committing violent acts against each other is generally something I find a little strange,” Professor Bradshaw replies, in clipped tones. “But beyond that – no. Now –” he breaks off, glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid I have a seminar to deliver in ten minutes,” he confesses, and there’s something unfinished about the way he says it, something almost reluctant. Like he half wants to stay here talking with Dean.

“No problem,” Dean stands, and takes a last glance at the sketches before handing them back, trying to commit them to memory. “Thanks, Professor.”

Their eyes meet as Professor Bradshaw accepts the page, and the room suddenly feels very airless, a pause suspended between them. Neither of them moves away.

This close, Dean can see miniscule flecks of grey like tiny stars lost in blue of Professor Bradshaw’s eyes, the way that his full lips are slightly chapped, like maybe he worries them between his teeth when he’s thinking. They’re soft pink and warm-looking, and Dean wonders fleetingly if they taste like peppermint tea.

“It was nice meeting you, Dean,” Professor Bradshaw says, gently, and his eyes are so blue.

“Uh – yeah – you too. Thanks. I’d – uh – I’d better get going,” Dean stammers, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and cursing the way his cheeks are suddenly flaming with heat. His thoughts churn unsteadily; he ignores them the way he’s learnt to.

Still feeling strangely wound-up, he nods awkwardly at Professor Bradshaw and turns reluctantly towards the door.

“Wait a moment, Dean –” Professor Bradshaw’s voice halts Dean in his tracks as he reaches the door, and Dean turns expectantly, heat thumping a little painfully.

“Yeah?”

“Here – you’re welcome to borrow a couple of books on local history,” Professor Bradshaw is pulling a couple of books down from the overflowing cabinet by the window. “They should have a bit more about the legend of the coven that you might find interesting. Divergences of the legend and so forth. I’ll need them back by Thursday morning as I’m teaching a class on them in the afternoon, but you’re welcome to borrow them until then if they’d be helpful.”

“You sure?” Dean takes the proffered books awkwardly, and swallows the strange disappointment sinks in him like a stone as Professor Bradshaw steps back again. “Thanks.”

“As I said, I’m also giving a lecture on Wednesday where I’ll be examining the history behind the legend of the coven. I meant what I said - you’d be more than welcome to attend,” Professor Bradshaw says, sincerely. His eyes are intent, and there’s a hint of something almost like hopefulness hidden in the depths of his gravelly voice. Working on long ingrained instinct, Dean chooses to ignore it.

“Thanks, I’ll – I’ll see what my schedule’s like,” Dean replies, haltingly.

“Of course,” Professor Bradshaw agrees. He turns back to his desk.

“Can I ask –” Dean pauses, watching Professor Bradshaw stuff another notebook and a stack of handouts into his briefcase. “You said you’re writing a paper about the runes at the forest burial site– do you go to there much?”

Professor Bradshaw glances up, distractedly. “Yes, I spend time there every week.”

“So you haven’t noticed anything – I don’t know – anything unusual when you’ve been there recently?” Dean ventures.

“Unusual how?” Professor Bradshaw closes his briefcase with a snap and looks up at Dean properly, eyes narrowed with sudden skepticism. It’s stronger than the hints Dean has caught at other points during their conversation, sharp and blue, a world away from the observant warmth of a few moments ago.

“I dunno – odd noises, sudden drops in temperature, shadows –”

“Just what are you asking me?” Professor Bradshaw demands, voice clipped and defensive.

“Have you seen anything like that?” Dean presses, stubbornly. Irritation prickles his skin.

“No, I haven’t,” Professor Bradshaw says, bluntly. “And you know why? Because yes, I study the supernatural – but it’s not real, Dean. I don’t know what kind of sensational article you’re writing about local lore, but I can assure you, lore is all it is.” He winds a striped scarf haphazardly around his neck, and grabs his briefcase off the desk. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”

Sam is eating some gross looking granola yoghurt pot with a plastic spoon when Dean eventually clambers back into the car, feeling distinctly frustrated.

“You took your time,” he remarks idly, raising an eyebrow as Dean adjusts the mirror with an unnecessary amount of force and turns on the ignition.

“Goddamn waste of time was what it was,” Dean mutters mutinously, pulling out of the space and then immediately being forced to hit the brakes when a cluster of students cross the parking lot in front of him. He grinds his teeth and resists the urge to honk the horn. “Thought I was getting somewhere but he completely shut down the minute I asked him if he’d noticed anything weird at the burial site.”

“Suspicious?” Sam frowns, through a mouthful of granola.

“No, don’t think so. Just really damn touchy,” Dean drums his fingers impatiently against the wheel as he waits for the students to move, “And a bit of an asshole. I dunno, suppose working in his field he’s probably used to people thinking he’s just some lunatic who believes in the supernatural.”

“And does he?”

Dean snorts. “No way. He’s got a real bee in his bonnet about it. You’d think someone who’s spent the last twenty years with their head buried in books about ghosts and covens and demonic possession might be a little more open to the idea,” he shrugs, and gives in to the temptation to lean on the horn, reveling in the brief satisfaction of making the students jump and scurry out of the way, “But no. The guy’s absolutely blind to it all, and could rival you on stubbornness.”

Sam purses his mouth in annoyance, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Get anything useful at all?”

“He did lend me a couple books,” Dean admits, nodding in the direction of the backseat. “Have to take them back on Thursday morning, though. He needs them for some class.”

“He leant you his books?” Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Dean shrugs, skin prickling in annoyance, “What of it?”

“Dunno, that’s just,” Sam swallows a mouthful of yoghurt, “Pretty trusting. Academics usually treat their books as if they’re their first borns.”

“Don’t mess them up when you read them, then,” Dean says, dismissively, as they pull out onto the main street. “You find out anything useful about the victims?”

“Not really,” Sam leans back in his seat with a sigh, “Both from middle class, religious families. Seem to have been pretty well liked by people. Hard to establish any link more than that. The wife of the guy that was killed last week seemed a bit cagey, though,” he shrugs, “Might be worth a second visit to see if she’s holding out on us about something.”

“Right,” Dean drums his fingers impatiently against the wheel as they wait for a light to change. It’s starting to drizzle, tiny flecks of grey hitting the windshield. “Are we still definitely thinking ghost?”

“Seems like it,” Sam affirms, “The way the victims died definitely points to a vengeful spirit. But the place they were killed – connected to the burial site associated with the coven? I don’t know, I was thinking maybe it’s no ordinary ghost. Maybe it’s the vengeful spirit of a witch, and that’s why it’s so powerful?”

“Hm,” Dean mulls it over, flicking the windscreen wipers on as they continue to wait. They squeak slightly, repetitive and familiar. “You could be onto something there.”

“Yeah?”

“Professor Bradshaw was telling me about the local legend of the coven. Apparently, its leader was entombed alive by a bunch of angry churchgoers,” Dean steps on the accelerator as the light finally changes, and the rain-slicked village slides past in a blur. “That’s got to be some pretty good vengeful spirit material right there. And you said the victims were both religious, right? Can’t be a coincidence.”

“Why now, though?” Sam frowns. “It’s been what – two hundred years? There must have been plenty of churchgoers who walked by the burial site before now.”

“Dunno,” Dean shrugs, staring out at the rainy smudge of fall colors. The chestnuts trees lining the street are the same smoldering hue of amber as the one outside Professor Bradshaw’s window.

They drive in silence for a few moments, wipers squeaking.

“Okay,” Sam says, at length, “So I’m thinking – we go check into a motel, get through as much of these books from your professor as we can while we wait for the rain to stop, and then check out the burial site later this afternoon before it gets dark?” Sam asks, chucking his plastic spoon in the empty yoghurt container.

“He’s not ‘my professor’,” Dean says defensively, and suddenly has to step a little too hard on the breaks to avoid running a red light.

“Alright,” Sam says, slowly. “Okay.”

“Anyway, yeah,” Dean blusters, hastily, ignoring the weight of Sam’s gaze on the side of his face, “Works for me. But first,” he flicks on the indicator and pulls into a space near a little line of local shops. “Food. Not that yoghurty shit you’ve been eating. Real food.”

The forest is steeped in quiet in the way all ancient places are, fall singing the leaves on the gnarled branches that claw their way towards the fading gold of the late afternoon sun. Dean breathes in the wet, cloying smell of moss and follows Sam’s careful path through the trees. There’s a chill in the air, but the handle of Dean’s blade is hot in the palm of his hand.

“How much further to this place?” he hisses at Sam’s back, swatting a frond of bracken out of his face and casting his gaze edgily through the twisting branches and burnt amber.

“Nearly there, according to –” Sam stops so abruptly that Dean nearly collides with him, throwing out a cautionary arm.

“What?” Dean whispers urgently, instantly drawing his blade. His heart is racing now, whole body tense, coiled, ready to attack. His gaze flickers rapidly through the mess of branches and he stands on his tiptoes, trying to see past Sam’s stupidly large frame. “Sammy,” he hisses, impatiently, when Sam doesn’t immediately answer, “What is it?”

“There’s something there,” Sam breathes, almost inaudible. His posture is still, alert. Dean can see Sam’s hold on the gun in his back pocket tighten.

“What kind of something?” Dean whispers, craning his neck to try and see. The light seems somehow dimmer already, the fading sun sliding further towards the ground. When he breathes in, the smell of wet leaves is stronger, now that they’re in the heart of the forest. His heart is thrumming so fast but everything else feels suspended in time, unnaturally still.

“I think it’s a person,” Sam murmurs, and somewhere close, Dean hears the brittle rustle of dead leaves, loud and unnerving in the wooded quiet. He watches the quickened rise and fall of Sam’s shoulders as his breathing suddenly sharpens. “They’re holding something. They – shit, Dean, they’re coming this way.”

Dean reacts immediately and on nearly twenty years of protective instinct; he shoves Sam out of the way and stumbles out into the clearing, blade brandished in front of him.

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#did i really just create a new ship tag on ao3 just because i couldn't get the idea of early seasons dean and pre-podcast jeremy meeting?#yes #yes i did #feedback truly makes my day <3 #crossposting from ao3 #bridgewater #bridgewater podcast #supernatural #dean winchester #jeremy bradshaw #dean x jeremy #spn fanfic #dean fanfic #my stuff #my posts: fanfic

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

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Looking for a Place to Happen 3

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), age gap, general stupidity, some violence and threats, toy play, forced masturbation, some content not warned.

This is dark!biker!Sam Wilson x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: There’s lots happening in Birch and you find it all too amusing.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown, When the Weight Comes Down, Little Bones, and Fully Completely

Note: Again, I’m always grateful to anyone who reads. Take care.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter 3: Wayward ho, away we go

💀💀💀

You bent and picked up your phone. The screen protector was cracked and peeling. You lifted it off and checked for any real damage. The stream had ended but it was still operational. You tucked it away as you looked between the bikers and grabbed your jacket.

“Well, thanks for the show,” you headed for the door but found yourself shadowed.

You swung the door out into the cold and that man, Sam, followed you onto the beaten down snow across the sidewalk. He stopped you before you could evade him and cross the street. You turned back and squinted at him.

“You know, I didn’t even get to pay my tab,” you pulled away from him roughly.

“So, do I get a name yet?” he asked.

“You guys are weird,” you grimaced, “no.”

“Come on, I just saved your ass,” he crossed his arms as his breath fogged before him, “I mean, you kinda owe me.”

“Maybe your friends need to learn to control their tempers,” you scoffed and hopped over the snow to cross the street. As you expected, he kept on and as you came to the other side, you turned on him. “Look, dude, you know that whole hard-to-get thing is a myth. I’m not interested.”

He chuckled under his breath and shoved his hands into his coat, “sure,” he smirked, “I can’t let you walk home alone. Not after you go and insult the whole club. Do you really not know the shit that is aimed in your direction right now?”

“Are you talking about yourself or…” you said wryly and spun back to your path, “it’s a small town, I’ll make it home.”

“Oh yeah, it is a small town,” he caught up to you and kept step with you, “you think I don’t already know where you live?”

You ignored him and zipped up your jacket as the cold began to seep in. As he said your name, you stopped short. A chill went through you that wasn’t the winter.

“You’re a creep,” you said.

He laughed again and slung his arm over your shoulder. You tried to wiggle him off but he kept you firmly in place against him. He began to walk, pushing you forward across cracked edges of ice left from diligent shovels.

“Honey, let me tell you something, what I did back there, you’re not just walking away scot-free, you get that? You want me gone? Well, then you can find out what happens without me watching your back,” he said as he squeezed you, “I can go back right now and tell those boys it’s free hunting. You won’t make it past the corner.”

You stiffened and shifted. You were never the brightest, you made dumb decisions, but you knew then this was worse than any before. Your fun time was really a big fucking mistake. How many warnings did you need before you realised how stupid you really were? It wasn’t just a meme, it was like the godfather sent a horse head straight to your door.

“Hmm, don’t think I’ve ever seen you so quiet,” he mused as his arm slipped and his hand went to the small of your back. He turned you down your street and you glanced around at the familiar houses, “listen, you’re probably scared shitless right now? Or should be if you were smart enough to notice the gun on my buddy’s hip? Or the one on mine?”

“Is this how you always get girls?” you croaked through your dry mouth as you closed in on your nan’s house.

“I’m sure other guys like the whole snarky manic pixie dream girl thing you got going on, but I’m not other guys,” he returned as he stopped you just at the end of your grandmother’s walk, “and you didn’t just fuck around with a couple of bikers tonight, you insulted the whole club. In fact, I’m a little pressed about it myself.”

He reached out and slid two fingers into your jacket pocket. He took your phone out and turned it in his hand.

“No more of this,” he put it in his back jean pocket, “not tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll go over the rest of it but… if I see one TikTok or one meme, I’m going to be knocking on that window just above your bed.”

You blanched and peeked over your shoulder. The curtains moved as you caught your nan’s grey hair disappear behind it. You put on that stubborn pout you always got when things didn’t go your way and narrowed your eyes.

“You know this isn’t normal, right?” you whined.

He snickered and puffed out his chest, “this is Birch. This is how things go.” He reached out and ran his thumb over your chin, “you’re young, you’ll learn.” He winked and looked over at your nan’s house and waved with two fingers. “Tell the old lady I say hi,” he grinned, “but I can always tell her tomorrow.”

You scrunched your lips as felt like folding inward. He turned and strode off back down the street, his shadow fading into those cast by the streetlights. You sighed and headed up the walk and pounded your soles up the stairs. You let yourself in but faced another obstacle in your night.

Your nan sucked on a cigarette as she watched you unzip your coat.

“I thought you quit,” you said as you hung your coat on the rack.

“I thought I told you to stay away from the club,” she sniffed.

“Well… I tried,” you lied poorly.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure you did,” she flicked the ash into the carpet without concern, “I’m an old lady now, I can’t help you.”

“He’ll go away. He’s just… you know how guys are,” you knelt to undo your boots.

“I do, do you?” she challenged, “I don’t remember many boyfriends gracing my stoop.”

“He’s not--”

“That man will make himself whatever he wants to be,” she gristled, “that’s how they work.”

“Look,” you stood and rubbed your forehead, “I know I fucked up. Can you just--”

“Oh, I won’t just,” she snapped, “let me tell you something, don’t be afraid to grab a man by the balls and twist. It saved me a lot of trouble.”

“Nan--”

“I’m not saying you should, just giving you options,” she puffed out smoke, “but you gotta be smart and make the shot count.”

“I don’t… get it,” you blinked.

“You will know,” she tilted her head, “women got a sixth sense. You’ll find out soon enough.”

💀

Your nan’s words stuck in your head. Your day off was no longer as exciting. You woke with a knot in your stomach and a dull stone behind your eye. You descended to join your grandmother for coffee, restless as you didn’t have your phone to keep you busy. You fidgeted and drank the bitter brew without a hit of sugar or milk.

There was a lingering shade of dread as the wise widow’s words swirled in your head with the strange man’s promise. He said he’d be back, he didn’t say what time, he didn’t say for what, but he said he would. As much as you rolled your eyes at the club, those men proved they had conviction and Sam had shown himself to be persistent.

You ate porridge with cinnamon and fake sugar. Your grandmother’s daily fare. You left her to her crosswords and her ramblings about the daily news. You told her to change the channel and lighten up before you went. She quipped back at you to “smarten up” and for once, you had no rebuttal; she was right, it was only that it was likely too late.

You sat in bed and watched Netflix. You had your laptop but you didn’t dare look at your TikTok as it just reminded you of the night before. It all began to sink in as you felt the thick arm around your neck and heard the rough gristle of the boss’ voice. You only realised then how close you’d been to biting it and it made your skin crawl.

Hours passed and you began to pace and fuss around with random pens and books. Maybe he forgot, maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe it had all been threats to make you stop. Well, it worked and you would delete your TikTok once you got the nerve to open it.

Then you heard the heavy boots on the stairs and the pounding at your door extinguished the hope disguised as doubt. You cringed and stood in one place as you couldn’t bring yourself to move. You crossed your arms and chewed your lip.

You were very bad at thinking things through. You didn’t consider that you hardly knew this man, though the fact was plain in your mind. You didn’t consider that you’d rarely been alone with a man. You didn’t consider that you knew exactly what his vulgar looks and suave words meant and that your denial could not erase them and all of these things were obvious and unavoidable.

A tapping came at the window beside the door and he waved to you as the blur in your vision cleared. You bit down on the inside of your lip and made yourself cross to the door. He turned the handle as you did and pushed his way past your reticence. He stepped in as you stumbled back.

You were good at acting cool, at being the quirky friend, the goofball, but when it came down to it, you were just clueless. It was better to seem apathetic and not let on how much of a loner you really were. You always wanted to be one of the cool kids but never really were.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he kicked the snow off his boots and it powdered over the mat, “this is a cute little place you have.”

“Alright, alright, I get it, I’m scared, okay? I’ll delete everything and won’t do it again,” you raised your hands defenselessly, “you made your point--”

“Have I?” he sniffed as he let his leather jacket fall down his arms, “because I’ve been thinking all day. How to punish you. You see, these things, you have to be punished. That’s the rules.”

“I…” you backed away from him slowly as he sat in the wicker chair behind the door and unlaced his boots.

“Not my rules, the club’s,” he said flatly, “now, don’t be lookin’ at me like that because if I’d left you with those other boys, you’d be in the rubble of that garage.”

You gulped and hugged yourself as your eyes rounded. His eyes clung to you and he grinned as he stood.

“Well, I know you’re telling the truth at least,” he said, “you’re scared.”

He neared and walked past you. He circled you and slapped your ass. You flinched and he chuckled. You were startled at how quickly he’d disassembled you. You tried to ready yourself mentally all day for his arrival and yet you could never be prepared for that instance.

He strode along the other side of the bed and pulled out the top drawer of your night stand. He shuffled through your things and slammed it. He turned back and went to your dresser and slid out the slender drawer of necklaces and random receipts. He felt around blindly and you heard the familiar roll against the wooden bottom.

“Ah, jackpot,” he pulled out the silicone vibe and spun it between his fingers as you watched him over your shoulder, “I knew a girl once, kept it hidden under her mattress, another had this vase on her desk… but mostly, no one puts much thought into hiding when no one’s looking.”

“What are--”

“Shhhh,” he hushed you as he put his finger against his lips, “it’s a very simple punishment and if I’m being honest, and let’s be clear I’m being very generous here, it’s not much punishment at all.” He took your hand and pushed the vibe against your palm, “you just gotta use that.”

You furrowed your brows as his warm hand closed yours around the silicone and he squeezed. You trembled and he let you go as he winked.

��Chop, chop,” he clapped his hands, “I can always come up with something else.”

You searched his face as he backed up and leaned on your dresser, arms crossed over his thick chest as his biceps bulged through his long sleeves. You peered down at the toy in your hands and traced the subtle curve with your thumb.

“Get comfortable, honey,” he coaxed, “when you finish, we’re done… for tonight.”

You were breathless as you turned away from him. Your head spun and you recounted all your mistakes as they rushed over you. You were so stupid. You couldn’t blame anyone but yourself but that didn’t make it any easier.

And you couldn’t do it. Even alone, you were always filled with the sense that everyone knew what you were doing with the vibe. That some lurker would hear you and expose your secret. A guilt atoned only in your pleasure.

“Tick, tock,” he chirped as you heard the wood groan against his weight, “you need help?”

“N-no,” you stuttered and dropped the toy on the bed.

You fumbled with your fly for what felt like forever. Your hands were shaking so bad and stopped as you asked yourself what you were doing. What you had to. You had no doubt in his promises. You were learning the hard way like you always did.

You shimmied your jeans down and slid them to your ankles. You got up on the bed and he tutted.

“Panties,” he snapped his fingers, “don’t be shy.”

You didn’t look at him as you lifted your ass and tugged down your panties. You kept your legs together as you unhooked them from your ankles and shoved them aside. You cleared your throat and reached for the toy as his figure loomed along the top of your vision. You clicked the button and stared at the buzzing vibrator.

“Almost there, honey,” he purred, “I’m starting to think you’re liking this already.”

You sucked in your breath and pushed your legs apart as you closed your eyes. You put your hand on the bed behind you and leaned back as you shoved the toy against your cunt and hissed as it rolled over your clit. You cupped it with your palm and moved it over your bud as the ripples flowed from your core.

You clamped your lips in your usual habit. You held in the moans that threatened and tried to ignore the soft breath of the man in the room. Your whole body was alight with shame and lust fed by the vibrations. You dropped your head forward and winced as you sensed him come closer.

“Oh, honey, look at you just diving right in,” he taunted, “that’s it… you don’t gotta be quiet with me.”

“St-st-stop,” you rasped out, “I can’t--”

“You are,” he slithered, “now keep going. I see you getting close already.”

You squeezed your eyes tight and gripped the toy between two fingers and swirled the tip around your clit. You wanted it to be over and despite yourself, his voice fed your need for release. You hummed between your teeth and arched your back as you rocked your hips against the vibe hungrily.

“Mm mm mm, honey, I don’t think you could handle a man,” he teased.

You gasped and panted as you felt the pressure pulse and you sped up. Your other arm shook and collapsed as you fell onto your back and writhed as you closed your legs around your hand and the toy. You came with a whimper as your body shook and you turned onto your side as the orgasm echoed through you.

“Very good,” he cooed and you felt a dip in the bed. You opened your eyes as he leaned his knee on the edge, “smile for the camera, honey.” You gaped at the lens of your phone and snickered as he lowered it, “now that… I think that might go viral.”

“Wha-- No,” you sat up and reached out as he stepped back and you nearly toppled over the side of the bed.

“Hmm, I might keep it to myself,” he tapped his fingertip against the back of the phone, “I don’t really like to share…” he faced you again and tucked the phone away, “I usually keep my girls to myself.” You blinked and bent your legs as you tried to cover your bottom half. He pushed his chest out and exhaled, “you are mine, right, honey?”

#sam wilson #dark sam wilson #dark!sam wilson #sam wilson x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #sequel #birch #biker boys of birch #biker au #biker!au #marvel #mcu #captain america #falcon #tfatws #avengers

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skepticbeliever-bookclub · 3 years

Note

Know of any fanfics based off the forest fenn episode of buzzfeed unsolved, particularly that moment when Shane sees Ryan in his outfit

here they are!

I’ve Kissed You Before, but I Didn’t Do It Right (Can I Try Again) - beethechange | E, 22k, Complete

Ryan grabs for Shane’s banana and takes a bite out of it. In his head it was supposed to be sexy, but he realizes as he’s chewing that it might hit a little close to home. Shane must be remembering the same thing, because he blanches and looks away.

“Sorry, too soon?”

“I’m having a Pavlovian response to the flash of your teeth around a phallic object,” Shane says, “and now my balls are trying to crawl back inside my body. Something tells me that’s not what you were going for.”

“No,” Ryan agrees, still chewing.

***After months of mooning around each other, forces (read: alcohol, nerves, gravity, tender feelings) conspire to ruin Ryan and Shane’s first night together. With a little help from their friends, dramatic training montages set to 80’s rock anthems, and the early filmography of Harrison Ford, can our heroes get things back on track?

theft by finding - varnes | E, 26k, Complete

Shane looks down at the medallion in his hand. He doesn’t know why he’s kept it, all these years. He doesn’t know why he’s kept it so close, always on hand. He should have sold it years and years ago, but he never quite managed to get around to it, and now here he is, in the burning building that is his whole life, with nothing else.

Over the groaning of collapsing wood, he hears Ryan’s voice: “Shane? Shane? Shane!”

He sounds breathless, like he’s been running. Shane kicks down the cracking front door and exits to the street, tucking the medallion into his back pocket. Ryan is standing right in front of the door, as if he had been about to run inside.

“Tell you what, Ryan, you really know how to make an entrance,” he says, brushing ash off the front of his shirt and hoping that he’s managed to keep most of the bitterness out of his voice. “So was ruining my life once just like, not enough for you?”

OR: don't lie to me, you wanted an Indiana Jones AU.

Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered Am I - colazitron | E, 17k, Complete

Look, just because Ryan looks good dressed as Indiana Jones, or dressed in various other things, and just because Shane maybe has a feeling or two about it, doesn't mean it's a thing, okay? Shane's got this.

Or: 5 times Shane had a feeling about Ryan's outfit, +1 time he did something about it

Indiana Bergara And The Lost Shirt Buttons - drunkkenobi | E, 1.8k, Complete

“Just think, when they take our picture for the paper, this is what we’re going to be wearing.”

You’re going to be wearing that forever if I have anything to say about it, Shane thought to himself as they loaded up into their rental SUV to become treasure millionaires.

wanna be felled by you - middlecyclone | E, 2.1k, Complete

The thing is, unfortunately, that Ryan's fucking hat and his leather jacket and the overall Young Harrison Ford of it all are, well, kind of really working for him.

Indiana Bergara and the Treasure of Shane Madej - hkafterdark | E, 3.2k, Complete

Two men walk into a forest. "We're looking for buried treasure," they say. There's no answer, so they go back to their rooms and have sex about it.

Fortune And Glory - orphan_account | E, 3.4k, Complete

Ryan looks too fucking good in that Indiana Jones outfit, okay?

LOST A FIC? CHECK OUT OUR FIC FOUND TAG, AND IF YOU STILL CAN’T FIND IT, SEND US AN ASK!

#fic search #fic found #shyan #skeptic believer #sbbookclub #indiana bergara

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aquagirl1978 · 3 years

Text

To New Beginnings - Lovestruck AU Fanfic - Various Love Interests

A/N: I thought I was done with the original trilogy, but Antares returning brought a fourth chapter out of me. In this chapter, the group gathers to say goodbye to the LIs that are returning for new routes. I was inspired by @aliboo's amazing artwork in where she created "glam" portraits of some LIs (permission granted by @aliboo to repost)

Credit to @violettduchess for creating this amazing AU where all the retired LIs continue to exist - her story can be found HERE.

Warnings: None

Tagging: @mcira @enchantedlovestruckfan @otakufangirl-12 @fan-girl-2 @remys-lucky-franc

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

"Here you go, Nikolai. Just as you asked," she said with a wink as she pressed the martini into his hand. "Shaken, not stirred."

"Niko, you've truly taken to the notion of the masquerade party, completely transforming yourself into your chosen character," Remy announced as he swept into the room. He sat across from Nikolai in a plush velvet lounge chair and crossed an ankle over his knee. "Aeryn, is my tea ready yet?" he asked, a faint Russian accent slipping into his voice.

Nikolai peered at Remy over his martini glass, his brows furrowed. "Now who are you supposed to be?"

"Why you, of course!" Remy exclaimed, his green eyes sparkling with joy. "Onyx was kind enough to find me some turtlenecks. You remember your phase years ago when all you wore were these things?" Remy tugged at the neck with his fingers. "How did you do it, these are dreadfully constricting?" When he noticed Nikolai's mouth agape, with no words coming forth, Remy continued, returning to his French accent. "Anyway, I thought you'd be flattered I chose to dress as you, Niko."

"I'm not sure flattered is the word I would choose. Perhaps, instead..."

"He's flattered, Remy," Aeryn interjected, placing a gentle hand on Nikolai's thigh. "He's just not there yet."

"Oh no, no. Not more of this!" Nikolai shouted when Jett and Leon entered the room. Jett was dressed in a crisp white shirt and tailored black suit jacket. Leon was sporting a plaid button-down shirt and black suspenders.

"When Remy told us who he was dressing as, we thought we'd join in the fun," Jett said. "I also never thought I'd ever get Leon to wear my suspenders."

"How much convincing did he need?" Remy asked.

"Not nearly as much as you'd think," Jett replied, gently elbowing Leon in the ribs. "It suits you, Daddy," Jett added with a smirk.

Leon's cheeks immediately turned pink. "Stop. Just stop."

"Don't you two look cute," Sevastian snickered, leaning lazily against the wall.

Nikolai nearly dropped his glass. "Now who are you supposed to be?" His face was blanched; Nikolai looked truly terrified by the wicked prince.

Sevastian pushed himself from the wall and made his way to the nearby mirror to fix his hair in the reflection. "Dave...something?"

"David Bowie!" Jett shrieked in Nikolai's ear as he plopped down next to him on the couch.

Nikolai arched an eyebrow. "I assume you had something to do with this?" Nikolai gestured towards Sevastian.

"I think you look great," Aeryn offered, ignoring Nikolai.

"You think so?" Sevastian asked sincerely to which Aeryn nodded. "Do you think she will come?" he whispered, speaking only to her.

Today was a special occasion. Normally, this group of retired LIs celebrated when an LI joined them when their route ended. But today...today they say goodbye to some of their friends. Antares, Nova and Aurora were leaving them to start new adventures with new MCs. To mark this momentous occasion, some of the current LIs and MCs were coming to bring them back.

Sevastian, of course, sent word to his MC, inviting her to join him at this party. He went as far as to tell her he was dressing up, and with Jett's help, gave her an idea or two of who she could come as.

"Yes," Aeryn replied, smiling. "Of course, she will come. And I'm dying to meet her!" Sevastian brightened, a small smile forming on his lips.

Remy stood and clapped his hands. “Let’s go mingle with the others. Can’t hide here in our little corner all night,” he added with a chuckle, winking at Nikolai. The group stood and followed Remy to the party. Nikolai begrudgingly joined them, Aeryn’s hand clasped firmly in his.

“How’s this all going to work…an LI paired with a new MC?” Jett asked as they entered the main room. The party was in full swing, with some of the partygoers dressed in costume and others remaining in their regular clothes. Unlike parties of the past, the music was not loud and booming, but rather somewhat subdued. There was a sense of sadness lingering in the room; usually these parties were to welcome a friend, not say goodbye to one.

“It’s cheating, if you ask me,” Leon replied, grabbing a glass of champagne from a nearby tray. “I would never want to return with a new LI.” Leon smiled at Aeryn as he spoke, his eyes twinkling with love.

“I agree with Leon. I would never want to come back with a new MC,” Nikolai added, placing a sweet kiss on the top of Aeryn’s head.

“I would gladly come back,” Remy interjected.

“That’s simply because you only got 4 seasons,” Nikolai said with a smirk. Remy scoffed, mock affronted.

“Oh look,” Aeryn said while grabbing Nikolai’s arm, an obvious move to change subjects. “Look at Atlas! Is he --?”

Nikolai peered over Aeryn’s shoulder, observing the pilot in the distance. Atlas was wearing a shabby black vest over a plain shirt that once upon a time might have been white. His MC was with him, her hair in a style he could only describe as appearing to be cinnamon buns. Atlas was, much to Nikolai’s shock, positively glowing. His cheeks were a ruddy red and he was roaring with laughter.

“He is most definitely plastered!” Jett snickered.

“He’s just excited the Emperor is leaving. Means more time with his MC,” Sevastian noted wistfully.

"Where's Antares, Nova and Rory?" Remy questioned.

"Nova and Rory said their goodbyes last night. Antares early this morning," Leon answered. "They wanted their final moments to be private. As they should be." The group murmured in silent agreement.

“Speaking of MCs…. shouldn’t the others be here by now?” Aeryn asked, glancing around the room. Off to the side, Aeryn spotted Darius chatting with Cal and Wrath. Only Darius was dressed up in a leather jacket and, for some unknown reason, wearing sunglasses indoors. Aeryn couldn’t put her finger on who he was supposed to be, but knew he was trying to be someone.

“Slater,” Nikolai groaned painfully, “please tell me you were not responsible for that.” Nikolai pointed an angry finger at Sascha. The entire group cringed as they watched Sascha dance dramatically around the room, dressed all in black, his face covered in black and white markings.

“Bloody hell,” Jett uttered. “No. Absolutely no. I had nothing to do with that.”

"Does anyone know who that is?" Aeryn points out an attractive brunette dressed in a maroon off-the-shoulder jumpsuit.

"She's kinda cute," Remy leered. Nikolai rolled his eyes at the Frenchman.

"She reminds me of my race car driving days, but I don't know her from anywhere," Leon reminisced. "Maybe she is..."

"They're here, they're FINALLY here!" Onyx's voice rang throughout the room.

Sevastian nervously glanced around the room, his fingers fidgeting by his sides. They're here; she is here. That is, if she came. What if she's not here? What if she wanted to, but couldn't come?

Sevastian was so preoccupied by his rambling thoughts that he didn't notice Aeryn approached him until she was under his nose. "You won't find her standing here," she said softly, urging him to search for his love.

With a smirk, Sevastian turned, and headed towards the crowd. Please let her be here, please, please, please. He thought it was her when he spotted a flash of red in the crowd, but it was only Cecelia. And he ran into Darius again. He stopped and began to seriously fret that perhaps his love just couldn't come. And then he felt it.

It hit him so fast; their connection had laid dormant for so long that he almost didn't recognize it. He didn't need to see her to know she was there, he felt her. Their connection tugged at his heart as a sense of serenity washed over him, stilling him to his spot.

A pair of hands slid over Sevastian's eyes as a familiar voice tickled his ear. "I almost didn't recognize you." Krystal felt his body slump against hers in quiet relief. He moved her hands from his eyes down to his lips, where he brushed a kiss on the inside of her wrist, before finally settling her hands around his waist. "So warm," she teased, as she soaked in his scent. He huffed out a small laugh as he intertwined his fingers with hers, enjoying the press of her body against his.

He shifted in her arms, unable to wait even a second longer. He had to see her, taste her, feel her. He cradled her face in his hands; his eyes gazed down upon her, admiring her like she was his own special gem, while his thumbs grazed her pink cheeks.

“I missed you.” Her lip trembled as she whispered the words. Krystal looked up at him expectantly, her turquoise eyes full of love, shimmering against the lights of the party. His thumb brushed against her lower lip, causing Krystal to sigh and shiver against his taut body.

With eyes closed, his mouth found hers. He buried his hands in her hair, pulling her closer to him. Breathing in her sweet, floral scent, the scent he gave her, he deepened the kiss, his tongue twisting and twirling around hers. They soon parted, both panting, foreheads still touching.

He eventually pulled back, curious to see how she looked. His breath hitched when he saw what she had done to herself – her fiery locks were teased, curls spilling down past her bare shoulders, and on her face, her skin was adorned with sparkling jewels and gems.

“You’re ridiculous.” She slid her hands in the open cut of his shirt, resting her palms on his bare chest, his heartbeat quickening under her touch. “A very sexy ridiculous, but still…” She rose on tiptoe and placed a quick kiss on his lips. “Ridiculous.”

“And you, my love, are magnificent.” He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, nudging her closer, and kissed her again. They stood there, embraced in one another’s arms for what felt like both an eternity and a split second. “I have some friends I’d like you to meet,” he murmured tentatively into her hair.

Taking his hand in hers, Krystal looked up at his, smiling brightly. “I’d love to.”

After introducing Krystal to the group, everyone gathered by the bar for a much-needed drink.

“I see he is still having fun,” Leon pointed to the pilot, who was surprisingly still standing after all this time.

“Let the lovebirds have fun, Leon!” Aeryn chided.

“I agree,” added Krystal. She nuzzled against Sevastian as he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

Leon, Jett and Remy all look down into their drinks and groaned in unison. Nikolai shared a knowing look with Sevastian, winking at the Winter Prince. It was good to see him smiling again.

“What does someone have to do to get a drink around here?” a voice from behind called out arrogantly.

“Spoiled by your private bar, eh, Emperor?” Atlas called out from the other side of the bar. Antares sighed and shook his head. He glanced over by the pilot, and saw his MC.

His face immediately fell, and he awkwardly adjusted his necktie. “Stupid blasted costume,” he muttered to himself. “Should have worn my uniform, would have been happier…” Antares looked over at his MC again. She was holding Atlas’ hands, leaning into every word he was saying. Probably regaling her with some stories about his days with the Union. Antares scoffed. Antares had stories, many more left to be told. Only now they will be shared with a new MC.

He picked up his glass of honey wine and before he could take a sip, he noticed everyone staring at him. “Yes?”

“Let’s make a toast,” Remy announced. He held his glass up and the others followed. “To new beginnings.”

“To new beginnings,” Antares whispered.

#lovestruck #fanfic #fanfiction #lovestruck fanfiction #reigning passions #queen of thieves #sevastian of the winter #nikolai stirling #jett slater #remy chevalier #leon kwan #antares fairchild #atlas molniya #starship promise

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aalinaaaaaas-sequel · 2 years

Text

Saoirse: Chapter 1

The Comissioner

masterpost

—

"Stay, stay." Savaira put her hands up mid-way, backing off from the dog looming before her. The golden beast stared her down, bearing an open smile. And all its teeth.

The woman backed up a bit more, blanching when she hit the umbrella stand. She put her hands over her face, as the dog now sprung to life. With an almost childish delight, it bounced towards her, giving her the one massive lick it could.

The pooch moved its legs in the air. "Hey, Lucky, what did I tell you about welcoming our guests." A massive, paint-splattered hand tugged the dog away. The golden labrador whimpered a bit, before following her owner's instructions to sit.

Then, the slender giant turned to her, offering his open palm. "Heh, sorry about that. I hope you're not too soaked, are you?"

She walked onto his palm, pulling the excess saliva off her sleeves. Thank goodness her leather jacket was saliva-proof. "Well, it could be worse, I guess."

If she was handed the choice between Lucky and some of the other ishaika that roamed this forsaken city, she'd take Lucky a million times over. At least Lucky had no malice in her heart.

Suddenly, a big giant hand was waving in her face. "Hey, Savaira, you in there girl? You're daydreaming again."

"I am not. I'm just... thinking."

"Thinking about what?" He slid onto one of the kitchen chairs, and cast her stumbling onto the wooden table. She could feel the dreamy gaze of his green eyes on her, trying to examine her lost soul. Straight ahead, something caught her eye.

"You know, thinking about things."

"You lost me there."

A piece of artwork laid flat on the table. From what part she could comprehend of the massive sheet, it awed her. The blend of watercolour hues coming together, the blues, the greens, the faint splattering of lilac. All of that, highlighting a figure in white, a goddess Savaira had long abandoned.

"Wow, you have it done. Oh Eniko, you seem to keep outdoing yourself." For once, she let a smile creep up her face.

Eniko placed his finger below her chin, gently forcing her gaze upward. With his free hand, he held the painting up for her to see it in its full glory.

"As flattered as I am, it's not quite done yet."

She raised an eyebrow. She could see where this was going. "Is that so? How come you haven't it done yet?"

He pointed to the border, which had a faint outline of ancient-style border patterns. "See this? I want this border to stand out silver, but I don't have the means to make it happen. Oh if only I had a record-making metallurgist by my side, then maybe my dream can come true."

Savaira had already started taking off her coat and rolling the non-existent sleeves of her t-shirt. "You're on, page boy."

With that, he kneeled down out of her sight, ruminating in the unit below the wooden counter. Meanwhile, she gazed around the room, laden with light wood cupboard doors and grey-blue floor tiles. Despite the kitchen's sheer size to her, it had a certain tightness to it.

A table and chairs stood to her right, with three of them showing the unearthly freshness of unuse. The walls were blank white bar the picture frames that broke the monotony. Though to her dismay, one was crooked.

Eniko's wiry form emerged from under the unit, pulling out a fully kitted workspace and a bar of silver. Immediately, she set into her rituals as if making her standard commissions. She grabbed the welding mask and apron, before warming her hands by the furnace. Such simple things set her at ease, and when she plucked the first bit of sliver, she couldn't help but remember the day Eniko revealed that workspace to her, as part of his proposal for her to move in with him. Oh if only things were different on her end.

"By the way, there's no rush on this." Eniko scratched the back of his head, blushing a bit.

"Really?" She began to morph the metal according to the border pattern, moving it as if it was clay. "How far off are you on completing that exhibition project?"

She could see him bring his hands together, grasping to contain his excitement. "That's the thing, this is the last piece. After that, I'm done."

"I'm so delighted for you." She looked at him for a second, hoping her comment didn't come off as sarcastic. Quite clearly, she was proud of him. And counting back to that first day... Gods, it's been six months already?! Shocking how time went so fast yet so slow. For her, Ocera felt like purgatory, and it reminded her of that folk tale about the man who wandered around, looking for work, and even in death he walked around seeking bodies to slit and burn.

His calming voice stirred her out of those thoughts."Thanks, I appreciate that. But, there is one thing I'd like to ask you."

"Is that so?" She walked back into her workspace, solidifying the next part of the pattern. Even by her standards, she was going quite quickly with it.

He leaned in a bit closer, to where she could see his eye in the window. "How would you like to present that exhibition with me?"

"Are you serious? That's a nice offer, but I honestly don't know." Her heart seized at the thought. Art exhibitions were only attended by other artists and rich people. Rich people with connections, might she add.

"Ah come on, I think it's only fair. You've helped me so much, not just with this, but with ideas and everything. You should come."

Her cheeks now had a rosy tint to them. The sharp blue glow of her eyes helped highlight that. "I'll think about it."

He smiled at her, in a way that was reminiscent of Lucky, almost. "Good, I hope you will, if for nothing else, but because you're my friend."

The metal melted in her hands, and it took her a second to realise it. She dashed to the tap and placed the metal on the counter, before washing her hands and drying them. She warmed her hands again and set about remolding the piece.

She could hear him laughing behind her. "Come on, you know I was distracted."

He was still laughing. "Yeah, you could say it smelted."

When she came out again, she gave him a look. "You should really consider going into comedy."

"I know right." He started mimicking the accent of an affluent Seldaikan, polished, formal and with that slight touch of another country's accent. "That was a very fine joke if I do say so myself."

She couldn't help but laugh at his imitation, though she supposed it helped that he knew the language whose classy, musical sound was hinted in the affluent accent.

With all those jokes that they cracked over the course of the next few hours, it was a miracle that Savaira managed to get any work done.

She stepped back, marveling at her work. Somehow, three-quarters of the pattern was done. From here she could see the awe in his eyes, twinkling like stars.

"Thank you, I really do owe you for this. I'll send you your payment in a couple days, if that suits?"

She waved her hands sideways. "Honestly, there's no need to pay me, don't worry about that."

"Are you sure, it's the least I can do."

She nodded. She really just wanted to get back to the Avenue before nightfall. "I'm sure. Anyway, see you later, Eniko."

With that, she departed. Through the little door carved in beside the main one, she emerged onto the thin, shadowy street.

Buildings like Eniko's populated this very street, dark, dusty and aged. Some places had a multitude of gaps in the walls, others were losing their paint. Thin wires went from one roof to another, and Savaira couldn't tell if it was humans or giants that put them there.

Shutters covered windows which saw no light. In the darkest places there were eyes in the depths; they were in the guttered cans and boxes used as temporary refuge, in the sewers, the windows, the walls. But the eyes she feared most, were the eyes she couldn't see.

She continued on down the road, keeping her gaze peeled on the surroundings. To her left, a couple people sat in the alcove between two buildings, lighting a fire. Even from here she could smell the smoke, it was thick and musty.

For a moment, their stares interlocked with hers. She could see it in them, the fear, the hopelessness, the lack of purpose. Their shoulders hunched, their backs curled over. That look in their eyes, gazing upon the fine clothes that she could easily afford.

As she went down that merry lane, she could hear the heavy fluttering of wings. Gray-ish feathers dotted the place, along with white, acidic splatters. The place reverberated with coos and coughs.

Her hands drifted to the dagger by her side, resting upon its hilt. She increased her pace. From here, the light was in sight. Slowly but surely, the smell of spiced food filled her nostrils.

Just then, something darker than night flew over her head, and a white thing fell from it. She put her hands over her head, waiting for that splatter of stickiness.

Moments later, she could feel something slide off her arm. It fell to the ground before she could reach it, but then she looked down.

"What is this?" She picked up the plain envelope, and tore it open with her dagger. Her heart stopped at the sight of the handwriting.

You have two weeks. Head to the bank and give us your savings. All of them.

In exchange, your grievances will be forgiven.

There is no other choice in the matter.

"Maelaira." She growled, stuffing the note into the envelope and into her pocket. Seeing the note felt like a slap in the face. Just when she thought she could get away from the Wraiths, they decide to haunt her to her grave.

No doubt there was going to be a catch to this. That alone made her hesistant. She shook her head.

There is no other choice in the matter. If Maelaira and Sarena wanted a piece of her, fine. She had no qualms about giving them their own medicine.

#giant/tiny #g/t writing #g/t #g/t community #fantasy #wip: saoirse #aalina's things

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chasseurdeloup-retired · 3 years

Text

Something Seams Off || Irene and Kaden

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Sew La Ti Do PARTIES: @threadofheart and @chasseurdeloup SUMMARY: Kaden goes to Irene to repair his jacket and they have a snicker-snacker of a time. CONTENT WARNINGS: None

Kaden ran his hands along the leather jacket as he watched the signs of the stores along the street. He didn’t want to miss the repair shop. Clothing wasn’t usually precious to him. It couldn’t be, not as a hunter. Sure, he had to scrounge and save for new clothing back in the day, but any shirt or pants could get destroyed in the wrong monster fight. The best thing to do was usually patch it best as he could for as long as he could before tossing it aside for something else decent. But the leather jacket in his grip was different. This was a gift. Kaden had precious few gifts in his life that he held onto, at least not prior to coming to White Crest. Either way, if anything was worth taking care of, it was the jacket Blanche had given him. To the point he was careful not to wear it on hunts, at least not often. Sometimes it was hard to avoid. Still, he couldn't figure out where some of the holes in the piece were coming from. It didn’t make sense. Definitely beyond his skills to repair. Time to try a professional for once. He gulped before swinging the door open. He had to remember whatever the price, he was fine, he could afford it. Old habits were hard to break. “Hello?” he called out. “Uh, got a jacket that needs fixing. This is the place, right?”

After the online interaction with the owner of the leather shop, Irene was quick to research some tips on how to better mend leatherwork. Since it wasn’t her typical area of expertise, she wanted to improve on it in the event she had customers seeking that specific service. Scattered across her table were scrap pieces of leather she had practiced her stitching. Several of her poor needles already set aside and bent at odd angles. Just then, the jingle of the door chimes caused her to look up at the customer entering her shop. With a warm smile, she got up from her table and walked over to the counter. “Welcome, I’m Irene, and you’re in the right place. What sort of fixing does this jacket need?” she asked, her hands gently patting on the counter indicating for him to set down the piece. Upon brief examination, it certainly appeared to be well-worn, well-appreciated.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” Kaden said, awkwardly and a little stilted as he walked towards the counter. He had no idea what the protocol was in this whole exchange, it wasn’t like he’d ever done it before. Thankfully she took the lead and indicated where to place the jacket so after giving her a slightly startled look, he did just that. Right. Made sense, she had to look at it after all. “Uh, there are some holes in it. Weird spots. I don’t think I made them.” Then again, he got so many injuries and brushed up against so many various fangs, claws, and pincers it was hard to keep track of the damage after a while. “Not that I-- I mean, I work in animal control. With the WCPD. Uh, Officer Langley.” Which probably didn't matter. Why the fuck was he introducing himself? And why was he nervous about a damn jacket repair? “You probably didn’t need to know that or care. Just, yeah. Weird holes. Does it… You think you can fix this? Not to-- I just don’t know what can and can’t be saved. Usually don’t try.”

Irene’s expert hands were quick to search typical areas where jackets typically formed holes. The seams didn’t seem to be split but with some of the holes, she likely would have to reline a couple of spots so that any fixing wouldn’t look like a patch job. Her eyes narrowed as she continued to study the jacket. “Overall, this looks like it’s in good condition, but the holes are… a little strange,” she noted aloud. “Like you said, definitely in some strange places. If this were a weather or cotton piece, I’d say maybe moths or something, but I’m a bit at a loss as to the cause.” Straightening up, she let out a small sigh and another smile. After all, her job wasn’t to determine what caused this but rather how she would fix it. “Well, Officer Langley, this probably will take me about a week. I think I have similar thread and fabric to fix this up, though once I’m done, it’ll look brand new.” It was clear this jacket meant a lot to him; the stress emanating from him was hitting Irene like a wall of bricks, so she hoped her words could offer some relief. “And I could offer you a rough estimate as well if you’re interested.”

Kaden rubbed the back of his neck as he watched the woman work through what was going on with his jacket. Putain, he wasn’t normally this nervous about simple human interactions. Something about it being new, unknown, it left him unsure. “Yeah I didn’t think moths would go for leather, but a brow--” Merde. He caught himself before he started talking about fae and monsters. Barely. “I mean, yeah probably not moths.” He felt his stupid heart pounding in his chest over a stupid conversation with a seamstress. The fuck was wrong with him? Maybe he shouldn’t quit hunting. He clearly couldn’t handle normalcy. “A week? Is that-- I mean, sounds good. I’m not sure how long this would normally take. I’ve never had anything repaired before. I normally just throw away things once they get damaged but I guess if I did that you wouldn’t have any business so anyway this is, uh, new. For me.” He was certain she could tell without him saying shit. Her next assurance had him even more wide eyed. Shit, was he really that obvious? He didn’t think he looked poor. He didn’t right? Fuck, maybe he did. “A rough estimate? Oh. Yeah. That’d be good. To know. If you--” His brow furrowed as he cut his sentence short once more. This time it wasn’t just him not knowing how to speak like a normal person. Something was moving. His brows knit together as he looked closer at the jacket. “You’re not…” His eyes darted back up to her. Her hands were in fact not underneath the jacket. And yet it was wiggling. “That’s not you moving it, is it?”

Irene could feel the intensity of his emotions grow despite her telling him that the jacket could be fixed. Was something else worrying him? In the past, she had worked with clients who held incredible sentimental value to their clothing articles. Perhaps this was one of those instances. With a warm smile, she looked across the counter at the man. “This jacket must mean a lot to you if you’re bringing this in for extra care. I assure you that your jacket is in great hands with me, officer. You’re doing great,” she added lightly with a small chuckle. Grabbing a notepad and a pen, she scribbled a few quick notes about the current condition of the leather jacket and the exact fixes the officer was requesting. That helped her approximate the cost. Just as she was about to write out an estimate, his question caught her by surprise. “Hm? N-no, what do you mean?” she asked, her eyes instantly darting to the jacket to see brief movement. Shoot, did her shop have mice or rodents? “Oh goodness!” Without thinking, she lifted the jacket up, expecting to find some sort of critter there only to spot something… not quite exactly that or anything she had seen before. “What--” she jumped back in surprise, her eyes wide after she immediately dropped the jacket back down.

Kaden nodded a little along with her words. “I mean, sure it, uh, I like it and all. But it’s not that important.” Putain, why did he say that? What if that meant she was less careful with it now that she thought he didn’t care? “Not that-- I mean. Yes. Thank you.” Fuck, what if she was fae? And he just thanked her. And why did she have to reassure him that he was doing fine with a basic social interaction. Sadly, his ineptitude wasn’t the biggest disaster in the room. When she moved the jacket, out hopped a small rodent looking creature. Only it wasn’t a mouse or rat, no no. That was a snicker-snacker. No missing it. “Putain,” he grumbled to himself. “No wonder there were holes.” Out of instinct, Kaden reached for his knife in his back pocket, but his hand hovered and hesitated. Just long enough for the supernatural rodent to scutter off. Shit. But he couldn’t just stab the snicker-snacker right in front of her in her shop. He wasn’t the most experienced with social norms, but he was pretty fucking sure destroying shops with knives was frowned upon. He twisted and turned looking to see if he could find the creature. “Must have been in the jacket. Not sure how I missed that.” Had to have crawled in one night when he was hunting. At least he hoped that was the case. If he had an infestation in his apartment, well, he didn’t want to think about the destruction waiting for him at home. “Did you see where it-- there!” he shouted as he leapt towards a corner of the store, diving onto the floor, trying to clasp the rodent with his bare hands. It skittered just out of reach, running to the other side. Shit. He had to get it or else it could be bad news for her shop. It had definitely gone to the left. Only, when he glanced to the right, he saw it there, too. No, not the original one. There were two. “Uh. Think you’ve got a problem here,” he told her, trying to pick himself up off the floor.

If the rodent-looking creature scared Irene, the man pulling out a knife immediately caused the seamstress to shriek out of surprise and fear. But her attention was quickly drawn back to the thing that jumped off her counter and was not running around her shop. With wide eyes, she pulled her gaze back to the man as she tried to process just what had happened. Irene wasn’t normally one for any sort of judgment, but yes, how had this man conveniently not realize that something like that was burrowing his jacket? Before she could even respond, Irene toward the floor as the creature skittered across her feet to the man’s left. Another yelp escaped her lips as she jumped back in surprise. It was one thing for rodents to be scampering around, but she will not have them messing up her shop. Trying to think quickly, Irene grabbed a broom from the corner and glanced to the right and saw… another one. Confusion etched across her face. “Oh no…” she muttered quietly as she slowly raised her broom. Was this her weapon now or a poor decision of a shield? Who knew. “What are those?” she asked in a soft voice, hoping not to startle these creatures with any sudden noise.

This was a problem. One snicker-snacker was bad news. Two were exponentially worse. And for all they knew, there were more than even that. Kaden started to listen and look for any more signs of them, trying to keep his steps quiet as he ducked down to look at any and every corner. “Snicker--” He paused before finishing his answer. Saying “snicker-snackers” was going to make him sound like he was out of his mind, wasn’t it? And it wasn’t exactly keeping the supernatural a secret at that point either. Putain. “Uh, rodents. Mutated mice. I think.” That worked, right? “They’ll eat through just about anything so be careful.” This whole shop would be in bad shape if an infestation broke out. All the clothes and fabric would never last. He glanced over to see how she was holding up. Broom wasn’t a bad idea on her part. Shit, if only he had his work kit. No nets or cages on him now, unfortunately. “Got anything to trap them with? A basket. A bowl. Anything?” He saw a jar full of pins. This was a terrible idea. “Putain,” he grumbled to himself as he dumped the pins as carefully as he could manage onto the table he picked the jar up off of. “Sorry about that. I, uh, I mean looks like it’ll work.” He caught a blur of motion out of the corner of his eyes and leapt towards it, jar in hand. “Sweep it towards me! Corner it”

Irene watched the man move around expertly ready to attack. She clutched the broom tighter against her chest as her heart pounded loudly in her ears. “Snicker? Like--what, like the candy?” she asked incredulously. Her brow knitted tightly as she tried to keep an eye on even just one of these creatures. “Mutated mice. Wonderful. Thank you evolution,” she muttered under her breath as she took slow, quiet steps through her shop. Rodents weren’t something she was scared of; hell, she’d seen her fair share of very brave rats in New York. This? This should be a piece of cake, though she had no idea what sort of advantages these mutations gave these rodents. Her eyes quickly scanned the room in response to his request. “Uh… how’s this? Wait!” she called out, unable to find a suitable container before the pins were spilled out. Great. But she had little time to process that before she also caught sight of a dashing blur past her. Instinctively, she swept broadly with the broom, the bristles making contact with something, and a loud squeak seemed to indicate she must have caught the rodent. “Coming your way!” she called out as she made one swift broom push toward the man. “Well, that has to be one, right? Is that it?”

“Uh, sort of,” Kaden started. With how often he ran into the supernatural in this town, it was hard to remember how few of the residents actually were in the know. Code said to keep shit secret, he needed to try a little harder. As he dove, he slammed the lar over top of where he’d seen the blur. Only to catch something just to the left of him. Shit. He reached out with the jar again as she swept the lump towards him, capturing the creature underneath. “Got it!” he shouted, keeping both hands on top of the small jar, just in case. There was a sound of something splitting behind him. Putain. He kept one hand on the jar as he twisted to try and look behind him. A table leg had snapped in two and he was certain if they didn’t hurry, there might be less than three legs there. “Shit, shit, shit.” He was making a real fucking great impression here. He had to let go of the jar to get over to the other one. “Uh, do you have a book? Or a weight? Or something? And one more--” He paused. “Maybe two more jars. Just in case.”

Irene's stress levels increased, both from wanting these creatures out of her shop and from the fact that this whole instance was creating a giant mess of her shop. Had these things always been around this entire time? A hazard of her work she never considered before? As the man dove down, Irene held her breath until she saw that he had managed to catch something. “B-book? Um, goodness, I have uh I have a couple of binders of fabric swatches,” she said, frantically reaching for these from the desk in the back. And jars. Her eyes looked for a few more of those, all filled with things like thread scraps or buttons. The priorities now though was definitely in capturing these creatures, so she poured the contents out into an empty box and quickly returned to the man. And then she saw the cracked leg on her table. Oh goodness why was this happening. “I hate to bombard a customer with orders, but please get these things out of here before the rest of my shop is destroyed,” she pleaded.

This was not the first impression Kaden had planned to make. Granted, he didn’t start off on the best foot so guess he didn’t have much to lose. He’d shifted and let his foot rest on the jar while she went to grab more supplies to trap the creatures, untrusting of what would happen if he left it unweighted. He didn’t want to find out if the snicker-snacker could topple over the glass. At least it couldn’t eat it. Well, it shouldn’t at least. It wasn’t exactly wood or fiber. He looked down. Floors should be safe, too. Right, better get them out quickly. “Thanks,” he said, taking the book and the jars from her. He dumped the book on top of the makeshift snicker-snacker trap and hoped like hell it was enough to keep it there. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the little pest run up and back towards his jacket. “Oh no you don’t,” he said, diving towards it and yanking it away off the counter. The mutant mouse went spinning and flying in the air as the rug was pulled out from under it, but landed on its feet and scurried off. Merde. He’d have to be more careful.

Jars in hand and ready to pounce, Kaden tried to move quietly around to the back of the counter to see if it had landed back there. A flash of fur and horns darted out, squealing towards the table with three legs. “Not today, you little bastard,” Kaden said as he threw himself at the table, crashing into it, causing all sorts of odds and ends to go flying and clattering to the floor as he wrestled to get the jar on top of the creature. All he got was a spool of thread. Good thing she’d handed him two jars. He reached out with his left hand and slammed the glass down, praying he didn’t break it with his hunter strength and heard a squeal as the tail wriggled out from underneath the lip. If it were a mouse or a rat, he might feel a ping of remorse. But a snicker-snacker? He dug the jar down to the floor a little harder before the tail snaked its way back under the container with another squeal. “Got it,” he said, breathing heavily as he pushed himself off the floor.

Irene watched with astonishment as the man moved so expertly. Her eyes darted back and forth between the now-occupied jar and the precarious situation of her table. “Sure…” was all she managed to respond. With her hands now empty and the man chasing after the other “mutant rodents,” Irene’s attention honed onto the jar. She could hear the skittering of the creature, sounds of tiny claws scraping against the glass in an attempt to escape. Leaning down onto her hands and knees, Irene took a peek at the rodent inside, this snicker thing, and let out a small gasp. It looked like a mouse or a hamster but with horns. What the heck was in the White Crest water that mutated the rodents into something like this? Her thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sudden slam from the man, the sound of another jar crashing onto the ground and securing another creature in its confines. “O-okay, what do we do now? I mean, are we supposed to let these go out in the wild? Is there animal control for something like this?” And how dangerous were these things? So many questions ran through her head. Then her face paled lightly at the next thought. Did these need to be exterminated? Despite the trouble they brought, the idea soured her stomach.

Kaden brushed off his pants and arms after standing and taking a look at the chaos around the room. Putain. Not how he intended this to go. Couldn’t even have a simple interaction in a store in this goddamn town. “Lucky for you, I am animal control. Obviously not on duty right this second. Or else, you know, I’d be prepared.” He sighed and pushed his hair back into place. “They’re pretty destructive, as you can see,” he said, gesturing to the poor table. Shit. “Uh, I can, pay for that, by the way. I sorta brought them here.” No clue how he was affording that but tables couldn’t cost that much, right? Shit. “Reproduce exceptionally fast, too.” He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. This was the worst part. People already had bad takes on animal control half the time. He’d been called an animal killer too many times for his liking. And it’s not like he could tell her these were clearly monsters and out himself. No one liked to hear about dead animals and he couldn’t blame them. But these weren’t sweet little mice, these were pests. Abominations. Capable of destroying full houses if left to their own devices. “For now, I’ll take them out of here. They’re definitely not adoptable, though. I’ll do a relocation out in the woods, though.” He hoped she would buy it. There was no way he was going to chance a snicker-snacker infestation in town.

It was the sudden calmness that stressed Irene out even more. Was this it? Were all of them caught in her jars? “You? You’re animal control?” Had he said that earlier before all of this happened? She couldn’t recall. A hand ran through her hair, the other hand almost resting against her damaged table before she spotted the broken leg. She quickly pulled back and sighed. At least that table was a hand-me-down from the previous tenant of the shop, and Irene had been hoping to upgrade to a more customized work surface. “Um, yea, th-thanks, I think,” she said mindlessly, unable to fully assess the severity of these creatures. “Like rabbits. Or rats. And I thought New York rats were damaging,” she muttered to herself. How did those things even scurry onto him and into her shop? “Right, your jacket though. If uh if you still wanted that mended, I can still take that on but I might need more time now because…” her voice trailed as she gestured to her mess of a space.

“Officer Langley, yeah. That’s me. Animal control.” Kaden almost felt like he should apologize for that fact. Almost. He did catch them, after all. “But yeah, like rabbits or rats. Only they’ll eat through your table legs. Uh, anyway, if you don’t mind, I’ll go get something more appropriate to transport them and come back.” He’d make sure to bring a knife with him, too. Maybe a few extra cages in case more of them showed up in the interim. He was about to turn and walk out when his eyes shot back to the jacket, brows raised. Right. He almost forgot. “Oh, yeah. If you can. No rush. At all. Um, thanks, and,” he paused to look around the room, “sorry. I’ll be back soon.”

#writing #wickedswriting #chatzy #threadofheart #irene #something seams off

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silence-burns · 4 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 33

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine

[Somewhere in a universe far, far away…]

There was a soft brush of fabric on the polished floor that accompanied the approaching steps of leather shoes. Frigga stopped a little to Heimdall's left.

"What do your golden eyes see, my friend?"

"They see many things, my queen."

Bifrost glimmered in the million colors under their feet. Lines and flashes passed faster than the human eye could see. The sword that was the key to every way, waited in Heimdall's hands.

"What do you see of my troubled sons?"

"They are both learning through new experiences."

Frigga sighed. "Which usually means they’ve gotten in even more trouble. Tell me, what is it this time?"

Heimdall stood tall on the dais, the armor forged in ancient times by the hands of legends half forgotten by time still impeccable. The worlds moved before his eyes, with no secrets hidden from the gaze of the All-Watcher.

"They are faring well, my queen. Even Loki."

"I had hoped that banishment to Earth would be a better choice than the dungeons." Frigga's hand clutched the gown over her heart. "What did he do this time?"

A smile ghosted on the lips of the All-Watcher. "It appears that he's made friends. Quite close ones, I dare say."

"Oh, dear," Freya repeated in a completely different tone. A wicked light played in her eyes. "Do tell, my friend."

[The same universe, a little closer]

Life in big cities bears a certain strain on everyone's minds. Despite what the newspapers, thirsty for anything and everything worthy and unworthy of filling the pages with, would like you to believe, life had always been difficult.

Time is always lacking, and money is never enough, and no matter how much you strain your brain, it just sometimes happens that you might not remember about the things stored at the very back of your tiny shop, tucked cozily into the corner of a very calm street.

"Well," the man said. "I had no idea that I still had those in the freezers. I could've sworn that I have cleaned them before the winter and left nothing except for the packed broccoli. It must be your lucky day, my boy."

The boy indeed felt very lucky. It was not everyday that one could be sent out to fetch ice cream for a living god in the middle of winter.

"Have a nice day, sir!" he called on his way out.

The chilly breeze bit into his cheeks, warmed up in the comforting interior of the grocery. Snow shined on the few surfaces not yet stamped on. The sidewalk Peter chose was a slippery trap that only his spider senses got him through unscathed.

Loki sensed his coming, and looked over his shoulder at the approaching boy. His other arm was currently wrapped around your shoulders, tucking you closer into him. Peter tried his best not to stare too openly, but couldn't stop the grin from splitting his face. He sat on the other side of the god, the bench icy cold.

"Thank you, my boy." The god took the ice cream with obvious delight. It had been your idea to spend the few hours before Peter's totally-not-a-date trying out the goods New York had to offer. At first, Loki had snickered at the suggestion of trying out whatever ice cream was available in the middle of winter, but after a few interesting flavors were discovered, Loki apologized. There was an almost disturbing variety of flavors Loki couldn't even imagine existing.

"You're welcome, Mr. Mischief. I'm sure there would be a bigger choice if it was summer. I always go to that one vendor two streets away from my house, because he has this special recipe that absolutely blows my taste buds away every time."

"Sounds intriguing." Loki's mind conjured the last time his taste buds had been blown away. If he recalled that unfortunate event correctly, it had something to do with pizza and a bet. "But I think I'll pass for now."

The look of pure adoration in the boy's eyes hadn’t perished.

"I still can't believe you won't get sick after having so many," you said, and watched Loki devour the caramel.

"It must be nice to be a god," Peter sighed. "You have awesome superpowers, get to do what you want and they even make action figures of you…"

Loki frowned. "The what?"

Peter blanched. He started fumbling with his jacket and 'accidentally' looked at his watch. "Oh, I think I’ve gotta go, it's getting so late and I don't want to make MJ wait—"

Loki reached out and fixed the hair Peter had been nervously fighting with for the past few hours they'd all spent outside. "Don't forget the ring, boy."

"Thank you!"

The boy was beaming on his way out of the park.

"I'm never washing my hair again."

The totally-not-a-date that was steadily approaching was something Peter wasn't sure he was ready for. So many things could go wrong—and he had already imagined most of them. It wasn't as if he couldn't sleep all night thinking about it, he just… Was busy. Thinking.

Peter straightened the jacket that was in absolutely no need of straightening. His hand moved to his hair, but he stopped it halfway with a smile. It'd been touched by the hand of god, so it was as good as it could ever get.

On his way out of the park the three of you had been resting in for a while, Peter's mind was in a strange disarray of thoughts. However, he was still capable of noticing the interesting new graffiti decorating the Avengers' statues set up in the middle of the park. Whoever decided to redecorate them this time, certainly had a pair of skillful hands. The wild mustache covering half of Iron Man's face looked almost lifelike.

Loki and you watched the boy leave, nervousness apparent in his every too-stiff step.

"They grow up so fast," you sighed, leaning further into Loki.

He nodded. His finger circled lazily around your shoulder, drawing spiralling patterns. Loki turned his head toward the memorial statues raised in the central part of the park. People took pictures in front of them, posing and smiling as they milled around. Those were the heroes, after all. Saviors of the day.

Loki added a mustache to another statue.

You noticed and eased a giggle. "They're going to be so pissed."

"My very soul aches at that thought. What a terrible crime."

The patterns changed as you shifted slightly. The presence on his shoulder was warm and softened by the fabric of clothes that kept the winter frost from you.

"I thought using magic in this world was difficult."

"It is.There's a lot more focus required to make it work than I'm used to. It's nothing dramatic, though. I've heard of worlds where the trickle of magic is even more strained, to the point where it barely exists at all."

"Do you miss them? The other worlds, I mean. Like Asgard."

The patterns changed again. They slowed down, became more deliberate.

"Sometimes," was the honest answer and the one he gave after careful consideration.

"Will you leave, then?"

Loki looked down at his wrist, where a thin band of metal used to reside, blocking every and all effort he might take against leaving Earth or using magic in any form. It was no longer there, which meant, although it would be extremely difficult to conduct, Loki could technically leave.

The only obstacle was that it was no longer his priority.

"I've never been one to sit aimlessly on my ass for too long, and especially not when and where I had been forced to do so. I think I could name more than a few places I'd like to pay a visit," he admitted, putting his cheek on the top of your head. His throat bobbed slightly. "The only problem is that I just recently found out how terribly boring touring alone might be. It's a real wonder why anyone bothers to do so anymore, and," he swallowed, "I think I could use some company."

Loki cursed himself for putting his head on top of yours, and blocking the view of your face. Especially as he still didn't get any answer. His heart jumped into his throat, making it difficult to breathe.

"...I mean, I know it's still so early, and that's okay if you feel overwhelmed or unsure and I won't force you into anything more than you're willing to do—”

Loki's rumbles were cut short when you finally moved to look up at him. The wild gleam in your eyes and a wicked smile so similar to his struck him dumb.

"You'd never be able to leave this planet without me."

A choked breath, so similar to a whispered name ghosted over his lips. "Of course I wouldn't. What would be the fun in that?"

[The galaxy, elsewhere]

"Oh, dear," the queen broke the biscuit in half with perfect manners. Barely any crumbs dared to ruin the fragile dessert. "I guess he really is experiencing something new."

Heimdall sipped the tea. Servants at the queen's quarters left them with a small table full of goods of the highest sort. The warm breeze played with the curtains with the subtle shimmer of gold. The trees rustled on the wind, losing old leaves to it.

"He's also plotting an escape," Heimdall added. His helmet laid on his knee.

Frigga waved the biscuit in a gesture that had very little to do with manners. "That sounds more like him."

The softest hint of a smile graced her features.

"I wonder what will become of him. Maybe it's in my nature as a mother, but no matter how much I try, I can't help but continue to worry about him, even after all these years."

"I swore to keep an eye on him, and I will." Heimdall put a hand to his heart. There was no smile on his face, only seriousness as he recalled an oath he'd never break.

"Thank you, my friend."

#Please Hate Me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki #loki laufeyson #i love loki #marvel #loki marvel #loki mcu #loki fanfiction #loki imagine #loki laufeyson imagine

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justanotherpersonsuniverse · 4 years

Text

“Last One Out of the City of Paris”

Okay while I planned to write a whole one shot fic of this (I might still do so) scene/fan chapter for @symphonic-scream ‘s Feral Jock AU- however I only ended up with this draft before I burnt out- so I hope you like it..?

——

The drive to the concert was horribly quiet. No one wanted to say a word, especially Sabrina who did her best to keep her eyes on the road.

Look- she didn’t have a license, it was illegal for her to drive, she stole The Gorilla’s car- the way she styled herself this night made her at least look more wild- but if someone pulled her over right now, it was over.

Looking to her left, Alix seemed to at least be vibing, tapping her fingers rhythmically against the seat to the rock music drowning out their thoughts- and looking in the mirror, she could see Adrien.

He sighed, clearly cracking “Look! I know we were all thinking it! Sorry! But she kinda looked like Chloe!” He said, Alix’s tapping stopped “You noticed, I noticed, we all noticed!”

Sabrina cringed and Alix let out a bark of laughter

“Ohhhh! Was that why you were acting like such a dork?” Alix asked teasingly. Sabrina blushed

”No! It’s- no it’s not that!” She sputtered, her grip tightening on the wheel “She- No it’s just a coincidence! I- I mean yes I kinda met her because of Chloe- after Vanisher I bumped into Aurore and we- never mind. This isn’t about either of them. I’m done thinking about the past. I’m all about the present and future right now! I’m going to a show, I’m driving, and I’m going to socialize with new people!”

“Sure, if that’s what you call socializing.” Alix giggled. Adrien suddenly let out a surprised wheeze

“Shes right outside the window!” He shouted

Sabrina paled “What?!”

Looking to the side seated in the passenger seat of a car along with a few other people was her. Aurore. Her eyes darted back at the road, her face flushed.

“Come on honk at her! Get her attention!” Alix yelled

“But the road!”

“She’s not driving!”

“But I am!” Sabrina squawked. It was too late though it seemed, as Aurore’s car sped up past a yellow light and Sabrina slowed down.

Her shoulders slumped as she stared up at the red light, pouring into the van.

“And there goes your second chance.” Alix said, leaning forward in her chair a little boredly.

“Its okay Sabrina, maybe next time” Adrien’s soft and kind voice said. Sabrina was silent, her eyes narrowing at the light.

It felt mocking. Overwhelming.

‘”Never ever be like that, Sabrina!” Roger’s voice echoed “Ruffians! All of them! Punks! Just like those no good vigilantes! I’m so glad you’re not a freak those two!’”

Closing her eyes Sabrina took in a deep breath as the song playing on the radio began to pick up.

Her teeth clenched as she readjusted her leather jacket, tying her hair back before she gripped her hand on the gear stick. Yeah. Screw that.

She blasted through the red light, sending the car full throttle- ignoring the speed limit signs flying by. She heard Adrien and Alix yelp as they were tossed back into their seats.

A feeling of adrenaline rushed through her veins as they sped across the road- buildings flying past them.

“Sabrina what are you doing the light was red!” Adrien exclaimed, Alix meanwhile was cackling

“FUCK YEAH REBEL SABRINA!”

Suddenly however, the horrid sounds of a police siren blasted from behind them

“Uh oh.” Glancing at her mirror Sabrina blanched as she saw the familiar determined look of her father in the police car behind them.

“Pull over punks!” He could hear him shouting over a megaphone

“What do I do?! She yelled

“We have to pull over and show him your license!” Adrien shouted

“Adrien I don’t have a license!” Sabrina cried

“But- but you’re good a driving!” He said confusedly

“THAT MEANS NOTHING HERE!” She shouted

Alix let out a laugh “We’re so fucked!”

Sabrina grimaced, glancing back at the mirror to look at the man chasing them. Her eyes narrowed as she made up her mind, as she stomped down on the gas petal even harder than before- the car shooting faster down the stretching highway.

Alix and Adrien screamed in surprised, Alix’s voice echoing through the car as she melted in laughter. She hadn’t even noticed them shooting past Aurore.

“Sabrina! You can’t just drive away! It’s your dad! This is serious!” Adrien sputtered

“H-Holy shit! Hahaha! Sabrina you’re a total badas-”

Alix jostled forward as Sabrina adjusted the gears again, slamming on the breaks and turning the wheel as the car drifted and jerked around.

“This is why we buckle up.” Sabrina said, glaring out of the window as the car skidded around a sharp corner, continuing forward like it was nothing as they slammed into the ground again after almost being practically airborne down a hill. “Hold on!”

Glancing back again and seeing The police car skid around clumsily, she pressed against the gas petal again- turning off the lights. Staring off she could see a billboard sign as the road teetered off into fields beside the road-

Twisting the wheel and pulling against the gear stick- the car spun for a few moments, before she pulled back and clicked the radio off. Casting them into darkness and silence

Sabrina put a finger to her lips “Shh..” she grinned- as after one.. two..

Roger’s Police Car shot past the board. The three sat in silence in the car, sweat rolling down Sabrina’s forehead as her heart pounded inside her chest. A weak smile spread across her face as she turned to look to the two of them

“I’ve broken so many fucking laws tonight holy shit.” Sabrina breathed, before looking down “.. we ran out of gas.”

#feral jocks au #ml feral jocks au #sabrina raincomprix #alix kubdel #adrien agreste #aurore beauréal #writing #aubrina

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witchcraft-in-wonderland · 4 years

Text

Snakes and Scandals (Pt.1)

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

Virgil Blanche hated a lot of things, that was a given. He was, after all, an extremely poor twenty-two year old man living in the slums of a high-end empire city. Every day he would sit through nearly ten hours of abuse from costumers who were raised to think they were better than everyone else, and even the ones who weren't born rich were corrupted very quickly.

"Excuse me? Is this still eligible for a return? I tried at another store and they rejected me but I only bought it a few days ago," Virgil merely sighed at the hat and scarf clad man in front of him.

"If you bought it less than two months ago its eligible for return, if someone told you it wasn't you can file a complaint," Virgil never spoke very clearly, but he appreciated the man at least pretending to understand what he was saying.

"Thank you," it was at this point Virgil seemed to register that the man was speaking with a slight russian accent.

"Have a nice day," Virgil said in a monotone voice.

The day continued as all days working in customer service usually did, of course, had Virgil checked his calendar, maybe he would've realized that it was National Frame a Retailer For Flirting With You day. He didn't have much time to react, whoever the girl who'd used him as a cheating scapegoat was, she was very quiet, and her boyfriend was very fast.

"You tryna make her look dumb? Huh? Is that what you want?" Virgil tried to protest but ended up with a faceful of knuckles instead.

He should've known it wouldn't end well for him, at least he wasnt dead, but now he had a bloody face and was sitting in the managers office, waiting to hear his fate.

"So you punched him?" Virgil's boss was very stereotypical, blonde, bob-cut, light brown eyes, and Virgil knew she hated him. She always acted excited about his new piercings or tattoos, and of course she congratulated him when she found out he'd finally managed to afford top surgery after saving up since age fourteen. But he could tell it was all fake. He wasn't social enough for customer service, after all.

"In self defense, only after he broke my nose," Virgil responded. His manager pursed her lips together, glaring slightly from behind her glasses.

"And you are aware they intended to sue, yes?" Virgil gritted his teeth,of course they were, after all, why attack a store employee if you didn't want to sue them, or, at least, if you didn't want free starbucks every time you showed up.

"No, I wasn't, because they attacked me first," Virgil said calmly.

"I'm sorry Virgil but I'm going to have to fire you," there was no hiding the look of pure glee on the managers face as she delivered the news.

Virgil merely set his name tag on the table and left, all the while clutching his face. It burned, badly, some people needed to go to the gym less.

"You alright dude?" Virgil moved his hand to look at the man in front of him. Tall, skinny, with a mustache on his face and a white streak in his hair. The man had a worried look on his face, though his eyes conveyed a vague crazed look.

"Yeah, sure," Virgil said. He was about to walk away when the taller man grabbed his arm.

"Come with me, I'll help clean you up," Virgil was honestly to tired to argue, so instead he merely followed.

"Roman! I think I found you a new model! A little bruised up but I think he'll be ok soon enough!" Virgil had stopped listening after 'model'.

"Wait wait wait wait wait- I am definitely not a model-" Virgil tried to shrink in on himself.

"Well of course you arent yet! Oh Remus you life saver look at him! He's brilliant!" A boy who looked similar to the one with the mustache rushed out from behind a pillar, planting a kiss on the receptionists cheek as he ran.

Remus smiled, "I'll go get some ice packs and bandages, you two can talk," he said, running off.

"Roman Prince-Duke, head of Rome Fashion Company," Roman said, holding a hand out.

"Virgil Blanche, head of confused and worried emotions company," Virgil said, Roman let out a laugh.

"So what happened? If you're comfortable sharing that is," Roman said, gesturing to Virgil's face.

"Girl got her boyfriend to attack me at work for the sake of coupons," Virgil said, shrugging.

"Oh dear. . ." Roman said, his face falling slightly.

A few minutes later Virgil was sitting on a bench with ice pressed against his face and Roman listening intently as the receptionist told him what he should do.

"Gods Lolo you're so cute when you're being smart," Roman said, smiling and leaning his elbow on his knee, head pressed against his hand. The receptionist's face flushed with color.

Virgil honestly wasn't sure how calling him a model wasn't a joke, yet here he was sitting in the lobby waiting for Roman.

"Alright Virgil! Let's get you ready for your first shoot shall we?" Roman brought Virgil up by the hand, spinning him slightly before guiding him to another room.

"Lucky for you we have plenty of outfits in your size," Roman said.

"Mention my height and the fabric scissors might find their way up your nose," Virgil growled. Being 4'8 never exactly helped his case, he didn't normally get aggressive easily but it was a bit touchy for him.

"Oh dont worry, I learned my lesson with Lo on our first date," Roman said.

An hour or so later Virgil was dressed in a purple sleeveless top with black lace along the neckline, a black corset, ruffled black skirts, and black boots with heels. It felt, nice, and Virgil wasnt sure why. Normally he hated the way he looked in everything, but for once in his life he felt like royalty.

"Remy! I've got a new model for you!" Roman said as they entered another room with all manner of different sets and cameras set up.

A man with a leather jacket and sunglasses popped out from behind one, jaw dropping slightly "Roman you SAINT! Where'd you find him?!" Remy said, circling Virgil and looking him up and down.

"That credit goes to Remus, speaking of which, I've got business to attend to, you boys have fun," Roman said, turning on his heel to leave, the nearly floor length skirt of his outfit sweeping behind him.

"Alright babes you look like you're about to pass out right now so let's take a little break m'kay?" Remy walked with Virgil to a room that seemed primarily composed of bean bags.

They sat there for a while, Remy asking him questions and telling him his own stories. Before suddenly he got up and held a hand out for him. Virgil took it and allowed himself to be lead to a set covered in giant mushrooms and flowers. Remy spent a few minutes posting him, bringing out a few props for him to prop his arms on.

"Now just relax and give me a smile, you look like you're good at subtle, let's try some of those first," said Remy from behind the camera.

Virgil started out the shoot wishing it would be over already, but by the end he couldnt seem to stop looking at his own reflection in the camera lens.

"Oh Jan's going to lose it when he sees these!" Roman said, looking through the pictures from his phone.

"Who's Jan?-" Virgil said, tilting his head slightly.

"Oh you probably know him as Dimitri, he's a rival of mine," Roman handed Virgil a magazine, one scan of the front cover and Virgil recognized the man from a week ago, he was wearing the same hat and scarf as before. He read the caption above it. "Dimitri Gabriel to release new line inspired by endangered reptile species, all proceeds to go to preservation funding, no real scales used," he handed the article back to Roman.

"I've seen that guy, he was returning something the day I got fired," Virgil said.

"Oh even better! He'll recognize you!" Said Roman.

"Wait where are these even going?" Virgil said.

"My stylegram, you dont seem like the type who likes runways, so Remus and I have decided you'll be a social media model," Roman said.

"Well- guess I better make my own account then," Virgil said, pulling out his own phone.

It was only a few minutes before the comments flooded in, he recognized Janus' face, though his handle still conveyed his name as Dimitri. His face flushed red at the compliments. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but the feeling that Janus was impressed by his looks gave him an intense sensation of joy.

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

Tag List:

@nerosdayinhell

@official-lucifers-child

@meowthefluffy

@spooky-scary-virgil

@misunderstoodshadowling

@youtuberswithalex

#snakes and scandals au #romantic anxceit #anxceit #mosleep #romantic mosleep #intrumile #romantic intrumile #imagimile #romantic imagimile #romantic logince #logince #violence tw #tw violence #violence mention #violence #tw blood #blood tw #blood

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northernsoulpie · 3 years

Text

Louloúdi

This is my @loveinwayhaven gift for @dakotawinchester I hope you like it, I’ve not written fic in a loooong time but I really enjoyed writing this! I loved Arabella and hope I did her character justice.

Pairing: Morgan x F!Detective Arabella Aveiro

Warnings: some swears. Teen?

Laycott’s Bar & Grill was not the most salubrious bar in Wayhaven, but when it came to cheap drinks and rowdy night out, there was no where else quite like it. Tina had all but dragged Arabella out of her office, with vague threats of them ‘not hanging out anymore, like ever’ and that ‘Arabella, you’re becoming obsessed! I promise you’ll feel so much better if you come out for a few drinks and take your mind off it!’. All absolute rubbish of course but Tina had been such a good friend over the years that she didn’t have the heart to keep turning turn her offers of spending time together. Plus, truth be told, she was entirely fed up of brooding over case files and photographs of possible evidence. Whenever Arabella went home to sleep for a few short hours, she’d even began to dream of filing cabinets and evidence lockers and blank case reports. Maybe Tina was right, maybe she was becoming obsessed. A few drinks might help her to relax she reckoned, take her mind off work, off the agency -and off her mother - for a while.

“Urgh why do I always end up getting plastered when I’m out with you?” Tina giggled into her beer bottle.

“Don’t blame me sunshine, this was entirely your idea!”

Tina waved the bottle animatedly as she spoke, sloshing beer onto the already sticky carpet, “Whatever, you need me to rescue you from all that paperwork every now and again. Stops you from getting…” She gestured haphazardly at Arabella sat across the booth from her.

“…getting on with my duties as a responsible professional?”

“HA! More like stops you from getting all boring and serious all of the time.”.

Arabella pushes her dark hair behind her ear, “Hey, come on! I’m not that serious all of the time. I’ll still me.”

Even as the words left her mouth, they’d felt like a lie. Tina’s eyebrow quirked as she leaned forward in her seat.

“You do seem different now, something’s definitely changed. Just drop the ‘Detective Aveiro’ mask for a short while and come back to being my best friend Arabella. Just every now and again. It’ll do you good, trust me on this Ari!”

Arabella sighed, trying to hide the flash of annoyance followed by the pang of regret at Tina’s words. Her work as Wayhaven’s only detective and liaison to the agency was now taking up all of her time, even cutting into her precious sleep, most nights. Her apartment looked like something out of a horror movie and her once beloved hobbies were long since neglected. No wonder Tina invited her out so often, she probably wanted to stage an intervention for best friend before she faded away for good.

She looked down at her own beer bottle and began to peel at the label. “It’s just been a tough few months, what with just starting this job and the murders…”

Tina’s smile faded, “Oh crap Ari. I know it has, I’m sorry. I just miss you that’s all.”

“I miss you too. I didn’t think taking on this role would demand so much more of my time, it feels like everything in this backwater little town is all going wrong at once and I’ve just been left to somehow fix it all.”

Tina grimaced but nodded sympathetically. “I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been Arabella, you’ve been left with such a crock. But you’re not on your own, you’ve got me and Verda and the rest of station to help you when work gets crazy. Not only that, we’re your friends – talk to us! I know you, you’ve always been moody and stubborn as hell but don’t lose yourself in all this crazy shit.”

Tina stopped abruptly. Arabella could tell there was more she desperately wanted to say - fumbling hands, tight lips, slight pained expression - the damning confession was coming.

…you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on…

No! She really was losing herself to the job. This was her best friend damn it.

“Tee? It’s OK, it’s me. What is it?”

“I… really don’t want to upset you Ari, but you’re becoming just like her, just like Rebecca…”

Tina pursed her lips as though already regretting the words she’d just spoken out loud. She looked positively terrified of what Arabella ‘s reaction would be.

Arabella barked a laugh, “I know, I know. I understand what you’re saying Tina. I think you’re right though, maybe I do need to remove the plank from my ass every now and again.”

Tina began to laugh and Arabella joined her, feeling the sudden tension melt away again. It felt like a small resolution of sorts.

Suddenly Tina stopped mid laugh and seemed to stare at something over Arabella’s shoulder. Arabella brought her beer bottle down from her lips.

“Tina? Is everything okay?”

Tina dragged her eyes back to Arabella and smirked.

“Tina? What on earth..”

“Drinking again Detective?”

Morgan

The vampire emerged at their table from behind her. Arabella’s heart flipped before she could scold it thoroughly and will it back to a normal rhythm. Morgan was wearing her usual style; long dark hair layered so casually around her shoulders, a tight, black long sleeved T-shirt that shows off her curves to perfection, cords of leather around her wrists and neck. It’s an outfit that seems so impossibly nonchalant, like the old glam style rockers of the 80’s and 90’s but much, much cooler. And so damn hot.

Arabella shrugged, “Got to let my hair down every now and again.”

Morgan’s dark eyes flicked to her hair, almost of their own accord, before returning to looking her dead in the eyes. “You should let it down more often Detective.”

Arabella stared. She promised herself she wouldn’t let herself get affected by Morgan’s flirtations but when she used that tone, her defences simply melted away. Morgan glared back, eyebrow arching ever so daringly.

Tina nodded enthusiastically in her seat, gesturing at the vampire stood at their booth, “See that’s what I told her. Too much work and no play makes Detective Arabella a dull lay-day… wait that was awful. I couldn’t think of anything that rhymes with play haha.”

Morgan raises a sardonic eyebrow whilst Arabella rolled her eyes, “Okay Tina, think it’s time to bounce. Come on, grab your stuff and let’s find a taxi.”

“Oh nooo, why don’t you stay Ari? Agent Morgan will see you get home safe, isn’t that right Morgan?” Tina waggled her brow and didn’t bother to hide the obvious smirk whilst she looked between the two of them. Arabella had tempting visions of throwing her jacket over Tina’s face and giving her a few choice jabs to the ribs to shut her up. Tina’s clumsy attempts at match-making were somehow growing worse as the years went on.

Morgan stepped forward to help Tina as she struggled into her jacket, “Sure, I’ll help Miss Poname to get a taxi outside. You gonna get us a couple of drinks Arabella?”

She blanched from shooting daggers at Tina’s grin. That was… not expected. She watched as Tina finally wrestled into her jacket before allowing Morgan to take her gently by the arm and expertly maneuver her through the busy bar. Once or twice, Tina even turned to reply cheerily or laugh at something the vampire said as they walked. Arabella stared after them. Morgan wasn’t usually this friendly or helpful to anyone, especially not to humans. She had to be playing at something, she was sure of it. After a minute or so, Arabella suddenly remembered she was meant to be getting them drinks and made her way over to the bar. When she returned to their table, she noticed Morgan striding back through the crowd toward her. People seemed to move out of way instinctively, probably something to do with Morgan’s impressive resting bitch face and arrogant stride through the throngs of patrons. Some turned their heads to appraise the gorgeous vampire, she seemed to have that effect whenever she went out in public, in spite of the ever-present scowl. Morgan threw herself down on the sofa next to her, startling her slightly. Arabella passed Morgan her drink, hoping the motion would hide her surprise at the sudden closeness.

“Here. I couldn’t remember what you had to drink last time we were here, so I just got you a rum and coke.”

Morgan wrinkled her nose for a second before accepting the glass, “Not my first choice but whatever, drink’s a drink.”

She took a hearty gulp of the rum and leant back into the sofa. Arabella watched the vampire through the edge of her vision before turning to her.

“Thanks for helping Tina find a taxi, I think she was a little drunk by the end there.”

Morgan shrugged. “Yeah it’s no big deal, I actually kind of like your friend.”

Arabella pursed her lips and gave Morgan a disbelieving look.

Morgan sighed and rolled her eyes, “She can be so giddy and irritating – even for a human- but she looks out for you. Cares for you. You should listen to her advice more often, the job ain’t going anywhere.”

Arabella stiffened, “What advice do you me… you were listening to our conversation? Seriously?!”

Morgan took another sip of her rum and coke, “Only the end of it, I was coming over to see you and Tina was drunkenly broadcasting your conversation to the rest of the bar. So no, I wasn’t listening in. Like I’ve got nothing better to do than spy on your personal drama with your friends.”

It was a convincing lie, Arabella would give her that. It Morgan had tried that on any other person, they probably would’ve believed her. Luckily for her, she had been trained to spot liars, even the very good ones. Even the ones that lied to themselves.

Feeling impulsive, Arabella carefully her drink down on the table and turned her body around to face Morgan. She crossed one leg artfully over the other which Morgan didn’t miss the dangled opportunity to run her eyes over. Playing the ‘good cop’ in interrogations wasn’t something Arabella did often but this time, she could make an exception.

“So, are you going to tell me what you’re really doing here Morgan?”

“I’m on patrol duty tonight. Ava has us all patrolling this little shit hole town every night to keep watch for any unusual activity.”

Arabella leant back, draping one arm over the back of the couch and with her other hand, carefully sweeping her dark hair over her shoulder. Morgan had seemed to like that motion earlier. At this point in time, Arabella couldn’t exactly point out why she now felt such a rush at teasing Morgan. Catching out little lies and discrepancies was something that gratified her but it never seemed to excite her like this. Maybe it just was catching this particular person out that had this effect on her. It was like her brain and her body had just taken over her conscious mind and now she was just running on pure adrenalin alone.

She tapped her chin, “And Ava instructed you to come inside the bar to have a few drinks as part of the patrol, did she? There’s never been an incident occur inside this bar to date. Not to mention that government agency SOP’s for patrols must be very different to front line agencies.”

Morgan seemed surprised for a brief second, before narrowing her eyes, “If you want me to be honest, here it is Detective. It’s really it’s just to keep an eye on you, to make sure you don’t get yourself kidnapped or attacked AGAIN.”

“Oh.”

“I couldn’t be bothered sitting outside in the freezing cold for hours, so I thought I’d come in.”

Arabella dropped her hands to her lap and looked away feeling quite deflated, “Well, that answers that question then.”

“You thought I had come in here just to see you Detective?”

Arabella felt the blush burn on her cheeks as she stumbled to think of a retort. She reached forward and took a strategic swig of her beer. As she leant back into the sofa, she felt Morgan’s hand on her crossed knee. The warmth of it seemed to burn through the material and electrify her skin. Arabella knew there would be no hiding the redness of her face now.

“Well maybe I did come in here just to see you, maybe I timed my patrol route carefully so I could see you in here. Guess you’ll never find out the truth of it Detective.”

“I always find out the truth of it Agent, that’s my job.”

“You want to find out the truth of me, don’t you Detective? I’d certainly like to find out a few things regarding you, have done since the first time I walked into your office.”

Morgan carefully plucked the bottle of beer from Arabella’s hand, placed it on the table in front of them. Almost imperceptibly as she leant back from the table, she had somehow inched closer to Arabella, no longer having to stretch her hand out to rest on her knee. Arabella could feel Morgan’s breath caress her face and she felt her blood start to rush as Morgan’s lips came closer. Her breath caught as she considered closing the gap between them and kissing Morgan first. The agent always seemed like having the upper hand in their flirtations and surprising Morgan really would be so immensely satisfying. The fantasy quickly slipped away though as Arabella lost her nerve, caught in the moment of just aching to see what Morgan would do next.

Arabella sighed. She didn’t know what on earth Morgan was doing to her, one minute Arabella could be so causal and smooth but in the next she would feel so timid and inexperienced. Arabella had dated plenty in her college years, some were just as flirty and promiscuous as Morgan and she’d had no problem then. None of those women had ever sent her into a tailspin like this. She knew Morgan would probably want just a casual thing between them and that was fine, she’d learnt long ago not to let feelings get in the way when dating women like her. Anyway, right now she was just letting her hair down. Forgetting all about the last few months and the station, just as she had promised Tina. No matter what this woman did to her, she reassured herself, Arabella knew how to take what she needed and not get attached. She had been practicing her whole life.

Morgan shifted her hand over hers on the back on the sofa and shifted toward her until they were sat only centimeters apart. The feeling of skin touching skin was like a burning brand as the hand on her knee slid smoothly up to rest on her thigh. As Morgan’s lips grew closer, Arabella almost stopped breathing. As her eyes fluttered closed, she was vaguely aware of her previous statement about not becoming attached ringing hollow as the lust and the something else just there burned brightly in her chest.

The shrill ring tone cut through silence, making both of them jump and freeze. Arabella opened her eyes to see Morgan scowling worse than she had ever seen the woman scowl before. She pitied the poor person on the other end of the phone.

Morgan sat back, snatching her mobile from her back packet at almost superhuman speed.

“What is it?”

Arabella winced.

“No. Fine. Whatever, just don’t tell her. Yes. Done, get here quickly Farrah.”

Arabella heard the plastic crack as Morgan punched the call end button and jammed the phone unceremoniously back into her back pocket.

“Farrah’s almost here, my shift is over.”

She nodded back, “At least your patrol was uneventful in the bar tonight.”

Morgan titled her head as she glared back at her, “Hmmm, uneventful?” She purred.

At that sultry tone Arabella jumped up, grateful to have a chance to clear her head before she did something incredibly stupid. They were colleagues of sort, after all. Fraternising with colleagues was always a terrible idea, no matter how good things had been getting only minutes earlier.

Arabella cleared her throat pointedly, “Anyway, it’s getting late. I better be getting back to my apartment.”

“Come on, I’ll see you outside and find you a taxi back.”

Morgan watched quietly with dark eyes as Arabella felt her way into her leather jacket and patted herself down to check her belongings. When finished, she turned to Morgan. Morgan dutifully put her arm out which she took gratefully.

“Thank you, Agent and thanks for the drink.”

“Any time Detective.”

#loveinwayhaven #The Wayhaven Chronicles #twc morgan #specialist agent morgan

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doubi-ixi · 3 years

Text

Haphazard heroine

@myhusbandsasemni and I are making a story which you’ve seen the villain boi on her account. Mine is Blanche Parker, whose hero name is “Polaris.” She recently got her powers and doesn’t know how to hero. Her powers are from a mystical galaxy creature who made a contract with her. Despite her pretty outfit she is full of anger and past family trauma.

I guess a tag list is a thing... if anyone is interested I can start one.

————————————————————

“Quite the costume.” A hero said. Polaris looked over, the villain in front of her writhed on the ground with a bullet in her shoulder. He was tall. Seeming to be solemn, hiding it behind a half smile. “A shame you don’t know how to fight in that pretty dress.”

Polaris clenched her fists. Princess, Precious, little girl. She was sick of it. Adding to the fire was the fact that she was so bad at this. Her rescuer looked over to see a fist aimed at his jaw. He dodged just in time, shock spread on his face. “What are you doing?”

The phone in her hand morphed, bright colors almost blinding her opponent for a moment. The hero uncovered his face to see a long whip lashing through the air at him. With a shout he let it wrap around his arm. Polaris fell forward as he tugged hard. Before she could get up the man was there and pinned her wrist over the other, Polaris looking up while on her stomach, the man in front of her. “Don’t like that?” He said with a sneer. He could see the anger in her eyes. He knew what was going on here. Losing himself to the moment he leaned forward and whispered with a daring look. “Then do something about it.”

With a sudden and powerful thrust Polaris pulled her arms back and rammed her head forward. The hero bit his tongue as she made contact. The whip a few feet away flashed as it disappeared and reappeared in her hand now in the shape of a gun. She shot him. Once he looked up from the pain she was above him and kicked him to the ground. “I’m sick of you people!” She shouted at him. “What are you smiling at?” That dumb half smile made the anger in her chest unbearable. Before receiving an answer her leg was swept from under her. She didn’t know how, but she couldn’t stop to figure it out. He was above her. Her body went cold as she felt a cloth pressed against her face. Don’t breathe! Don’t breathe! She told herself. Even as she yelled at herself her body forced breaths through the cloth, barely getting air into her lungs but sucking in enough of the drug on the cloth to knock her out.

As her body went limp the hero sat back with a long tired sigh. “You’re gonna be a handful.” He said.

…………………………………………………………………………

Blanche breathed deeply and stretched her limbs out. She jolted up in the middle of her stretch. She was back in her jeans and jacket, her transformation had let up. Her face exposed. Where was she? Blanche jumped off the bed to her feet, running out of the room. To her surprise she saw the blond haired hero from earlier. No mask. No costume. He was in civilian clothes. His eyes were a brighter blue than her own. She wasn’t into middle aged men but she had to admit that if he was a movie star, he would be pretty popular amongst women. She pushed that aside. He was a creep. He drugged and kidnapped her. Who knew what he was going to do with her.

“I didn’t touch you.” He said. “Nothing besides patching you up and carrying you here.” He saw the smoke coming off Blanche’s head.

“Is that supposed to help you get on my good side.” She sneered brattily as she crossed her arms.

“I prefer older women and if I was to steal from the cradle, I think I could find a prettier face.” He smiled.

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to know your name.” The man got up from his bar stool and grabbed some day old take out and warmed it up in the microwave. Blanche only glared at him. “Daxton Benette McCoy.” He said. He leaned against his counter and looked back at the girl.

“Polaris is fine for now.”

Daxton snapped his fingers and half pointed at her. “I’ll call you Delores.”

“Call me Deloras and I’ll shoot you again. How’s that bruise?”

Daxton chuckled as he rubbed the right side of his stomach. Her bullets were like paintballs. “Alright, Polaris. Listen, I don’t just go and kidnap magical girl wannabes. I’ve heard about you. Saving the little guys. Nothing very big. That’s fine. Not everyone needs to save the president from terrorists or aliens. But here’s the thing.” He lifted a finger as he pulled the food from the microwave. “You can’t help the little guys if you die trying.” He dropped a plate with noodles on the table. Glaring her in the eye seriously.

“And what?” Blanche took the food and a fork in a cup full of utensils. “I’m supposed to dynamic duo with some creep who drugged and kidnapped me?”

“That or get kidnapped by an actual creep, because you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Blanche sneered at the idea but didn’t want to let this guy win the argument. There wasn’t any good points for her to make so she fell back on one of her favorite answers as a woman. Silence.

He chuckled bitterly. “Nevermind, silly of me to think you were smart.”

Blanche slammed the plate on the table, smashing it accidentally with her super strength. She began another fight. Daxton wasn’t in the mood. He already did this and he didn’t feel like tearing up his apartment. Before Blanche could tell what happened she realized she had fallen back and her jacket was nailed to the coffee table by several knives and a gun was in her face.

“Like I said.” He didn’t mean to aim his gun at her, force of habit. “You don’t want to take my offer, fine.” He put the gun away. “Stop attacking me.” Once she had some sort of control over herself he pulled the knives out of the darkened wood. “I don’t want anything to do with you either, sugarcakes, I’m just making sure you don’t get yourself killed.” He stretched his arms out to the side and then let them fall.

Daxton let Blanche sleep in his bed while he was on the couch. As angry as she was Blanche was leaning towards his help. She got hurt too often on her won and she had been wanting a teacher for a while. She locked the door behind her. The bed was nice but she hated the smell. It felt wrong to be in a stranger’s bed. Especially when it smelled so heavily of a middle aged man. What would her mother say? “Nevermind.” She scoffed. Blanche remembered she didn’t care what her mother thought, or any of her family. Despite the smell she fell right to sleep. That fight that Daxton interrupted was long and tiring.

“Hey, wake up.” Daxton said. Blanche woke up and wacked his hand away. Her eyes glanced at the door to see it wide open. “There’s a training opportunity going on. You’re gonna take care of it while I watch and analyze.”

“The more you talk the more you sound like a creep.” Blanche growled.

He led her to the roof via the fire escape. Blanche paused to stare at the city. She tried to at least. Daxton jerked her in the direction of the villain. It wasn’t much of a villain. It was seemingly just a girl. Though she was dressed heavily in the classic introvertedly social reject. She wore tight pants and a giant jacket that she rolled the sleeves up to. She had piercings in her lip nose and around the border of her ears.

“Someone shops at Villians’R’us.” Blanche said. Daxton was glaring at her. She didn’t know why till he looked her up and down. With a roll of the eyes a bright light ran down her body and she was in her hero get up. She glared at his smile. He found her super suit amusing.

“Sorry.” He chuckled. “I’m not used to little girls in dresses superheroing.”

“Well, if you’re going to teach me you better get used to it.” Blanche jumped off and an umbrella appeared in her hand.

“I’ll call her Poppins.” he laughed.

Polaris made it to the ground and the criminal girl laughed. “If I was a dude there would have been a sparkly bubbly background behind you while you descended. Aw, man!” She stopped to laugh more. “Who the heck are you, Princess?”

The villain squealed as she avoided a whip above her head. “Aw, C’mon! We can be besties and braid each other’s hair.” She pulled out an bow made of some strange energy and material. A arrow of seemingly the same thing Shot past Polaris and it blew up as it hit the building behind her. Blanche’s face dropped but she took note of a bow and arrow as a weapon. She stood no chance against this girl with it though, she would stick to the whip. Blanche managed to get it to wrap around the bow and the villain let go with a yelp. The edge of the whip wacked her arm.

“Braid that.” Polaris sneered. She jumped back as her opponent recovered quickly and came at Polaris with a long and elegant dagger.

“Oh, and by the way I’m Juniper.” The criminal said as she lifted her blade up in the air. Polaris heard Juniper yell as she was pulled back. She looked up to see Daxton. He was wearing his mask and Leather jacket.

“Delta Foxtrot.” He said with a smile. Her blade was in his hand and his foot was on her stomach, pressing hard enough to keep her there. He gestured to Blanche. “Polaris.”

The sirens came into earshot. “Let’s hurry.” Delta said. He ziptied Juniper’s hands together, along with combining a few to keep her ankles together. He helped Polaris up and they snuck away by back alleys. She was quiet as they escaped.

Delta wasn’t seen as a hero. There was some information never released to the public. He knew Polaris had no idea. Nonetheless, she was too busy thinking to question why they were running away. It took Daxton only a minute to take her down and she was almost killed.

She looked up at him. “Blanche Parker.”

“What?”

“My name, idiot.”

“Oh. Blanche. You’re mom hate you? That’s a… it’s a name. Sorry. Can I just call you parker or something else?”

“If you come up with something good, old man.”

“Fair enough. I’m guessing Delores is still off the table. Let’s see...Bethany.”

“No.”

“I’ll come up with something. C’mon. You really need some training. I know a place.”

Blanche sighed but followed. Maybe when she came back she wouldn’t get hurt so much. The hospital was getting concerned and were ready to take her in and make sure she wasn’t suicidal. She was running out of lies to tell them.

———————————————————————

If you read that whole thing. Thank you ;-;

#writlbr #superhero story #magical #ocs #writing #crystal star #oc #blanche #Daxton #juniper

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nazyalenskyism · 4 years

Text

Just a Kiss

A/N: Zoyalai have to kiss for cover. Just another Zoyalai fic!

Ao3: Just a Kiss

“Shhh,” Zoya hissed, feeling a wave of adrenaline wash over her. She slid back against the wall, reaching out her arm and pushing her partner back as well. She ignored his quiet ‘oomf’ and peered around the corner, this hall was clear. Turning back, she nodded at him and slipped out of the alcove. Nikolai ambled up behind her, taking his time and acting as if there wasn’t a worry in the world, which was disconcerting given that they were on a covert mission.

“Nazyalensky, it’s the third door on the left, it’s hidden behind the tapestry.”

“Okay, I’ll let you know when we’ve secured it,” she replied to Tamar, whom she knew was watching them from the security feed David had hijacked for them.

She turned to her partner to see if he’d caught the message, but instead, he was winking to a security camera mouthing, ‘hello ladies,” to Nadia who was undoubtedly watching alongside her wife.

“Lantsov, let’s move,” she whispered, and they pushed aside the indicated Tapestry. Nikolai followed, and she found that they were in a small office, with a few shelves full of books, an ornate desk and a sleek computer. Nikolai straightened his bow tie before quickly taking off his tuxedo jacket and sliding behind the desk, slipping on his favourite black leather gloves as he began firing at the keyboard. She stood by the tapestry keeping an ear on the hall, nothing good would come out of them getting caught here tonight. They just had to secure the files from this office, dance a quick dance or two to maintain appearances and then they could finally leave. Zoya was ready to test out the enormous marble tub in her room, she had been to exhausted after their previous missions this week, but tonight was her last night in the swanky hotel and she was not going to let it go to waste, especially when she wasn’t the one who had to foot the bill. She let her eyes scan the room in greater detail as she waited for Nikolai to finish up, spotting a near-full glass of champagne that he took a small sip out of every so often. She frowned, she didn’t seem to recall him carrying that in the hall. Maybe she was too wound up, in which case, that petal-filled bath would be the perfect antidote.

“And, done!” Nikolai called, slipping his USB into his waistcoat and shucking off his gloves. “in record time too, are you proud of me, Nazyalensky?” She glared. He laughed. “Ah, as unimpressed as ever. Not to worry dear, I’ll win you over one of these days.”

“Keep dreaming, Lantsov.”

“Oh I will. You are far sweeter in my dreams. But I think it would be equally fun to win you over in real life as well.” He scooped up his champagne flute in one hand, throwing his jacket over his shoulder with the other. He looked every inch the disdainful, rich playboy most people thought he was. Only a select few were aware of how much of an endearing idiot he actually was, though she’d never tell him that.

“Good luck with that,” she snapped, grabbing the glass from his hand and taking a swig. “Saints, I can’t wait to open a bottle and drink it on my own tonight. An evening of rest, relaxation, and no Nikolai. It sounds like heaven already.” He shot her a lazy grin in response, taking the flute back and sauntering towards the exit.

They were back in the hall, surrounded by oil paintings in gilded frames, velvet carpets and curtains. Zoya tapped her earpiece as she walked, “We’ve got it,” she said quietly. There was no response. “Tamar, do you copy?”

“Sorry,” Nadia responded, “the security feed got cut, we’re trying to access it again, but until then, we won’t have eyes on the guards.” Zoya and Nikolai glanced at each other. Fantastic. Of course their mission couldn’t have gone smoothly.

“It’s fine,” Nikolai said, “we just have to get back to the ballroom.” She nodded at him, and they continued down the long hall, pausing when they were nearly at the ballroom.

“What is it?” she whispered, running into him as he stuck his arm out so quickly that she ran into it.

“I hear someone coming,” he said quietly. They both froze, looking around for possible exits, but to no avail. There was only one way back to the ballroom, and it was the passage to their left that they heard guards coming down. It was too late to track backwards, and Zoya was out of ideas. If they were caught… no she didn’t want to even think of that possibility.

“What do we do?” she asked, hating herself for letting fear creep into her voice. “We can’t afford to get caught.”

Nikolai moved swiftly, setting down the glass on a sideboard, a crease appearing between his brows as he turned to face her. “Please don’t kill me for this.”

“What why wou—” she was cut off by a gasp that escaped her. He had a hand on her waist and was pulling her towards him, the next thing she knew, his lips were on hers. She froze for a second, shocked, ‘this was his plan?’ But before she could stop herself, her hand was winding up to the back of his neck, pulling him against her. He tasted like champagne, light, sweet, bubbly and a very, very bad idea. Despite all of that, the only thought rushing through her mind was, ‘why didn’t I do this sooner?’ He pulled her even closer to himself as they fell back against the closet wall, Zoya wrapping her other arm around to the back of his neck as his found its way to her waist.

“You can’t be here,” a voice boomed and Zoya nearly launched herself out of Nikolai’s embrace as they broke apart. She had forgotten about the situation at hand for a second and could do nothing more than gape at the guards.

“We’re so sorry,” Nikolai began smoothly sliding into the act of a charming, tipsy prince. Picking up the champagne glass between his fingers he continued, “we were looking for the powder room, but we got a little lost.” Zoya watched the guards’ impassive faces, were they buying their act? A roguish grin appeared on Nikolai’s face as he pulled her close, “we got engaged last night and got a little carried away.” She looked up at him, what the hell was he doing?

“Oh yes,” she interjected before he could continue, “he actually dropped the ring in the park fountain when he proposed, so we’re waiting to get it back from the cleaners. She wrinkled her nose, “ I know it’s a bit early to be thinking about it, but we were positively charmed by the venue and got a little excited on our way back, right Nik?” She had to suppress a grin when she saw Nikolai flinch near imperceptibly, no one but her would’ve noticed it, just like no one but her knew how much he hated that nickname.

“Right, babe,” Nikolai returned, winking at her before addressing the guards, “could you please point us towards the ballroom?” Zoya pursed her lips, she loathed that word and he knew it. The guards waved them off, looking mildly amused and as they walked back to the party where Genya and David would be waiting, Nikolai bent down his lips brushing her ear, “Nik, really darling?”

“Babe? You know I hate that word”

“What, do you like Zo better?”

“Nikolai—”

“Zoya, Nikolai, is everything okay? What happened?” Tamar’s voice sounded from their comms. Zoya blanched, at least they hadn’t seen that.

“Nothing happened, everything is fine, we’ll see you in twenty minutes,” she bit out, not waiting for a reply. She drew in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and drained the last of Nikolai’s champagne as he gave her an amused look.

“Am I that bad at it, Nazyalensky?” Nikolai said as he cocked an eyebrow.

“No— Yes. Shut up. We’re not talking about this now, or ever.”

“Whatever you say Zoya, but for the record—”

“No!” She groaned, “not even a bottle of champagne is going to get me drunk enough to forget that this happened.”

“Why would you want to forget it?” He held up his hands, widening his eyes to a look of innocence when she whirled on him, “are you sure you don’t want to share that champagne with someone else tonight?” he said cheekily.

“Shut up and get inside before I kill you,” she hissed, jabbing her thumb towards the entrance.

Nikolai raised his hands in surrender, backing into the ballroom, “whatever you say, Nazyalensky.”

She let out a breath as he vanished towards David, damn him. She couldn’t think when he looked at her like that, like he was reading her mind about their moment in the hall. She thought of her hands in his hair and her mouth on hers and the next thing she knew, she had shared her last night of luxury, and her last bottle of champagne with a cocky, blond idiot with a suit jacket slung over his shoulder when he’d knocked on her door with his own bottle in hand.

#zoyalai #nikolai lantsov #zoya nazyalensky #tgt #kos #kos fic #zoyalai fic #tamarnadia

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imjusthereforbatfam · 3 years

Text

Never-Ending Encore, ch.2

Chapters: 1 2 3 4

Chapter Summary: Cookies make everything better, right? RIGHT!?

Warning: minor swearing, minor panic/anxiety attack

---

Chapter 2:

“You planning on staying like that all night or…?”

Eden silently cursed herself, the world, and everything in it. Some small part of her still hoped whoever it was wasn’t actually talking to her. Just… somehow magically right next to her without noticing her. And... talking to someone else on her fire escape. Yeah.

Eden quietly huffed at her own idiocy and slowly began to move. She scooted back onto the metal stair, shifting her weight off her aching toes. For a moment she just stayed like that. Praying for… she didn’t know what. Some kind of miracle. Then, with a gulp, she finally inched her head in the direction of the voice.

A man – a huge man – leaned casually against the metal railing of her fire escape. He wore a full red helmet that obscured his every thought and intention from the world. His arms were crossed as he, apparently, observed her.

"What, nothing to say?" he asked, his voice somehow modulated to sound almost robotic.

Eden just stared at him. The white “eyes” of his helmet were forever etched into an angry sort-of look that made her nervous.

Well... more nervous. She was already struggling with the fact that he had suddenly, magically, appeared on her fire escape on the 9th freaking floor. And with the fact that he was a thick, 6-foot-something mass of muscle who could probably snap her in half if he wanted. And that he had a pair of pistols holstered to his hips. And that this was happening in Gotham City; the place filled with not only violence and corruption on every corner, but actual, real-life, will-kill-you-for-funsies villains.

Needless to say, it was a lot to take in.

“Unless you wanna risk getting shot,” the man said evenly, apparently choosing to ignore her silence, “you should go inside now. Shit’s about to go down out here.”

“Are you a good guy,” she blurted in a high, fearful pitch, “or a bad guy?”

The man said nothing. After a moment, his helmet shifted very slightly to the side.

A stream of curses ran through Eden’s mind. She was so dumb. Why was she so dumb? Why was she like this? Why couldn’t she just keep her damn mouth shut? She knew, logically, that she’d eventually be fine no matter what – she always got another encore – but that didn’t mean she had to help dig her own grave, damn it!

The man shrugged and, after a moment, said, “Depends on who you ask.”

“I asked you,” she shot back, then blanched at her own brazenness. This was no time to be Louanne Smith’s daughter. “Sorry,” she said dropping her head. “I, uh— I meant… I asked you,” she tried sweetly. “Um, sir.”

A short sound came out of him. It was too distorted to know what it was meant to convey, but Eden desperately hoped it was amusement.

“As long as you’re not working for any drug cartels or mob bosses, you should be fine.”

“Oh, darn!” she said snapping her fingers. “There goes my five-year plan!”

The man didn't say anything. His head shifted back slightly. Eden had no idea if that was a good thing or not.

An actress needs to know how to read their audience, and Eden usually considered herself pretty good at it. But with Mr. Ominous Angry Helmet, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He could be amused; he could think she’s an idiot; he could be thinking about shooting her. She just didn’t know. That only made everything worse.

Anxious, jittery energy shot through her limbs, jerking her into motion. She swung her body away from the unnerving man, picked up the plate at her side, and turned back to him in one quick, unbroken movement. Her blanket fell off her shoulders with the action and the cool night air felt like knives against her hot skin.

“Would you like a cookie, sir?” Her voice was up a few octaves and moving fast. “They’re snickerdoodles. Homemade. My mama’s recipe. Fresh from the oven and still–” she lifted one trembling hand, hovering it over the few remaining cookies “–yep, still pretty warm.” She lifted the plate closer to him. “Do you want some, Mister, uh–” she glanced down at the symbol on his chest “–Red Bat, sir?”

The man’s silence was deafening.

Eden stared at the cookies, hating her brain, questioning her sanity, and cursing herself internally. She didn’t want to die tonight. More importantly, she didn't want to be shot tonight. Or ever again, really. Being shot hurt. If she were never shot again in her life, it would be too soon. And yet, here she was. Probably about to be shot again because she couldn’t shut her goddamn flap.

After what felt like an eternity, the man finally asked, “Did you really just offer me cookies... and call me Red Bat?”

“Yes?” she squeaked. Then, unable to stop herself, a slew of words spewed out from her. “I’m really, really sorry if I offended you, sir, but I only just moved to Gotham a little while ago, so I still don’t know who all the important masked people in the city are, and, in my defense, there are a lot of important masked people in this city, and honestly, I still don’t even know all the good guys from the bad guys yet, which is why I was asking you earlier, but I really don’t wanna get shot either way, so if you could maybe just consider sparing me this one time, I swear I’ll figure it all out and just forget this whole thing ever happened and move somewhere far, far away, or I could start a fan club for you or something if you really wanted me to, or maybe even—”

“Whoa, whoa!” Mister Not-Red-Bat said putting up his hands. “Easy there!” He knelt down, making himself far smaller. “I get it. You’re new in town.” His distorted voice wavered, like maybe he was either trying not to laugh or not freak out himself. “Calm down and take a breath before you pass out, alright? It’s no big deal.”

“Oh. Okay. Good. No big deal. Good to know.”

“Breathe,” he reminded her.

“Right. Sorry. Breathing. Important. I should do that."

The man nodded along, urging Eden to do that.

It took a few tries, but eventually, she was actually able to take a full, deep breath. The man breathed with her, moving his whole body with the motion to guide her. His movements were so exaggerated Eden couldn't help but feel like she was on a stage with him, performing in front of an invisible crowd. She watched him, following his slow lead as her nerves began to settle.

Eden turned away, letting out a long, even breath before doing it on her own.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yeah... Thanks." She looked at him again, wondering why in the world he even bothered to help her in the first place. "Are you... one of Gotham’s vigilante people?”

He nodded. “Yeah, Red Hood.” He reached behind his helmet and lifted a red hood attached to the back of his leather jacket for her to see. “Hood,” he said again. “Not bat.”

She smiled at the action. “Hood, not bat,” she repeated. “Got it. Sorry about that."

“It's fine. You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

“Sor—"

He lowered his head in her direction. She could almost feel him giving her a "Really?" look.

"Uh— I mean—” Her cheeks burned against the cool night air. She offered up the plate of cookies again. “Snickerdoodle?”

Red Hood shook and lowered his head as a small noise escaped him. “I’m good.”

Eden's brows lifted up in surprise. She was almost positive he was amused.

“No, really, I insist!" she said quickly. "This is going to be burned in my brain as one of the most embarrassing moments of my life anyway,” she admitted with playful ease, “I’d at least like to know I compensated you for your role in it. Beautiful performance, by the way, Mr. Hood. Very well done. Excellent timing.”

Red Hood leaned forward again, clearly snickering this time.

“And besides,” she continued, excited now, “you’re a vigilante in Gotham City, of all places! That’s a tough gig, Mr. Hood. You deserve to be rewarded for your troubles! And what reward could be better than homemade snickerdoodles by a random civilian? I mean, really now, I ask you.”

He shook his head minutely as she waved a hand around the plate of cookies like a showgirl. She wiggled her eyebrows at him.

“Alright, alright,” he conceded, sounding like he might be fighting back a laugh. He grabbed a small handful of snickerdoodles and tucked them into a coat pocket. “Thanks for the reward, random civilian.”

She smiled up at him. “You’re more than welcome, Mr. Hood.” She took a cookie for herself, pleased to find it tasted better than they had a bit ago.

“You really should get inside now, though,” he said getting serious again. “I doubt your neighbors,” he nodded toward one of the buildings not far from her apartment, “will be as willing to share their goodies with me when I come knocking.”

Eden stopped chewing and stared at the building. Part of her was a little in awe. She knew she was in a not-so-great part of the crime capital of the world, but she hadn’t imagined anything vigilante-worthy was actually happening on her crummy little street.

She looked back at Red Hood a moment, processing the information, then quickly finished her cookie and started tossing her things into her apartment.

“Okay, well, good luck, Mr. Hood!” she chimed climbing through the window. “Have fun, or whatever you’re supposed to tell a vigilante before they go, uh…” She frowned and quirked a quick brow at him. “Vigilanteeing?”

With one foot resting atop the wrought iron railing, Red Hood looked as big and threatening as he had before, but Eden wasn't afraid this time. He was a good guy. Ready to jump off into the night and bust some bad guys. But he didn’t. He just stared at her.

He tilted his head. “Vigilanteeing?” he teased, undeniably amused.

Eden turned away from him, her face heating up. “Whatever you call it! Do good deeds, don’t get shot — all that fun stuff. Have fun vigilante times or whatever.”

Red Hood made another sound – laughing at her – and Eden stared at the floor, hating her big mouth and wishing she could just phase out of existence. When she gathered the courage to look up again, she was surprised to find her fire escape empty.

A bit foolishly, she poked her head back out the window. She looked in the direction of the building Red Hood had indicated, but there was nothing to see. No Red Hood, no thugs, no nothing. Just an unusually quiet night on her even-less-safe-than-she-thought street.

But somewhere in the shadows, a vigilante was about to make things a little better. Eden was glad to know that, and glad to have thanked him for it in her own small way. She knew how hard a life like that could be and had nothing but respect for the people who chose it.

Eden, however, didn’t choose a life like that. She was perfectly happy being a totally random civilian, thank you very much. So she shut and locked her window, put on her headphones, and tried to have as much of a totally random civilian evening as possible.

She cleaned the dishes, studied her script, and went to bed early. Just like any normal person might. She ignored the sound of gunshots that managed to pierce through her music. She ignored the red and blue lights that eventually flashed outside her window. She ignored the voice in her head that told her she should've offered Red Hood her help – which was stupid for many, many reasons – and desperately fought off the thought that kept drilling into her head — that if he died tonight, it would be her fault.

When she got up in the morning, haggard and ill-rested, she went to the window straight away. There was nothing in the light of the day to suggest anything vigilante-worthy had happened on her street in the night. It was as dirty as usual, with the usual suspects mulling around their usual spaces. Everything was in its grubby, crummy place. The only difference was the yellow line of police tape and the few broken windows in the building Red Hood had nodded to.

Eden sighed, wondering about the vigilante and what had happened to him. She started to shut the window again when she noticed a folded scrap of paper sticking out from one of her tiny pots of herbs. She plucked it out and carefully opened it.

‘Thanks again for the cookies. They were really good. - RH’

Eden smiled and let out a breath, the night's worries instantly lifted from her shoulders. She re-folded the little note and went to find a safe place for it — completely and totally ignoring the bloodstain along the paper's edge.

Yup. Totally ignoring it.

----

Chapter 3

#jason todd #jason todd x oc #red hood #red hood x oc #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd fic #red hood fic #red hood fanfiction #oc: Eden Smith #Never-Ending Encore #my writing #cross posted on ao3

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ethereal-parkner · 4 years

Text

Unlikely Lovers

Parkner Week 2020 Day 2: Identity Shenanigans

read it on AO3

Peter was surprised that anyone was talking to him in the first place, to be fair, but for that person to be Harley Keener was an entirely different story. Harley Keener, who really didn’t talk to anyone voluntarily, who wore the same leather jacket every day (Peter could tell by the small rip on the left cuff) (not that Peter was looking), Harley Keener who, honestly, Peter didn’t know how he got into advanced calculus all things considered. Harley Keener who Peter had an eensie teensie tiny crush on.

“Look, I know it’s in like a month, but I really need a study buddy for this final.” Harley grabbed at his left sleeve with his right hand, picking at the threads with his short fingernails. Peter blanched.

“Yeah, yes, of course. I mean, what do you want to go over?” He felt like his breath was absent, yet somehow his voice was breathy all the while.

“I just need some extra review on everything. Would you want to meet up like two or three times a week?”

Of course, Peter wanted to meet up with Harley Keener multiple times a week to talk about math. Peter had no idea what Harley was like outside of school, but he imagined motorcycles, cigarettes, and probably a really strong dog that barked at the neighbors.

“Great, can you make tonight? I know it’s short notice, but I’m kind of busy this week.”

��Yes!” Peter was possibly too enthusiastic, “Yeah, sure, that’s cool.”

Harley decided to take Peter to his house after school, which was much more exciting than the idea of studying at the library, or an empty classroom, or anywhere else.

“A study date?” MJ quipped when Peter told her he’d have to miss acadeca. (Yes, he did forget he had practice, and yes, he was ashamed). “That’s cute. You’re off the hook, but just this once.” She narrowed her eyes at him before grinning.

“It’s not a date, MJ. He asked to study for calc, but it’s not a date.”

“Right. Well, I wouldn’t have taken you to be interested in bad boys, but each to their own.” MJ ended the conversation by pulling out a book before Peter could answer.

“You’re going on a date with Harley Keener?” Ned questioned, just catching the tail end of Peter’s previous conversation.

“No! It’s calculus,” Peter insisted. He was not going on a date (despite his tiny tiny wish that it actually was a date).

“Dude, calculus is sexy. Guys dig calculus.” Ned joked, nudging Peter’s ribs with an elbow.

“Calculus is not sexy, and it doesn’t matter anyways because it’s not a date at all! He doesn’t even like me like that. Ned, he doesn’t even know me. It’s just calculus.” It was true; Harley asked Peter to study because he knew the most notable detail about Peter: unchallenged on the road to valedictorian of Midtown. Of course Harley would ask Peter to help him study, and he knew there was no way Peter could say no.

Even if Peter knew he would spend the whole time watching the way Harley played with the sleeve of his jacket and listening to his voice that melted him like butter, Harley would be granting his attention to calculus, not Peter.

“More like calculust.” MJ snorted without looking away from her book, ignoring Peter who let out a loud gasp and swung at her.

At the end of a torturously slow day of school (learning material that he’d taught himself the year before) Peter stood at his locker grabbing books to take home and replacing them with books to stay at school.

“Hey, you ready?” The way Harley leaned against the locker practically made Peter forget the chain rule. Maybe Harley wasn’t going to be the one needing help with this material.

“Yeah,” Peter breathed, his cheeks flushed, “ready.”

If Peter was surprised when Harley led him to an Audi, he was even more surprised when they both sat in the back, partition raised so he couldn’t see the driver. So much for cigarettes and motorcycles, Peter thought.

If Peter was surprised to see a chauffeur in the car, he was astounded when he realized where they were going.

“Would you mind keeping this between us?” Harley asked after seeing Peter’s shocked reaction, “I really don’t want people treating me differently because of this.” Peter nodded, all words escaping him. “Thanks, that means a lot.” Harley’s smile looked somewhat like the sun to Peter, like it would be spoiled if he looked too long but he just couldn’t turn away. He was mesmerized.

Harley led Peter out of the car and through the elevator of the building: Stark Tower.

“Hey, kiddo, welcome home,” Tony Stark called casually across the room. He stopped short when he caught sight of Peter, “You’re studying today? Well, I’ll be in the lab if you need anything.”

“Thanks, dad.” Harley gestured for Peter to follow into his large bedroom before sitting on the floor.

“I hope this isn't weird or anything. At my old school some people got super weird about all of this.” Harley noted, pulling books out of his bag.

“Oh, no no, of course not.” Peter stated. He was shocked, but he wasn’t beyond his limits. Harley didn’t know how much time Peter had actually spent in the tower.

“I think it’s really cool.” Peter blurted out halfway through quotient rule.

“What?”

“I just think you’re cool and down to earth, I mean. Despite privilege you’re just a normal person and you want people to know that. Mr. Stark seems to understand that too.” Peter thought about the people he’d met who came from money, those who lost themselves to greed, and those who remained down to earth despite the opportunity to float away entirely.

“Oh, yeah.” Harley said, setting down his pencil, “I just like to keep it under wraps because I really don’t want people treating me differently, you know, because of where I come from. Sometimes people think that money separates them from others, but that’s really not it.”

“Yeah,” Peter smiled, turning back to his paper, “I, uh, I hate this formula.” He grinned quietly.

“Me too. Let’s come back to it.” Peter let out a full laugh at Harley’s words.

“Yeah, we’ll come back to that eventually.”

Now that Peter was fully aware of who was on the other side of the partition, the drive back to his own home felt a lot more strange.

“Thanks for helping me study today. Do you want to meet again on Saturday?”

Two weeks passed with Peter going to the tower to study twice a week and, eventually, going to the tower to spend time with Harley on a third day where studying is off limits. Mr. Stark had insisted that he was welcome anytime, be it as Peter Parker or as Spider-Man.

“What do you know about Harley Keener?” Peter asked quietly, laying on the floor of his bedroom. He tossed a pencil into the air above his head, catching it with ease as it came back down to him.

“Why would I know about him?”

“I know you know him.” Peter sat up to look his friend in the eye.

“I thought he wasn’t telling anyone about his family.” Harry finally turned to face him before continuing, “Why? Do you like him?” He grinned.

“Stop it, we study math together. That’s it.”

“Oh, I know how you feel about math,” Harry began, “I’ve met him a few times. We text sometimes.”

“And?” Peter encouraged him to continue.

“You know him better than I do. Do you want me to ask him about you?”

“No! No, you don’t have to do that,” Peter answered quickly. What Harry didn’t tell Peter, though, was that he had texted Harley nearly every day for the past two years, and for the past few months, he’d been talking non-stop about the cute boy in his calculus class. (Harry was able to put two and two together pretty quickly. Fluffy brown hair, genius, more excited about math than any normal person? That’s Peter through and through.)

“Oh? You must like him?” Harry grinned at the other boy.

“No! I mean, I like him as a friend, of course. I think he’s nice, he’s really cool, and he likes to talk to me. But it’s really not like that at all. He just asked me to help him study.” Peter’s voice held a slow decrescendo as he stumbled through the messy sentences. It really wasn’t like that with Harley, whether he wanted it to be like that or not. Peter didn’t exactly have a ton of friends, he couldn’t lose one over his feelings.

Harry texted Harley.

“Wait, so like, a date?” Peter hadn’t meant for the words to come out, and regretted them instantly. All he could do was wait for Harley’s response like he was waiting for death.

“Yeah, like, a date. If that’s okay with you.”

So Peter changed his mind about waiting for death.

“Yes! I mean, yeah, of course.” Peter hardly heard anything over the feel of his own heartbeat. He felt like he could die happily (but not until after his date).

Harley was beginning to shove his math books into his bag when he looked back up at Peter from the floor of his bedroom. The way he smiled made Peter feel like he was becoming one with the air. (Holding hands with the atmosphere, cuddling the aura, kissing the ambience).

“We can skip one study session, right? God, we’ve been doing these for so long,” Harley groaned, combing his fingers through his golden locks.

“Sure, of course. I think we’re already okay for the final honestly,” Peter laughed.

The next two days lasted for a million years, no, a billion years. Talking to Harley during school, texting at home, he nearly lost his mind waiting for his date. He was going on a date with Harley Keener-Stark. May asked him more than once why he was so restless, tapping on the dinner plate, pacing the kitchen at odd hours in the night.

On the day of their date, Peter had three hours at home before he was meant to be picked up.

“Seven o’ clock, meet me at my house,” Harley had told him with a wink as they left calculus together. Every minute, though, seemed to last an hour, so who could blame Peter for going out on patrol to pass the time quicker? It just so happened that the Green Goblin wanted to make his entrance at 6:45. Peter could get it over with quick.

He rushed through a fight that, to be fair, could have been a lot quicker if Peter were careful, if Peter were focused. As much as it felt like it, Harley Keener was not more important than the safety of the city.

Peter took a knife to the abdomen at 7:15, he had Green Goblin webbed up by 7:20.

Blade still sticking out of his stomach ungracefully, he swung to the only place he knew he ought to go. He swung to the place where he was supposed to be in the first place.

He tore off his mask to breathe and kicked through a window that he was so sure was the floor of the medbay. Apparently bleeding out affects a spider boy’s perception.

“Peter, what the hell? What’s going on?” Harley was rushing toward him, unable to decide between being frantic and cautious. “Get me to the medbay,” Peter barely choked out before looking Harley in the eye, “Can we reschedule our date?”

“We’ll have another one.” Harley wrapped an arm around Peter’s midsection and let Peter lean up against him as he led him down a floor.

They did eventually have their date on the day of the calculus final. (Harley took him to ice cream and they cuddled up on his couch to celebrate their one hundreds on the exam).

#parkner week 2020 #parkner #peter parker #harley keener #peter x harley #parley #keenker #spiderman #spider man

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kylorengarbagedump · 4 years

Text

Little Bird: Chapter 23

Read on AO3. Part 22 here. Part 24 here.

Summary: Apparently, you can't get yourself to enjoy a dinner party, even if you're the guest of honor.

Words: 4700

Warnings: egregious dinner party antics, Hux is a bitch, Handmaid AU

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: I've never really written anything like this before. I'm not really sure what I'm doing. This chapter was like PULLING fucking TEETH. Would really love feedback/input/criticism.

Regardless, I hope y'all enjoyed. I am SO HAPPY the Daddy kink was well-received--we're all going to hell, yay!

I always want to stress how grateful I am that I receive the kind of interaction that I do. I feel so lucky and blessed to have folks like y'all. Thank you so much, I love all of you very much. <3

The longer you sat, the deeper the burn at your backside became. The aloe that Ren had so generously applied had long worn off, at this point, but the real issue was the swelling, the heat, like a bubbling sunburn that had managed to sear itself across your entire ass. How generous of him, too, to supply you with this right before an event that required sitting.

It was only minutes, now, until the guests would arrive, and Emma and Rose were twittering in the kitchen, preparing the finishing touches on the meals. You, Johana, and Kylo Ren sat in the ornate dining room, with its tiered crystal chandelier and wall-to-wall windows that opened out toward the garden. At the long, mahogany dining table, the married couple were appointed at the heads, with you at the center, like an entertainment piece. The table had already been prepared with nine settings. The silence was so thick you could hear your blood in your toes.

Johana sighed. “Only a few people agreed to come, after all, Sir. Very short notice.”

“Mm.” Ren provided no evidence of interest or investment in what she had said.

“You know, Sir,” she said, “I’m doing this for you. For us.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She sat back in her chair, arms crossed. “If only you could afford me the same grace.” Her eyes laid on you. “Not that it’ll be a problem too much longer, I’m sure.”

Swallowing, you stared at your hands. Ren hadn’t offered you a glance since he’d sat--hadn’t even offered a word when he’d dropped off your clothing at your door. Johana kept sticking you and her husband with sharp, suspicious glares, as if she could smell the sex on you, could see the leather marks on your thighs, could hear the words lingering on your tongue: yes, Daddy.

You pinched your legs together, fighting a shiver, fighting disgust with yourself. Back in reality, your willingness to break for him brought a nauseating chill to your stomach. After all, here you were, ready to perform for his friends, the very men who had shackled you to a dress and womb-service or death. Here you were, obedient and eager, with all of the humanity and agency of a pet, but with a hidden array of tricks that consisted of beg and swallow.

“Dolpheld Mitaka and his Wife have arrived, Ms. Johana.” Emma’s voice snapped you to attention, and you shifted, hoping to ease some of the pain.

Following Emma’s introduction, a young, boyish man entered, his Wife--a small, timid-looking thing--on his heels. He nodded to Ren, glimpsing you for a brief second before avoiding your gaze, cheeks tinged pink.

Dolpheld focused on Ren, he and his Wife sitting across from you, near Johana. “Uh, sir, your…”

“Per request of Snoke,” he replied. “I wouldn’t choose to share my table with a Handmaid.”

Johana snorted, and Ren’s gaze daggered her. She cleared her throat. “Ofkylo plans on staying out of the way, doesn’t she?”

You gazed at your fists as they tensed in your lap--but you nodded. The name Dolpheld was familiar--he’d been the Commander of one of the Handmaids at the Resistance base. A cold rush coated the inside of your chest. You hoped she’d gotten away. Looking at him, though, he seemed harmless, almost pathetic. Hadn’t Ren said a few old men? As for Dolpheld’s Wife--she appeared intent on ignoring your existence entirely, which was fine by you, anyway.

Emma darted in again. “Armitage Hux and his Wife, ma’am.”

Armitage. From behind Emma emerged a stiff, reedy man with coiffed copper hair and an expression that managed to communicate both complete disdain for every living creature and unbearable smugness. His Wife was boxy and brown-haired, the type of person of which nothing notable could be said other than her utter lack of notability. It seemed strange to see these two wallpaper women at the same table as Johana--in role, like them, but in personhood, incongruous.

“Ren,” said Armitage, the name rolling off of his tongue with hidden mirth. “Mitaka.”

“Hux.” Dolpheld nodded, looking at the table. His Wife appeared similarly occupied.

Armitage and his Wife sat across from you, too, with Armitage taking a seat next to Ren. You looked between them, wondering if they knew of each other’s dalliances, or if the fact that Commanders brazenly fucked their Handmaids was an accepted fact of Gilead. Though you knew Ofarmitage didn’t just consider her relationship fucking. Horrifically, you felt the same way about yours.

“Imagine my surprise when we were offered a dinner invitation to your home,” Armitage said. “I can’t remember the last time we dined together, Ren.”

“Unsurprising,” replied Ren. “Your memory is frequently faulty.”

“At least my judgement remains intact.” He smirked. “Or did I mishear the reason for the invitation?”

“No, you didn’t, Commander Hux,” said Johana, folding a napkin over her lap. The other Wives looked at her with widened eyes. “We are here to discuss a possible resolution. Once--”

“Ms. Johana!” Emma squawked, for some reason breathless. “Commander Snoke--”

Before Emma could finish, an older man pushed through the threshold, accompanied by a young, blank-faced woman. His head was misshapen, craggy--a scar of war, you presumed, that had grown now into his flesh. One of his eyes bulged precipitously above his cheekbone, the other dug into his skull, the skin of his cheeks stretched like wet linen over his face. He wore a deep yellow suit jacket, threads interlaced with thin strands of red and gold.

The very second he entered, Ren stood, eyes aimed at the floor, and you blinked, tensing your jaw to keep it from dropping. Armitage followed, and then Dolpheld, their Wives in their shadows as the man meandered his way to the side of the table that you sat on, his Wife next to you. He remained standing, surveying the table--against your better judgement, you met his gaze. A tiny smirk formed on his lips.

“Good evening, everyone.”

His voice froze your blood. This was the same man from the recording. The man who had spoken to Ben Solo. That man, this man--they were all--

“Commander Snoke,” said Armitage and Ren, in unison. Dolpheld cleared his throat.

“Let’s be seated, shall we?”

Snoke lowered himself to the table, and the other men mimicked him. The air had thickened to a degree that you found your own chest tightening for the lack of oxygen. Next to you, his Wife was robotic in her focus, her body iron and unmoving. You marveled at her beauty--other than Johana, she was one of the only genuinely pretty Wives you’d seen. Examining her closer, she wasn’t just young, either. She was young. Perhaps not much older than eighteen. The thought made you shudder.

The Marthas swished into the room, doling out salad onto the tiny plates at everyone’s place settings. As they served, Johana straightened, meeting Ren’s gaze from across the table. He was silent.

“Commander Snoke,” she said. “As you know--”

“Kylo Ren,” said Snoke, ignoring Johana completely. She blanched. “Your initiative on the western front brought us another victory. A very cunning move you made, heading off their supply route. Their soldiers were going to starve before they submitted to Gilead forces.” A low, dark chuckle left him. “An excellent maneuver that Armitage could learn from.”

Ren lowered his head, brow cocked. Armitage’s eyes narrowed, and he cut into his salad.

“Speaking of learning,” the redhead said, “Mitaka, I recently learned your Handmaid went missing.”

Dolpheld seemed focused on avoiding any involvement in this conversation. “Uh, yes. Yes, we did… experience that.”

“Strange.” Armitage’s attention flicked from you to your Commander. “Ren, aren’t we here for a similar issue? Your Handmaid going missing?”

Anxiety clogged your throat. You studied your salad as if it had become the most interesting collection of green leaves and croutons you’d ever seen.

“Well,” said Johana, “not exactly--”

Armitage waved her off. “Right, yes, his suspension, isn’t it? For botching some ability to prevent Resistance interference?” His scrutiny returned to you. “Very foolish of you, Ren. For all we know, she could be with the Resistance now.”

“There was no evidence of any Resistance involvement,” Johana said. “As far as we know, it was a rogue Guardian.” She sliced apart a leaf of lettuce. “Right, Commander?”

Ren’s brow twitched. “Yes.”

“Rogue Guardian,” Armitage mused. “Interesting. Mitaka, didn’t your Handmaid disappear in much the same way? Middle of the day? During daylight? Guardian interference?”

Dolpheld glanced between Ren and Armitage, shrugging. “I suppose so, but the investigation was inconclusive, so--”

“That’s right!” The grin on Armitage’s face could split steel. “The investigation was inconclusive. If only we could’ve gotten more information to help guide us.” He turned to Ren. “Maybe we could talk to that Guardian your Handmaid was found with.”

An image in your mind: pop. Ren’s face was blanker than polished stone.

“Ah, that’s right.” He snapped, feigning a realization. “We can’t. You killed him. Shame, that.” Sighing, he popped a piece of lettuce into his mouth. “Is that type of behavior really something we should be lifting a suspension for?”

“There was good reason my husband acted as he did,” Johana said. “The Guardian had a gun with him.” She stared directly at you. “Isn’t that right?”

Every pair of eyes at the table aimed at you, like you’d tripped a sensor, set off an alarm--or maybe that was the alarm inside of your brain, wailing in panic. It wasn’t like you had to lie, but there was something about being complicit in this game that made your palms sweat.

“That’s… right,” you said. “He. He did have a gun.”

Johana gestured toward you. “The situation was dangerous.”

Armitage chuckled. “Oh, please, every smuggler carries a weapon. What we want to know is if he was part of a larger organization.” His eyes, a roaring seafoam green, bored into you. “There’s a rumor the Angel and Wife he was working for are part of the Resistance.”

The pressure in your throat choked your words. You sought help from Ren, but his stare was directed at Johana--you followed it, meeting her gaze.

“Go on,” she said. “Tell them how you ran.”

Swallowing, you fiddled with your fingers. “I ran of my own volition,” you said. “I asked a Guardian, he said he’d help. That’s it.” You shook your head. “I didn’t meet anyone from the Resistance.”

Johana shrugged, returning to her food. “That’s it, then.”

Armitage took a bite, chewing. After a moment, he frowned. “A Guardian agreed to help you?” he asked. “In exchange for what?”

“You know Handmaids.” Johana’s expression stilled your blood. “They only have a few valuable things to offer.”

Heat rushed you, and you dropped your head, examining your folded hands in your lap. For once, you wished you were wearing your wings so you’d have a better chance to obscure your reddening face. Even if you had been in a position to disagree, you knew that Johana was trying to protect you--if only secondarily to her own interests.

Armitage motioned to you. “Commander Snoke,” he implored, “do you see what we’re keeping in our homes? A Handmaid who offers up her body in exchange to escape Gilead? This is one for the Colonies, at least.”

Your heart stalled, your jaw tightened.

“I don’t think that would be necessary,” Johana replied.

“It very well may be.” He shrugged. “If she allows just anyone to utilize what God has provided for a specific purpose--”

“That’s exactly it, she could be pregnant,” Johana said, “and--”

“It was a momentary lapse in judgement.” Ren finally met your eyes. “Her re-education is progressing smoothly.”

Snoke hummed in thought, glancing between you and your Commander, his gaze peeling you apart--then leaned toward Ren, murmuring something, and Armitage sneered as the two men entered a private conversation. Silence settled over the table; you noticed not a single Wife had taken a bite of her food, other than Johana. Not that you were particularly interested in eating, either. Something about the atmosphere, maybe. Or all the guests who had the power to end your life.

Soon, the Marthas were ushering in the main course: some sort of pork tenderloin, you gathered, with what looked to be a cranberry jam and a smattering of watercress on the side. You sighed. Gilead had done nothing to endear you to vegetables, no matter how frequently you were eating them.

Across the table, Ren and Snoke were still muttering to each other. Your Commander’s demeanor seemed changed in front of this older man, like a living echo of the person you’d heard on the recording--Ben Solo. Ren had said he was dead, but watching him now, with the slight hunch to his shoulders, the flickering eye contact, the unguarded ache in his pupils, you wondered what dead truly meant in this world. Gilead had blurred the lines of existence to meaningless muddle. After all, you might call yourself dead, too.

You wondered who Ben Solo might have been. You wondered if who you had been might have liked him.

“You know, Johana,” said Armitage, eyeing Ren and Snoke, “it’s really too bad that you don’t have gatherings like this more often.” He signaled the rest of the table. “Don’t you all agree?”

The Wives, ever silent, nodded. Dolpheld appeared noncommittal, in agreement only out of what seemed to be obligation. How had someone so doughy and tender earned the rank of Commander?

“Well…” She offered a half-smile. “Never really had an occasion for one as of recent, I supposed.”

“But you and Canady had them all the time, didn’t you?”

Canady. You remembered that name. Ren had used it during the hushed conversation he and Johana had shared in the hallway. That must have been her husband--the one who had died during the revolution.

Johana’s back stiffened, adjusting her grip on her fork as she supplied Armitage with a tight grin. “We did,” she said. “Often.”

“I thought so. I remember those parties. Don’t you, Mitaka?”

“I, uh, I guess so.”

“They were lovely,” said Mitaka’s Wife.

“Oh,” Johana mumbled, “thank you. Yes. We did enjoy them. Those were the days. We were all so young. Parties then were… well… now we have gatherings with multiple courses. All of that.” She paused, swallowing. For a moment, her gaze met yours, then returned to her plate. “God has truly blessed us. We couldn’t ask for more.”

“Right,” said Armitage. “Must be difficult, though, having to deal with Ren’s behavior.”

At the head of the table, Kylo Ren acted as if Armitage had spent the entire dinner with his mouth sewn shut. He was intent, listening to whatever was being said by Snoke.

“Not that it’s bizarre, considering what he’s done in the past. The equipment ruined, the meetings thrown off-kilter. You remember, don’t you, Mitaka?”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“I remember,” said Mitaka’s Wife.

Mitaka groaned. “Honey, please--”

“I remember, too,” Armitage’s Wife added.

“Brilliant.” Armitage took a bite of his food, chewing triumphantly. “Can’t imagine what it’s like being married to him. A true, enduring woman, you are.”

Johana’s face paled. She glanced across the table to Ren, who was still engrossed in Snoke’s quiet speech. Her lip trembled, and she shrugged, pushing a piece of pork in her mouth. You watched Armitage, who, despite having picked off half of his plate, was appearing more voracious by the second.

“Yes,” she said, “well--”

“And Canady was a good man,” Armitage continued. “When was he killed? Three? Four years ago? How long have you been married to Ren?”

Perhaps to anyone who didn’t know her, Johana appeared the picture of composure. But you could see the twitch at her jaw, the frustrated flutter of her nostrils, the whitening of her tiny knuckles. She took another slice of pork, gnashing it with her back molars.

“Three years this December.”

Armitage nodded. “Of course. That was such a brilliant sacrifice Canady made, really--Ren was right to order it.”

Johana stabbed into her watercress, silent.

“Don’t you think it was noble that Canady--”

“I think Ms. Johana is tired of talking about her deceased husband.”

The words shocked you as they entered the air. What shocked you more was that they had left your mouth. The rest of the table appeared equally flabbergasted, the scraping of forks and knives halting, the dining room flooded with flummoxed silence. The only people who hadn’t appeared to notice were Snoke and Ren--but for Ren’s part, he’d ceased speaking entirely. You couldn’t hear Snoke’s words over the ringing of your own ears, the deafening thump of your heartbeat at your temples. Johana gazed at you, lips parted, as if she was seeing you for the very first time.

“Is this how you allow your Handmaids to speak to you?” Armitage’s brow was cocked, but he turned to Dolpheld, sparking a new topic.

You met Johana’s eyes again. Her chest fell in a slow breath, and she broke the stare, turning to her food. Exhaling, you shook out the tremble in your hands, shifting to relieve some of the ache that had built at your backside. As the din in your head dimmed, you glanced at your Commander, wondering what had him so captivated.

“While we’re on the topic, we did find the body on the side of the road, as you described. One bullet hole to the skull.” Snoke dragged his knife through the soft meat on his plate.

“Yes.” Ren’s gaze was vacant. “Efficient.”

“Well, you always are,” Snoke replied. “And you had an excellent idea to string it up near the border. After even a couple of days, it looks ghoulish.”

Your stomach churned. For some reason, you’d hoped the Resistance had managed to get Poe’s body, bury him properly. The thought of him hanging somewhere along the borders of Gilead, his pretty face pecked apart by birds--if you had been hungry before, you certainly weren’t, now. The fact that it had been your Commander’s idea somehow made it worse.

“It lured out a pocket of Resistance members at the border trying to reclaim the body,” Ren replied. “We killed them all.”

The more words you caught, the sicker you became. You wanted to be thankful that it meant that Finn and Rey were still alive--but the thought of any deliberate death at Ren’s hands was emptying you of gratitude.

“Really?” Snoke said. “You plan to display them, too, I hope.”

“It’s already been completed.”

At some point, sweat had drenched your back. You desperately needed Ren to stop talking--he spoke as if they’d hung draperies, not bodies. It didn’t seem possible that this was the same man who’d coddled you to his chest, who’d pressed his lips to your forehead, who’d carried you like spun glass to your bedroom. This man, the one who’d rended your ribcage open with a desire to be known, be seen, the one who had, just hours ago, fucked you until you sobbed and smothered your ass in welts--this was the very same man openly admitting to slaughtering and hanging bodies of other humans for the benefit of your own continued enslavement.

You wanted to explode out of your skin. Perhaps what was worse was that, in reality, it did seem possible, and you’d known it was possible--the memory of Poe’s hot blood on your face cemented that. You’d just willed yourself to forget, allowed yourself to drown in the pointless, foolish desire to be your Commander’s equal. To be, in his eyes, alive. As if you could redeem the devil. As if the devil could redeem you.

“You’re managing to accomplish quite a bit despite your suspension,” said Snoke. “I suppose that’s the benefit of managing an independent militia.”

“I hope to prove to you and the Council that my limited access to the main command is unwarranted.”

“Hm.” Snoke sat, considering Ren. “Yet you didn’t seem interested in proving that when you left your post.”

Ren’s jaw stiffened. At the other side of the table, Armitage leaned forward, ear toward Snoke.

“You made an idiotic, irresponsible decision and abandoned your command during a critical period.” Snoke’s voice was low, harsh. “A decision only a child would make.”

Despite this, Kylo Ren said nothing. He stared into his plate.

“Your accomplishments with the Resistance at the border are meaningless--not when we have interference under our own noses of which you inexplicably destroyed our ability to obtain any further knowledge on.” Snoke released an empty laugh. “The more responsibility I award you, the more reckless you become.”

“Commander Snoke, my performance has been exemplary these past three--”

“And for what, Ren?” Snoke’s hand was tight around his knife. “You abdicated your post, left our armies without direction, killed a possible Resistance member, incapacitated our intelligence--for what?”

Ren’s mouth opened--but Armitage spoke.

“Commander Snoke, I actually heard something interesting.” To your horror, he was staring at you. “There was some report... of an inappropriate relationship between Ren and his Handmaid.”

Your heart disintegrated. Thousands of thoughts stormed your mind at once, chasing breath from your lungs, petrifying your muscles, inspiring sweat at your hairline--what did he know, when did he learn, how long had he sat on this, and who told him--yet through the flurry, there was only one identifiable constant, a bell in your brain.

Ofarmitage.

“Fascinating.” In a slow, controlled revolution, Snoke turned, leaning past his Wife, his stare spearing you. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve heard of such a rumor.” His beady eyes flitted over you. “But for this Handmaid?” He scoffed. “Really.”

“Commander Snoke, you should remember that previous Handmaids in this home were dispatched due to no interference on my husband’s part,” Johana interjected quickly. “It was at my behest.”

Snoke continued to act as if Johana were a tiny blue fly on the wall. “So is this why you did it, Ren?” he said, leveling you with the garrote of his gaze. “All of that for… this?”

You bit your lip. He had some nerve to allow his voice to drip with that level of disgust. Beside him, Ren was silent, avoiding your eyes.

“What is it?” Snoke said. “What’s special about her?”

The question made your heart ache with an unarticulated anguish. It wasn’t just about you. It was the sameness you’d found in each other’s eyes, the admiration for the possibility in the stars, the gnawing need to know that wrenched you both from your own pedestals of reason. You’d stirred his relics of doubt, he’d awakened your latent compassion. It wasn’t just you--it was the both of you, fettered to Gilead and each other by the very same chains.

“Let’s hear from her, then.” Snoke eased forward in his chair, a smug grin tearing the fabric of his face. His knife was still gripped in his palm, resting on his plate. “Why do you think Ren sacrificed all of that just for you, hm?”

You sat, glancing over the table, flesh crawling as every sticky gaze studied you. It was as if black coffee had spilled over your tongue, drying it, the bitterness biting at you from the back of your throat. Gathering courage--or something like it--from the depths of your diaphragm, you leaned over the table, returned Snoke’s stare.

“What does it matter why he sacrificed?” you asked. “Doesn’t my uterus hold enough value to justify it?” Perhaps that hadn’t been courage. Perhaps it’d been stupidity.

But what crossed over Snoke’s face wasn’t rage. It was curiosity. “It matters because his motivation for sacrifice determines where his loyalty lies.” His thin lips curled in a grin. “With Gilead? Or with you?”

“So a person can’t sacrifice for a Handmaid without betraying Gilead?”

“No.”

“Then why have Handmaids at all? How else are you populating your country?” Your voice was growing louder than you intended. “If the Commander sacrifices for me, it must be for the value that was given to me by you.”

Ren’s eyes, dark with something unknowable, glimpsed you for a blink. The table was silent. You swallowed.

“Fascinating,” said Snoke. The knife trembled in his hand, rapping the plate. “Your proposition is that I gave you this value? That it was not ordained by God?”

You nodded. “Why would God give me a mind and tell me not to use it? Why would he give me a body that needed to be controlled?”

“Your error is assuming God gives reasons for anything.” Snoke’s knife rose from the plate, stuck in his quaking fist.

“Then,” you replied, neck stiff, “it seems that he gives just as many and as valid reasons as you.”

Snoke slammed the knife into the table, a crooked smile on his pale face, Wives recoiling in squeals, except for his own, who remained perfectly porcelain next to you. Johana’s arms snapped to her sides--both you and her sought out Ren, who sat. And did nothing. Your hands began to quiver. What had happened to you will be safe?

“Precocious little thing you have here, isn’t she, Ren?” Snoke’s arm shot out, his gnarled hand snatching your chin. “What exactly have you been teaching her during these re-education sessions?” With surprising strength, he yanked you forward onto the table. The texture of his skin was like papyrus. “Can you tell me what you’ve learned?”

You leered at Ren, internally begging him to see you. His eyes were distant, focused on the wall. “Obedience,” you said. “Honesty.”

“Seems you could still use a bit of humility.” He turned back to Ren. “What do you think, my boy? Christine is new to the home, but we could always use a Handmaid.” The bones in his fingers crushed your chin. “Maybe I could take her off of your hands for a month.”

Ren’s eye twitched.

“Commander Snoke, please excuse me.” Johana’s voice was followed by the release of his grasp as she wrenched his arm down, pulling you out of your chair. “I must admit that I provided her with a little medication before dinner for nausea. I think it must be getting to her.”

“Nausea medication.” Snoke scanned you like you were meat. “For what?”

“I told you that she might be pregnant, sir.” She was still ushering you out of the room, her little fingers manacles around your wrist. “I’m going to get her to bed. Please, please excuse her behavior. She’s never like this.”

“Never,” Ren said, finally exercising his mouth for something other than looking fuckable. He met your eyes, and you glared at him, internally cursing him, cursing yourself for trusting him.

Johana rushed you through the darkened halls, her hands urging you forward, mumbling under her breath as she whisked you up the stairs and into your bedroom. When you crossed the threshold, she nearly shoved you onto your bed, gasping, sweat decorating her forehead. Baby hairs had sprung free from her braids, curling at her nape, at her temples. She examined you, shaking her head.

“Are you an idiot?” she said. “Do you have a deathwish?”

You shook your head. “No, Ms. Johana--”

“Oh, don’t Ms. Johana me,” she said, swatting at you from a distance. “You know exactly what you were doing down there. Now we’re lucky if the Commander ever gets his suspension lifted. He’s supposed to be re-educating you.”

“Well…” You shifted, fighting the urge to seethe at the scrape of the mattress on your ass. “He is…”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure.” Sighing, she wiped her palms on her dress, smoothing over the wild bits of her hair. She shook her head. “Thank you, by the way. For what you did.”

“Oh.” Blood rushed your cheeks. “Well, Armitage seems like a jackass.”

“Oh, Lord,” she said, “you don’t even know the half of it. He and the Commander used to...” She stopped herself, cast her eyes over you, reminding herself of your role, and cleared her throat. “Look. Don’t say anything else. Don’t do anything else. Just stay up here for the rest of the night. I’ll handle this.” She turned, shutting the door behind her--but before it closed, she added, “Goodnight.”

You laid back on your bed, deflated. “Goodnight, Johana.”

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #little bird #handmaid au #nerd whinings #fanfiction problems #just a fancy dinner party y'know

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